Momo
Monika LidmanLife-sized sculpture
For many years, I had been a practicing hitchhiker. Hitchhiking with MOMO often proved easier than taking public transportation. Though I could never be sure of what type of person would be willing to pick up a middle-aged woman and a life-sized doll, I never once experienced a bad outcome. I kept a running tally of the age and gender of people who offered rides. Women were just as likely to pick me up, as were men. Perhaps the doll, which could have been a signifier for true craziness, was instead interpreted as “safe” craziness – something curious, interesting, or even dear. After all, how many tragic hitchhiking stories involve a hitchhiker and their life-sized doll? Of all of the hitchhiking stories, I remember one most vividly. It was snowing like crazy and I was on my way to the dentist, some 40 miles away. My first ride dropped me in Denver, where I then experienced a delay in hitching up with the final leg of the journey. Flakes were flying as a fluke of fate intervened. A white pick-up truck pulled over. It was my Dad. I was surprised at my reaction – embarrassment, and a curious sense of vulnerability.