And then there are the stories that go with the pictures. Embedded in the two-dozen engaging first-person accounts that describe the different ways these artists came to their vocation and what it means to them, you'll find a portrait of America itself, of the grizzled guys who've been painting signs for decades and the younger sign painters who hope to preserve what has at times looked like a vanishing art.
Justin Green, in Cincinatti, Ohio, notes that before the advent of vinyl, "a sign painter was an interloper in every strata of society -- and I mean that literally. One day you'd be on your knees lettering an industrial roll-up door with the words TOW AWAY and the next day you'd be on the thirty-fourth floor of a bank's headquarters painting gold leaf....It was phenomenal."
Josh Luke, a sign painter in Boston, founded the Pre-Vinylite Society "to subvert the recent convention of lifeless vinyl signage as a digression from the time-honored institution and rich history of hand-painted signs." And Phil Vandervaart, who lives in Minneapolis, says that when he started painting signs in his 20s, he had access to "a lot of the old-timers who are now gone." (Vandervaart is 58.)
Like so many of the people Levine and Macon interview for the book (there's a companion documentary film, as well), Vandervaart served an informal apprenticeship under older painters, who knew the tricks of the trade and would pass them on to those who demonstrated enough interest.
"They were really brutal," Vandervaaet says. "Once, after watching me paint a sign, one of them said, 'I want you to come back here.' He walked me about thirty feet back and said, 'Tell me why your sign looks like crap.' At first I was offended, but then I really appreciated his feedback and I took it to heart."