A cross-country road trip is an adventure marked by scenic detours and roadside diners, where minutes stretch into miles and each route invites reflection. What do those red taillights up ahead truly represent? Blurring past small towns, we focus on the glow of traffic lights or various hidden interiors, telling stories of connection, transformation, and intimacy.

In Jane Dickson’s latest art book, Are We There Yet? she invites readers to savor all the moments along the way. The roads in Dickson’s world are not mere connectors between points A and B; they are cinematic snapshots of the in-between, the messy middle we often overlook. Accompanied by insightful texts from Shannon Mattern, Daniel S. Palmer, Lucy Sante, and Yasmin Ramirez, this book offers a psychogeographic odyssey through America’s cultural landscape.

Originally known for casting light on the shadowy underbelly of Times Square in the mid-90s, Dickson’s artistic journey took a westward turn toward Los Angeles’s sprawling freeways, marking a major shift in both her art and her life. Fueled by the challenges of motherhood and her departure from the city that had long been her muse, her depictions of highways and the quiet, liminal spaces around them have become metaphors for the often unnoticed contours of American life.

Dickson’s paintings, crafted from her own photographs, meander along highways, slip into back-lot parking spaces, and drift through lanes of desire. Rendered on unconventional materials like linen and AstroTurf, her works layer oil, acrylic, and oil stick to transform ordinary paths into enigmatic passages—a perpetual tease of something or someone just beyond the horizon.

While modern highway systems symbolize the sleek machinery of elite transport, what about the humans within it? How much of our lives are spent in transit, caught between where we are and where we’re heading? The open road promises escape, yet there’s a primal thrill in catching the eye of a stranger from the next car over. It’s an ancient instinct—being watched is the first step toward being devoured.

All of Dickson’s work is haunted by this specter of the gaze. In her Road Trip series (1999–2001), these oil-on-linen paintings pull you into the driver’s seat, presenting the illusion of control that is both seductive and hollow. It’s not about who’s riding shotgun; what truly fastens you in is the eerie sensation that, no matter how free you think you are, you’re buckled up in a bubble, alienated from the world—even from the passenger’s side.

Take “Road Trip 2” (1999), where the distance between your car and the others ahead feels almost mocking. They’re there, but they might as well be a million miles away, isolated in their metal shells, just as you are. Or consider “Road Trip 8” (2000)—a stretch of perfect, empty highway disappearing into the horizon under a pristine, cloudless sky. The sheer emptiness screams potential. No traffic, no rules, no limits. But that freedom? It’s a mirage.

Dickson’s work doesn’t fixate on the familiar symbols or bold, pop-inspired shapes. Instead, she revels in the beauty found within the grit of industrial landscapes. As she once said, “The highway is a key to the American psyche.”

So, go ahead. Lower that car window and let your eyes wander past the blacktop. Can you feel it? That invisible thread linking the city lights to the rural quiet? It’s as if the open road dares us to ponder where the next exit will lead. What are the odds at the casino buffet? Is the drugstore still open, or are we too late? The journey is ongoing, and in Are We There Yet?, the road trip has only just begun. 

Written by Lily Brown