{"id":4635,"date":"2026-04-23T18:00:00","date_gmt":"2026-04-23T18:00:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/itp.nyu.edu\/adjacent\/?p=4635"},"modified":"2026-04-24T06:13:51","modified_gmt":"2026-04-24T06:13:51","slug":"tire-as-roadside-ornament","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/itp.nyu.edu\/adjacent\/issue-13\/tire-as-roadside-ornament\/","title":{"rendered":"Tire as Roadside Ornament"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Introduction<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Along major roads in Accra and in towns across Ghana, small roadside tire-repair shops operate from makeshift structures. Within these wooden pavilions, metal containers, or through spaces underneath trees or large billboards, these shops  \u2014locally known as vulcanizers\u2014repair punctures, patch inner tubes, and replace worn tires for bicycles, taxis, buses, motorbikes, and cargo trucks moving through the city each day. As damaged tires are replaced, they are piled up within the shops\u2019 environments, with each vulcanizer having a unique signature in the form and shape of the pile. For shops that work primarily with bicycles, for example, you see lots of these smaller tyres and inner tubes lined up around the shop and on its roof, while shops that repair primarily truck tires usually have the mountains of these large tires arranged across the compounds. Though, regardless of the vulcanizer, the tires eventually become dusty, dormant and slowly embed themselves into the landscape. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

In my art practice I am interested in the social and material networks of the tire industry, the structures that shape it, and the discards these spaces produce. I create sculpture, photography, cartographic mapping, and participatory interventions that engage with repair cultures.<\/p>\n\n\n

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Adam Reich, Courtesy of Mitchell-Innes & Nash, New York.<\/figcaption><\/figure><\/div>\n\n\n

Beside nearly every shop now sits a growing pile of discarded tires and years of this accumulation across Ghana have produced something unexpected: accidental monuments that blur the line between waste heap and installation. These towers, walls, and sprawling formations of rubber mark the pulse of roadside life and the slow accumulation of what cannot be disposed of. From a distance, they appear as simple stacks. Up close, however, their surfaces reveal the individual tire\u2019s branding, previous repairs, wear and tear from daily friction\u2014each one carrying traces of its journeys and repairs. Together they form dense, layered archives of movement and the informal labor structures that sustain transportation in the city. Each tire having been repaired or serviced by multiple shops holds the memory of this movement and in aggregate, you really begin to see the wider labor structure at play; how different vulcanisers across the country have worked together individually to sustain one tire before it finally becomes abandoned. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I read these tire piles not merely as stacks of waste but as roadside ornaments: objects that exceed utility and begin to operate symbolically within public space and road sides. Though unplanned, these accumulations slowly become advertising banners for the vulcanisers. In this essay, I share five encounters with various shops: the discovery of new sites, an immersive installation of tires, a shop undergoing relocation, and interventions within these spaces where I treated the vulcanizer shop as an exhibition site. Each with its unique story and all sharing a common thread of announcing the presence of the vulcanizer shop, captured in what I term: behind every stack of tires is a vulcaniser waiting to repair a damaged tire. <\/p>\n\n\n

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Images from the exhibition titled Elementary Rebirth, Nubuke Foundation. Courtesy of Noldor Artist Residency.<\/figcaption><\/figure><\/div>\n\n
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Courtesy of Noldor Artist Residency.
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A vulcaniser shop on Ogbojo Street in Accra. Photograph: Dela Anyah. Courtesy of the artist.<\/figcaption><\/figure><\/div>\n\n\n

Act I: New Comers<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n

“When did this new shop set up?” <\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was a Saturday, and Carl, my studio assistant, and I were on our way to my studio, passing by a recently closed vulcanizer shop when we discovered a new vulcanizer a mile away. As part of my practice, I source objects from various vulcanizer shops, transform them, and occasionally return my artwork to those same shops to create opportunities for reflection. These interventions temporarily disrupt daily operations and open up conversations about the waste vulcanisers accumulate and often burn. At the time, the tire shop had gone defunct and a new one had sprung up about 100 meters from it. I got out of the car and approached the vulcanizer operator about a project I was working on called the Vulcanizer Archive, a collection of photographed shops I encountered as part of a regional documentation effort across Ghana and Burkina Faso. In this picture, you see a typical open-air roadside vulcanizer shop. The core tools include a compressor at the back for inflating tires, a tool for removing rims, and a \u201cbath rub,\u201d in which tires are submerged to detect punctures. You can see the main vulcanizer representing the labor on site, alongside a mix of damaged and slightly used tires that are still usable. This simple setup is all that is required to repair tires on the road.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was through documenting these shops that I realized the pile of tires sitting dormant outside. In Accra, the rate of tires being discarded is higher than the infrastructure\u2019s ability to recycle them. Each shop usually has a mix of tires damaged beyond repair and secondhand imports from other countries. Some shops start with a small set of tires, eventually piling up as their customer base grows. These tires, beautifully piled up, began to resemble totems, becoming accidental signage that announces the existence of a vulcanizer shop.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Like pillars to a portal or foundations to an unseen building
You beacon me when I am in need
Travelling down the streets
With myriad lights sounds and advertising boards
Your blackness shines bright above it all
You draw me close to you with another’s object of neglect
A beautiful ornament most seen in times of vehicular distress<\/h3>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n
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A vulcaniser shop on Boundary Road in Accra. Photograph: Dela Anyah. Courtesy of the artist.<\/figcaption><\/figure><\/div>\n\n\n

Act 2: Full Immersion<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

The tires were scattered in a sweeping arc along the edge of the road, forming a low, undulating wall you could step into. Unlike the rigid vertical stacks I had seen elsewhere, this curve created a space you could inhabit\u2014like an igloo or hut without a roof. Sunlight permeated the holes within the tires, casting shadows that moved with the day, and the smell of rubber and oil enveloped you. Walking through it, the tires lost their initial meaning as objects of movement and became a wall of rings, prompting questions about what held them together\u2014ropes, friction, or some other force. This experience was fleeting; the space remained an active workshop, with the tire arc full of his tools, and not designed for visitors. You might be wondering: won’t these tools get stolen? And you are right to ask, for on the day of this visit we discovered that a bathtub he used for detecting bubbles tires went missing. Vulcanizers operate in a gray area of private enterprise and public space occupation: the business is privately owned, and they are required by municipal assemblies to pay some form of business operating permit or local toll if they operate regularly within the municipality. However, paying this fee does not automatically legalise working by the roadside or on a given plot of land. The vulcanizer bears all responsibility for the shop\u2019s future.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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my signage is my locker
my wardrobe brings you close
my shop\u2019s exhibition calls you in
green grass, black tires
As minimal as this can be
my space is filled with treasures that eyes cannot see<\/h3>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n
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A vulcaniser shop on Paradise Street in Accra. Photograph: Dela Anyah. Courtesy the artist.<\/strong><\/figcaption><\/figure><\/div>\n\n\n

Act 3: 404 Missing Shop<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

I was conducting one of my interventions within a town called Dome where I frequently visit to collaborate with local vulcanizers. Deciding to hold the same intervention within another shop I had previously bought discarded inner tubes from, I searched and searched until I realized the shop was gone. It had relocated across the street, and the only way I could easily tell was by the pile of tires lined up in front of and behind his shop\u2014an intentional assemblage grouping used tires for sale as well as damaged tires in various stacks across the shop in an orderly fashion. I moved to his shop and he graciously allowed us to hold the intervention within his space.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This story of his migration reveals a larger pattern among vulcanizers. As I write this, a major highway\u2014the Tema Motorway\u2014is being expanded. With this construction comes the breaking of the old road to widen it, turning what was once a concrete stretch into rocks and dust, a perfect recipe for deflating and damaging weaker tires. While this brings more business to the vulcanizers along the route, they will eventually be forced to relocate to make room for construction as the road expands.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This is a common issue for vulcanizers who work along major roads or on government land; every expansion means they must move again. For the vulcanizer I visited, however, the situation was slightly different. He was positioned on private land, and when the owners began constructing a shop, he had to relocate across the street. This constant need to move shapes how far these roadside shops can develop. They rarely build permanent structures and instead remain open-air spaces, sometimes without roofs, operating with little more than a compressor and a few essential tools. The migratory periods for vulcanizers largely depend on the land they occupy. In the case of government plots, the shops can remain in operation for years if the land has no development scheduled, while land owned by private landowners or those next to major infrastructure can be repossessed at a moment’s notice. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Since most shops cannot build storage for the extra tires, the installation becomes the best way to present and organize large sets of tires in public spaces. So, what starts as a byproduct of the business becomes a way of assembly, leading to the installation we see.<\/p>\n\n\n

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Tire Shop on Paradise Street prior to being relocated across the street. Photograph: Dela Anyah. Courtesy the artist.<\/figcaption><\/figure><\/div>\n\n
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Same location on Paradise Street, after the shop moved, showed a bill board moving to the former location as well as an access point for the new store that was built. Photograph: Dela Anyah. Courtesy the artist.<\/figcaption><\/figure><\/div>\n\n\n

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to be or not to be, permanent or nomadic
not a choice I have
but for where I make base, I organise my belonging
or should I say that which is entrusted to me
For my place of labour becomes a place of discard,
Once I fix the tires of a vehicle owner.
Should I give them back their tires upon completion?
Or should I keep hoping to use them as signage?
What happens when I relocate?
The tires don\u2019t go and you shall see in Act 4<\/h3>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n
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A vulcaniser shop formerly on Ogbojo Street in Accra. Photograph: Dela Anyah. Courtesy the artist.<\/figcaption><\/figure><\/div>\n\n\n

Act 4: Away from the Nest<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Remember the shop I spoke about at the beginning that closed down? That’s it in the photo above. We held an intervention within this space that can be seen as the tapestry across the shop (see image below), created from discarded inner tubes. But what is even more present are the sculptures, as I love to see them, outside the shop. They remind me of those pillars you walk past as gateways to certain religious places\u2014they seem to hold meaning, and upon getting close to them you  get a sense of the history embedded within the old tires. Some are stained with sand from years of accumulation, and some reveal the wear and tear that the tires experienced before being changed. 
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Installation View, Homecoming Madina, 2025. Photograph: Dela Anyah. Courtesy of the artist. <\/figcaption><\/figure><\/div>\n\n\n
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Away from the nest
the feathers remain
traces of the one who gave life to tires<\/h3>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n
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Installation View, Homecoming Ashiyie, 2024. Photograph: Dela Anyah. Courtesy of the artist. <\/figcaption><\/figure><\/div>\n\n\n

Act 5: Homecoming<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

In every shop the aesthetic is similar: a vertical set of tires on the left, right, or multiple sets arranged around the shop. The stacked tires function as what semioticians call an indexical sign, where the product on display simultaneously serves as the announcement of the service offered: a concept Peirce (1867) and later Barthes (1957) developed in their analyses of how everyday objects carry and communicate cultural meaning beyond their material function. I began this series of interventions as a way of showing the tire repairers the potential behind the objects they discard, and slowly it birthed research and documentation projects like the Vulcaniser Archive I spoke about earlier. In the video below, which is a recap video of the installation I made, I highlight the textures of the tires piled up within the spaces to give a sense of the richness of the stories underneath all that we see.<\/p>\n\n\n\n