Three years ago I came across The Barn.
Nine miles due west of where I live. On the edge of a farm field. On a ridge off a road that see’s virtually no traffic. Was out there once for an hour and a half and not a single car drove down the road.
Across the road is a cemetery. And two houses. And nothing for as far down the road as you can see. And it’s quiet, dead quiet.
I’ve photographed it year round since then. Soy beans in the fields one year, then corn the next. Caught many sunsets, storms rattling around in the distance and approaching, quickly. The perfect spot. Some day I’ll make it all into a book, or my daughters can if I never get to it. What to do will all be written down for them, just in case.
Then this year in a freak accident, The Barn burned down to the ground. I thought my series of photographing The Barn was over.
Going there is not as frequent as it used to be, but under the right conditions, I proved myself wrong.
