This collection of rustic outbuildings, once part of a working family farm, has been sitting in my lap for almost three years now. Every time I leave the house, whenever I peer out of one of our front windows, there they are. I've snapped dozens of photographs, typically when the dilapidated structures have been dusted by snow, backed by colorful fall foliage or surrounded by floodwaters.I hadn't studied them, though, not photographically. I knew that they held promise, but I'd never really explored what they might offer.
When Canon replaced my trusty old point-and-shoot last month, I christened the new (to me) camera with a handful of uninspired grab-shots. I took the photo at the top of this post, for example, to check out the optical zoom and image stabilization at full telephoto.
Back at my computer, I zoomed and panned and made my judgments about the little camera's performance. Looking closely at the image above, I stopped fiddling and stared.It wasn't sharpness or color rendition that got my attention -- it was the elements in the frame. An ordinary snapshot revealed shapes and lines, highlights and deep shadows, hard edges and gentle forms worth exploring. Here was a rich trove of details which had, until that instant, escaped my notice.
Get closer, notice details -- two photographic lessons I've learned and forgotten and re-learned countless times over the years. I might've known it was time for a refresher.
In spare moments over the next week or so, I returned to that shot again and again. More than once I paused at the end of our driveway, taking photographs with my eyes before pulling out onto the road.
Ten days later I was treated to a chalky sky and exquisitely flat midday light -- perfect. I grabbed my camera, tripod and remote release and set up by the roadside. Employing the longest focal length I have, I compressed the elements and framed to exclude fields, trees and sky. For maximum depth-of-field, I stopped down.
Here, after cropping and a bit of processing in my digital darkroom, is one of the first shots from the session:
Barns No.1 (2009)Now that's a satisfying image. The weathered paint, stained siding and rusted roof panels give it a soft, watercolor-like character.
Panning to the right, I gathered the elements I'd seen in the point-and-shoot crop, striving to recreate the composition that had sparked my vision. Thanks to flatter light, more optical compression and a higher perspective, the result was better than I'd hoped for:
Barns No.2 (2009)Next to Barns No.1, this image has a totally different feel -- it's more about geometric shapes, sharp edges and textures. For that reason, at some point I'll experiment with some black-and-white variations.
Picking up the tripod and moving 20 feet to the left, still using the square window as a visual anchor, I settled on another angle:
Barns No.3 (2009)Composing to include the front of the shed and a sliver of foreground pulls the subject away from the abstract -- in this image, it feels to me like the abandoned farm it is.
The barnyard grass wants for the departed homesteader's muddy boots. Wrought-iron door handles stand ready for calloused fingers to grip them, while broken panes of glass silently await repair. The March wind, no longer burdened by the chug of machinery, now only whistles through gaps in the siding. No one hears.
Whether I view it as melancholy metaphor or simply as documenting a sad fact, that photograph captures my sense of the place.
I clicked off just 30 shots that morning, three of which were worth keeping -- a respectable ratio, in my experience. Of the keepers, I have no particular favorite. More important than coming away with gratifying results, I chased my instincts and sharpened my vision.
And I'm not done yet. Even after we make the move across town, I suspect that "the barns" will draw me back here again.
