Tell Me a Story

Taking photos in an old barn where some items have been there for one hundred years means being careful where you step, acclimating to the cold, and being catapulted back in time.

In one corner a bag of dirt with a gardener's glove leaning against the bag, in another old wooden slat baskets. Every surface had some relic left to rust and as a reminder. People once used the old sled, drove the rusted model T Ford, climbed stairs long missing steps, and lived their lives and their stories.

Staring at a wall calendar hung over a poster from 1882, I began to think that all these artifacts are visual Midrash. The gaps of time, the layers of decay, and dust and threads of webs beg for stories.