The Old Tobacco Barn

Behind the Photograph

Some photographs aren't found. They wear you down until you finally take them.

Every time I go back to western Kentucky, I would usually stay with my brother.

He lived just outside of town.

And every time I would leave his house...

There's the barn.

Going to breakfast?

There's the barn.

Running to the grocery store?

There's the barn.

Heading into town to visit friends?

There's the barn again.

I honestly couldn't begin to guess how many times I've driven past it over the years.

Every trip...

The same old barn.

Waiting.

The funny thing is, every time I'd see it, I'd have the same conversation in my head.

"Go away."

"Leave me alone."

"Not today."

"Maybe another time."

And the barn never argued.

It simply stood there.

Waiting.

Year after year.

Then, one visit, something changed.

I don't know if the light was different.

Maybe I was different.

Maybe I'd finally run out of excuses.

Whatever it was...

I pulled the car over.

Picked up my camera.

And made the photograph.

Standing there, I realized something.

It had never really been about the barn.

It was about being ready to see it.

That old tobacco barn had probably looked much the same for years.

I was the one who had changed.

Now, every time I look at this photograph, I don't just remember an old Kentucky tobacco barn.

I remember learning that photographs have a way of finding us when we're finally ready to see them.

Sometimes it isn't the light that's been waiting.

Sometimes...

it's the photographer. 

Photographer's Notes

Western Kentucky
Late Afternoon · Sony A-100
With Nada

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