Ripping the Scab - a photo on Flickriver

Ripping the Scab

            Another abandoned house was demolished recently. Not just any house, but one I had formed an attachment to several years ago. A charming 19th century Italinate style residence that must have once been someone's pride and joy. Even after abandonment the house emanated a sense of stoic dignity. You often see that in classic architecture. Neglect and disrepair may degrade the aesthetic, but cannot denigrate the lines and geometry that define the structure. Such was the case here. I visited the place several times over the years. However I was never able to capture it any better than I did on my first encounter on an autumn day in 2013. It was rainy and the house was shrouded in a cloak of vibrant fall color punctuated with splashes of green. At quick glance it still appeared safe and inviting although in reality it was already failing. I felt a oneness with the house now that I was standing here in front of it rather than merely driving by. That connection always happens when I stop. If I'm lucky it's imbued in my photos. That day I was lucky.

Eight years later and I find myself approaching the house location on the adjacent state highway. Instantly something feels off. The sightline is different. I can see a church in the background that the house should be blocking. Then the shocking realization that the house is not blocking the church because the house no longer exists. All that remains is a sea of mud and debris, where once existed someone's home. The only visible trace of the structure are the concrete steps that led up to the front porch. I pulled over and walked about the site trying to comprehend the emptiness. The driveway that once led to a cozy backyard was still there. But there was no coziness here now. Amid the debris I noticed one of those curly, decorative brackets that adorned the eaves of the house. It was broken and laying ignominiously in the mud at my feet. I flashed back to that rainy autumn day and the feelings I had that day. Almost blindly I lifted my camera and began shooting the hell scape that now lay before me. Instinct carries me through times like this; I feel compelled to document the final outcome. But it's as joyless as shooting a funeral.

Later I came upon some long lost photos from the 2013 session. Outtakes mostly, but one that caught my eye was taken from an angle that closely mirrored one I took of the demolition site. What you're seeing here is a composite of the two, with the BW defining the new from the old. The still-remaining porch steps now lead up to a ghost house from the past. In a way, combining the two photos was more of an emotional experience than a technical feat. It's not just eight years of the house that have passed, but eight yers of my life. And I've reached a point in that life where each week is precious. The 2013 me had no way foresee the utter devastation in store for this house. Or the many twists and turns in my own life since then. Or Covid. Or so many things. The next eight years will pass even faster than the last. There will be many more twists and turns. I try not to think about that.

Taken on: March 6, 2021

Tags:

metaphor

life

passage

seasons

cycles

memories

sentiment

boundary

witness

forlorn

abandonment

bleak

dreary

contrast

shock

grit

impact

demolition

drab

stark

fallen

energy

atmosphere

desolate

inevitable

Italinate

architecture

emotion

Ohio

Parkman « less

Groups appears in: • Abandoned Places and Things • Abandoned, Neglected, Weathered, or Rusty more » • Then & Now! • Abandoned and Forgotten « less

Camera: Nikon D7000, f/8.0, 1/750 sec, 18mm (=27mm), ISO 250 (more info) (hide info)

Camera:	Nikon D7000
Lens:	18.0-200.0 mm f/3.5-5.6
Aperture:	f/8.0
Exposure Time:	0.001 sec (1/750)
Focal Length:	18mm (35mm equivalent: 27mm)
ISO:	250
Exposure Bias:	-1/2 EV
Flash:	Off, Did not fire
Exposure Program:	Aperture-priority AE
Exposure Mode:	Auto
Metering Mode:	Multi-segment
White Balance:	Auto
Color Space:	sRGB
Software:	Adobe Photoshop 21.2 (Macintosh)
Show full info

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