Sometimes, life piles up on one like a New York City garbage strike. Months it has taken to crawl out from under all my work and then the fatigue that followed. I wondered if I would even feel like working on another photo. But then summer comes, the work stops, and my mind unfolds, stretches, and finally I hit the keys again, open Photoshop, and set to work on photos taken back in March.
It was a lovely, breezy day. I had finished grading term papers. My real spring break had begun as a friend and I drove up to Adamston to see my former colleague, the painter and printmaker Lee. He has a lovely little Victorian. Around the corner is a mill built in 1812 by Charles Carroll of Carrollton, signer of the Declaration of Independence. I remember reading a biography about him when I was in the fourth grade. Fallen into elegant disrepair, the roof in collapse like an undulating wave frozen. The neighborly old man who now owns it sits in a chair outside his garage, happy to talk to all comers–mostly us photographers and painters. I cannot decide which version I prefer–the one showing the intense color of the day, or the contrasting black and white that speaks to the building’s ruminating past.