These images are from a trip I made to my friend Alpha's farmhouse in Arlington, Tennessee earlier this Spring.
As it sits between two seasons, the middle of March straddles a world between decay and newness, and this dichotomy was on full display on the property in Arlington - bare trees mingled with dense underbrush, as the warm temperatures turned the soil beneath the grass into a thick mud, perfuming the air with the smell of earth. It was the moment just before the bloom. An insurgent patch of bamboo had long ago taken foothold on the property and was flourishing oblivious to the season, its fallen stems serving as kindling for our evening bonfires.
So too was the inside of the house a transition between old and new. The house had stood unused for some time, but remnants of happy summers past were everywhere - framed family photographs washed out and yellowed with age, old board games with dust-covered boxes. Alpha had just moved in, and I'm happy for what he's been given - the chance to take something and make it his own.
To me, this small sequence is, in part, imbued with a sense of loss - or specifically, what remains when something is lost. It can be difficult to choke back the longing for what you once had, especially when its outline, its shape is still fresh in memory. But one unique aspect of the human experience is our ability to reinvent ourselves, to build upon what we once had in the process of making something new.