Tumbleweeds collect in the corner of an empty Motel on the edge of Kit Carson, Colorado.

I’ve had a lot of work that has taken me to the rural plains of Colorado lately.  Always enjoy the drive and the quiet that comes with the sweeping flat of the landscape as the Rocky Mountains settle into the farmlands of the midwest.  I’ve never really done a comprehensive edit of all the photographs I snag as little souvenirs of my passage, though I probably should.  On these drives I stop every few miles to grab a couple of frames in the nooks and crannies of the towns I pass through, mementos of places which are experiencing a certain kind of transition as our economy continues to become more specialized and scaled.  

The thing about photographing in these towns is that it’s pretty easy to make the visual case that something horrible is happening, that the Second Coming has settled in as younger generations flee to the cities.  To me, that argument has always come off as centric, a bit exploitative, and cynical.  I feel that there is a tendency for photographers to take advantage of these images to illustrate a story that is not exactly true to the everyday experience of ordinary people; life comes complete with certain common struggles that are true no matter where you live.  

The piece of the story that I think has more basis in reality is that as you move through rural America there is a tendency to find things that are not quickly erased.  There is a certain immunity to the transient nature of pop culture that our more urban centers thrive on: the turn over of fashion, the 24 hour news cycle, Twitter, constant updates and overwrites of what is cool.  In short, things are not meant to last.

But in these towns there is no subway, no cultural gatekeepers, no hand that pastes over last week’s placards with new signs, new merchandise, new art.  What is created tends to stay that way until it is reclaimed by nature’s softer reckoning.  

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