Okay, why am I looking at one of my old photographs? I explained all this back in May, but to recap quickly, I happened across an article on some photo website that suggested looking at and analyzing your old photos as if they were made by a different person. Although that idea strikes me as silly, I thought I’d try it.

And I did. Twice, so far. But I have to admit, I’ve failed. I mean, yeah, I looked at a couple of old photos and yeah, I tried to analyze them. But I didn’t analyze them as if some other jamoke shot them. I did try to look at the photos as objectively as I could (and I like to think I succeeded at that), but I couldn’t separate that analysis from my personal awareness of what was happening in the world around me when I shot the photo or my reasons for shooting it.

But, whatever. Here I am, doing it again. I’m just going to ignore the original idea and continue my pattern of…of whatever it is that I’ve done. I’m even creating a new tag: greg looks at an old photo. I’ll probably do this once every month or two. Probably. Anyway, here:

I chose this photograph for two reasons. First, because the Iowa State Fair is underway (I’m planning to attend soon). And second, because it doesn’t quite work as a photo. It almost works. Technically, it’s a tad underexposed. I shot it with my wee Fujifilm X10, which is a fine little camera but it doesn’t allow for quick exposure changes (this was shot at f2.2 at 1/100 and an ISO of 400). If I’d had time, I’d have fiddled with the exposure compensation dial. But that’s the thing about shooting photos that are about people living their lives. They’re not there to be photographed; they’re there because they’re there. You just have to take what’s given. So, underexposed a wee bit.

I’m happy with the basic composition, although the exposure detracts from it. Obviously, the young couple are the primary subject of the photo, but as I approached them I noticed some sort of vacuum/blower device on the floor; it was almost the same color as the top the young woman was wearing. This is where the exposure hurts me; the vacuum thingy gets lost; you can barely see it in the lower left corner of the frame. Still, the quietness of the young couple is, I think, nicely balanced by the other activity in the barn. And I quite like the cow portrait in the upper right of the frame.

So yeah, as a photograph it’s technically flawed, but (I think) well composed. What I really wanted was to depict a moment in the lives of these kids. For almost two weeks, folks from farms all over the state basically live in these massive barns, along with their livestock. They arrive before the fair starts and often don’t leave until after it ends. The Cattle Barn, the Sheep Barn, the Swine Barn, the Horse Barn—they all become small, temporary communities. Over the years, I’ve taken dozens of photos of people in these barns—napping, eating, playing (young barn kids seem to enjoy playing practical jokes on fair-goers), making friends, living a weird approximation of their ordinary lives. There’s something rather sweet about it, something simple (and something rather uncomfortable for those of us not accustomed to barnyard smells). Because they’re only here for a brief time, all these human interactions—the friendships, the squabbles, the romances–become compressed, more immediate.

Another thing about this photo that appeals to me: the transience of these relationships is in marked contrast to the stability of the Fair itself. The Iowa State Fair has been held almost every year since 1854 (they skipped 1898 because of the World’s Fair in Omaha, and missed three years from 1942–1945 because the fairgrounds had been turned into a supply depot for World War II, and the Covid pandemic axed the fair in 2020). It’s been held at this same location since 1886; some of the buildings from the early 1900s are still in use. The barn in which these kids are having their moment was built in 1914.

This particular moment took place in 2016, but you can easily imagine a similar moment in the same barn a hundred years ago. Different fashions, different hair styles, different chair, but the cattle haven’t changed much, and the barn is almost exactly the same. Imagine how many of these moments have happened over the years.

I used to pay a lot of attention to photography. Not just the practice of photography (you know, shooting photos and all that), but photography as a craft and art form. Then, for a lot of reasons, I stopped doing that. For a few years, I just wasn’t interested in photography. I shot occasional photos with my cellphone and that was enough. But a few months ago I picked up one of my old cameras and…hey, guess what. My interest in photography was resurrected.

I started thinking about photography again. I started reading articles about photography again, and studying other photographers again. In doing so, I came across an article that suggested looking at your old photos as if they were made by a different person. I’ve never really bothered to look at my old photos. I saw them when I took them and again when I processed them; why look again? But I thought, “Well, what the hell, I might as well try that.” And I did. I picked an old photo and studied it (and wrote about it here). Now I’m doing it again.

Here’s a thing I learned the last time I did this: looking at old photos–and I mean actively looking at them, not just thumbing through them quickly–is weird. It’s sort of dissociative. At least it is for me. It turns out there’s two or three things going on at the same time. You 1) look at the photo as a photo, an object in its own right. But you also 2) consider what was happening in the world around you when you shot that photo. And 3) you remember why you shot the photo.

This photo was shot on a Sunday evening, at 6:59 PM on the 7th of August, 2011. It was shot at a hospice facility for veterans, where my brother Jesse Eugene was dying from pancreatic cancer. I visited him almost daily during his stay. On that particular day, I’d wheeled his bony ass out to this small enclosed porch so he could look at some trees and feel some sunshine. He stayed in his wheelchair, I sat on the bench. We didn’t talk much. I think the trees and sunshine meant more to me than to him. He may have been humoring me when I suggested visiting the porch. We were only out there a short time before he said he was tired and wanted to return to his room.

I remember wanting to shoot his photo while we were out there; the light was amazing. But he looked awful–the cancer had pretty much ravaged him–and I knew he wouldn’t want his photo taken like that. After I got him back in his bed and comfortable, I scurried back to the porch and took this photo, catching the last little bits of that delicious sunlight.

He died a few days later. This may have been the last time he left his hospice room. I think it was. It’s possible somebody else might have wheeled him out to that porch, but I don’t think so. At the time, it never occurred to me that he might never get to sit in the sunlight again.

Here’s a weird thing. I knew he was dying, but I can’t remember ever thinking something like, “This will be the last time he ever eats black-eyed peas” or “He’ll never get to hear this song again.” I take that back; I vividly recall bringing his dog to visit, knowing it would be the last time he got to hold and hug his little buddy. That was pretty crushing. But that was unusual; mostly I always thought there’ll be at least one more day. But, of course, eventually there wasn’t.

Here’s another weird thing–an uncomfortable weird thing. There’s a selfish part of me that wants this to have been taken on the last day Jesse Eugene sat in sunshine. Why? Because it would give the photo more emotional weight. That complicates my thoughts about this photograph. I have to wonder if my memory is reliable. It’s entirely possible I’m remembering this as the last time my brother sat in sunlight because I want to remember it that way.

Without all that context, I think it’s a pretty good photo. The light is sweet, that yellow bench is an absolute treat, the hint of flowers in the left of the frame is a nice touch. The last rays of sunlight give the photo a sentimental quality that, I hope, isn’t entirely sappy.

I’m still uncomfortable with this idea of examining an old photo of mine, but I’m willing to consider there may be some value in it. I’ll probably do it again in a month or so.