One of my favorite things to photograph, are old, wooden fences. I feel lucky to find those that are barely standing with several missing posts. I like their fragility and strength, their ability to stand alone and proud, through empty fields of wheat or uncut grasses, and their weathered wisdom of watching decades pass. Their foundation is strong, their wood sturdy and solid. It is evident that no one has paid them any care, and yet they don’t ask for any. They still function as a divider, but without the harsh, prison like, feeling of ten foot high metal fences, or fort-like wooden spears pointing to the sky. I sometimes wonder if these fences, their worn posts, and rusted nails, were ever painted over in white or dark brown. Did the land-owner build them himself or did a local carpenter come and construct it. Most of all, I am grateful that they still stand, that no one has yet knocked them down to replace them with more offensive and isolating walls. I hope one day, to buy a house, with an old wooden fence, which I’ll let stand just as it is.
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