rough hewn

I have a strong belief in personal geography--the places that have shaped us, that we return to, in some form, again and again. My early childhood was spent in a Virginia farmhouse surrounded by second-growth woods--farmland that had reverted back to nature.

Yuri and Vera, our friends in Italy, have several buildings on their property including the main house, elaborately renovated by its previous owner "the Count". But that is not the one I took pictures of.

This is. Known as "the barn", which I suppose it was at one time, and later converted to a house and then gone to ruin.

We had an old log barn near our house in Virginia, but I did not spend much time there--it was dark, and there were spiders and snakes. And yet this ruin resonated with me. I was enchanted by its revelations. Alterations made in later years have worn away to show the early bones.

The ceiling is woven with sticks and logs.

Plaster walls worn away in places

revealing the sticks (reeds?) that form the framing of the walls.

Plaster covers brick which covers

stones cobbled together.

a faded pink wall

layers of paint

a rough hewn door. 

And there, as I write, my subconscious reveals itself. My father named our property in Virginia "Rough Hewn" something I have not thought of in many years. It's all connected, isn't it?