I seem to be drawn to this piece of rusty pipe. I have photographed it dozens of times in various seasons, weather conditions, and times of day. I cannot rightly explain why I stop and stare each time I see it.
I often walk the dirt road where I live. Surrounded by working farms, I eschew portraits of cows and horses (usually) for capturing weeds and trees. And aged wood and rust. I am drawn inexorably to old things. But why this pipe?
It is placed crookedly on the edge of a slope in a small turnaround. The area around it has become increasingly overgrown and wild. Part of it still shows the original galvanized steel beneath the rust. The glorious rust.
A pipe weighted from the inside with stone, so as not to roll away. A rusty pipe carrying no water or fuel but acting as a barrier. Useful beyond its original purpose.
I like to think I am still useful though I am beginning to show signs of wear. So perhaps this pipe is a symbol of the midlife crisis I seem to be about (ahem, sorry for all the angsty poetry lately). Certainly there has to be more than a tired cliche in my interest.
I hope the township leaves the pipe until it completely rots away. I want to see spring blooms against the flaking rust and summer grasses brushing the tired steel. I have more portraits to make.