I have a thing for old buildings. I love their mysterious dark interiors, the haunted quality they wear like a shroud. I love the dance of dust motes in the history-laden air. I love the scent of old wood floors, wood smoke clinging to whitewashed walls, hearth ashes long gone cold.
It’s an obsession with me, these old houses. I stumble over them in the woods near our Virginia farm. I cross backroads and stop to photograph them. Tobacco barns. Railroad stations. Farm houses. All gone, their histories lost in time, their stories crumbling in the splinters and sticks of their timber.
A few of these old beauties I have photographed along the roads in Virginia:
Old tobacco barn, Prospect, Virginia.