silo, silo, farmhouse, barn - the place. Mixed media, black matte frame, with glass, 17" x 27". Not for sale.
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Everyone has a place. My place is gone; not a real place anymore, torn down twenty or thirty years ago. Located sixty miles east of Dallas, my place occupied space on my grandparent’s dairy farm. Gone now? Sure, but I can still go there on occasion without being invited.
Always inviting, the farm house (with a new indoor toilet) was accessed by a noisy, gravel road; there were pecan trees in the yard; guinea hens in the trees. To the left of the house was a large milk barn; behind the barn were murky corral areas where cows ambled, sleeping or chewing, waiting to be milked. All around were fields, some planted with alfalfa or corn, others left open for grazing. The open fields had ample cow dung and giant yellow salt-licks (also planted but just the opposite of growing). There were silos, streams, and hiding places on the farm. To the left, way in the back, just pass the house and past the hen house, quietly, unremarkably sat The Place. . . .my grandmother's hay barn.
