- Name
- Miguel Tejada-Flores
I live in Talent, Oregon, a small town in southern part of the state, whose population hovers somewhere between 6 and 7 thousand. I live in an old (1902) farmhouse just outside of city limits - where the countryside intersects, with varying degrees of discomfort, with the ever expanding city. Talent was formerly a farming community; now, in the new milenium, farmland is disappearing at a frightening rate. Near the end of February, we experienced weeks of inclement winter weather. A good time to sit at home, stoke the fireplace, drink a cup of hot chocolate and read your kindle. But I braved the freezing temps and sallied forth on several walks - on which I brought my small-but-not-quite-pocketable Lumix GM5 along, with a handful of equally tiny lenses.
The first thing I saw was the open spaces of the neighboring farm.
Farm field Arrow par MiguelATF, on ipernity
Another rural neighbor was trying to give away the unwanted camper shell from an old pickup truck; but in spite of the FREE sign on it, it’s become a semi-permanent part of the landscape.
FREE by MiguelATF, on ipernity
And of course, every small town has ubiquitous dirt roads, most of which will take you somewhere, if you only bother to walk down them.
Dirt Road by MiguelATF, on ipernity
In my town, on the literal border between ‘city’ and ‘country’, there is a factory; on cloudy days, the trucks parked outside of it, beneath massing rain clouds (precipitation is always threatening, in Oregon) look almost like a painted landscape.
Trucks on a cloudy day by MiguelATF, on ipernity
Most of the trucks are protected from the elements but some remain curiously open, bedecked with rusting chains, looking for all the world like mediaeval dungeons.
Rusty Chains by MiguelATF, on ipernity
And, speaking of rust, the factory has a small de facto mechanical graveyard, where yesterday’s valuable machines are slowly rusting away.
Rusty Gears by MiguelATF, on ipernity
Something about old rusting machines fascinates me; I move around, staring at them from different angles, wondering what they actually did. (And part of me, an irrational, speculative part, wonders if they ever really ‘did’ anything - or if, instead, they were simply part of an elegant 3-dimensional perpetual motion sculpture designed by a mechanically-inclined artist, or a dreaming engineer.)
Rusty abandoned Machine by MiguelATF, on ipernity
And wondering how - and why - the teeth of different gears intermeshed and what (if anything) that actually (might have) accomplished.
Rusty gear wheels by MiguelATF, on ipernity
Or simply speculating that the roundness of a machine wheel (which my mind’s eye can see spinning) has an almost mandala-like quality to it.
Wheel by MiguelATF, on ipernity
Or maybe it doesn’t: maybe it’s just all in my mind.
The bigger, heavier machines sit patiently, under rain, sleet and snow, rusting away in silence. The smaller mechanical discards however are consigned to garbage cans, the first step on their journey to parts unknown.
Trashcan by MiguelATF, on ipernity
END PART 1 (continued in PART 2)
The first thing I saw was the open spaces of the neighboring farm.
Farm field Arrow par MiguelATF, on ipernity
Another rural neighbor was trying to give away the unwanted camper shell from an old pickup truck; but in spite of the FREE sign on it, it’s become a semi-permanent part of the landscape.
FREE by MiguelATF, on ipernity
And of course, every small town has ubiquitous dirt roads, most of which will take you somewhere, if you only bother to walk down them.
Dirt Road by MiguelATF, on ipernity
In my town, on the literal border between ‘city’ and ‘country’, there is a factory; on cloudy days, the trucks parked outside of it, beneath massing rain clouds (precipitation is always threatening, in Oregon) look almost like a painted landscape.
Trucks on a cloudy day by MiguelATF, on ipernity
Most of the trucks are protected from the elements but some remain curiously open, bedecked with rusting chains, looking for all the world like mediaeval dungeons.
Rusty Chains by MiguelATF, on ipernity
And, speaking of rust, the factory has a small de facto mechanical graveyard, where yesterday’s valuable machines are slowly rusting away.
Rusty Gears by MiguelATF, on ipernity
Something about old rusting machines fascinates me; I move around, staring at them from different angles, wondering what they actually did. (And part of me, an irrational, speculative part, wonders if they ever really ‘did’ anything - or if, instead, they were simply part of an elegant 3-dimensional perpetual motion sculpture designed by a mechanically-inclined artist, or a dreaming engineer.)
Rusty abandoned Machine by MiguelATF, on ipernity
And wondering how - and why - the teeth of different gears intermeshed and what (if anything) that actually (might have) accomplished.
Rusty gear wheels by MiguelATF, on ipernity
Or simply speculating that the roundness of a machine wheel (which my mind’s eye can see spinning) has an almost mandala-like quality to it.
Wheel by MiguelATF, on ipernity
Or maybe it doesn’t: maybe it’s just all in my mind.
The bigger, heavier machines sit patiently, under rain, sleet and snow, rusting away in silence. The smaller mechanical discards however are consigned to garbage cans, the first step on their journey to parts unknown.
Trashcan by MiguelATF, on ipernity
END PART 1 (continued in PART 2)
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