I love old barns, old farm buildings, big or small. Maybe it's the fond, old memories of being in my grandparents' barn in Minnesota... the rough smells of animals I had not lived around, cows, chickens and wild cats. My sister and I had to collect the eggs each morning, a scary job for little kids from the city. My grandpa would teach us how to make little canoes from birch bark and we would go to visit the Indian village where Grandpa had built the school, church and store for the tribe. The smells of coffee and wood burning stoves still takes me back to their farm home built with boards that Grandpa planed from the trees he felled on the property. Talking with my grandparents was difficult since they spoke Swedish with English mixed in. Pretty incredible when I look back now.
My grandfather was very artistic and musical, first chair violin in the Swedish Army orchestra, the music for the king. Maybe my love of photography came genetically from him. I hope to soon get some of my photos onto notecards and prints. Sometimes that drive from deep inside is impossible to turn off. My art, dedicated to my grandfather.