"I WAS HERE."

My friend Pål and I were trespassing in the front yard of an abandoned 1960s Scandinavian-modern farmhouse outside Elverum, in Norway. We were rummaging through a pile of someone's decaying possessions (appliances, furniture, tools, books, etc.) which, left outside, only half-covered with a tarp, were displaying the rather beautiful ravages of time. We were looking for things to photograph and, maybe, for a little something to abscond with - to take home and put in the living room, or on the wall. With one or two items already culled from a small, far-from-waterproof shed I began wondering how it would be calling my wife internationally from the local police station for bail - and what the sentence for trespassing and breaking & entering is in Norway. Sure enough, as my friend walks a little deeper onto the property to peek into the widows of the main house, a rather stern looking man appears, walking purposefully down the driveway towards me, staring daggers, and saying something in mildly angry Norwegian.

Now, please understand, almost everyone in Norway speaks English (most better than many Americans). Also, I must confess, explaining why I'm photographing where I'm not supposed to be is not exactly a new experience for me. That said, I gave him a cheerful smile, and began to give him the usual spiel - in English, of course, since I had nothing better. There was a momentary setback as I realized he was continuing to question me in Norwegian; my Norwegian friend, meanwhile - still preoccupied with peering rather suspiciously into the house through the window - had yet to realize we might be in a little trouble here...

Of course, the uncomfortable moment soon passed, as my friend came over and chatted up our inquisitor (the neighbor of the late-resident) with masterful small talk: about the area, about the relationship between local wolves and livestock, the state of politics in Norway, and the like, all the while weaving in how we were photographers, and was it all right if we made some art-photos (I'm pretty sure he left out the part about looting). I stood there smiling and nodding a lot, trying to look like an artist rather than a burglar, and things seemed to be going well. In fact it was looking like he might not call the police at all. An odd smile even appeared as he mustered enough English to ask me directly why I had traveled all the way from the United States to photograph garbage.

The funny thing is, even though I hadn't thought of it that way at all, I understood his point immediately, and didn't need any time to reply: "It's not about garbage, it's about time."

Consider the rusting axe still stuck in the since-grown-mossy tree stump. (The picture titled "Elverum.") It was left there as if the owner was just going inside for a minute and would be back to chop more wood shortly. I see this as a poignant statement about how brief our lives are, and how hard we work to constantly overlook this fact. Someone lived here, and now they are gone, and only these moldering things bear silent and ambiguous testament to their life. This picture, and other photographs I've felt drawn to make: of bones; of a beautiful old abandoned stone farmhouse in the countryside of Norway; of similar structures in the southern, western, and northwestern United States; of old rusted tools; of long-since-closed factories - all beg the same questions:

Who made this?
Who were they?
Where did they go?
And
How much time do we have?

These structures and objects may be all that's left of a life. They make me wonder what, if any, signs we will each leave when we go, and whether anyone will find them and wonder who we were?

- Jean Miele, May 2004.