The Barns of Hollow Farmstead almost never dance. They are stately and symmetrical, their roofs well matched, their siding intact though worn to painterly perfection. They all meet at right angles. No animals dwell here. Periodically someone comes to cut and bale the hay from the long rectangualr field which the barns bisect, and then for a few weeks the fields look like great lawns to house and barn, too formal for a dance. To make them dance one must poke them with the long lens and turn them askew; the barns behind each gable, although here squashed flat, stretch 60 to 100 feet. The shot was made some months back, and and I like the way the trees dance along. Wearing their lush, green leaves, they are not nearly such good partners. Straight Farmstead is shy and withdrawn; Kallstrom is The Joker; Hollow Farm wears its age with complacent dignity, but every once in awhile I try to coax from it a little jig.
