At Arm’s Length
What it felt like to photograph a place that didn’t quite invite me in
Ashland, Nebraska is a small town about twenty minutes away from Lincoln. It’s walkable in about fifteen minutes or so, and I’ve been there a few times before. What I like about it is its rural, Midwestern feel. There’s a main street, and the buildings are no more than three stories high, looking as if they were built in the early 20th century. This is the kind of town and architecture I’m drawn to now.
My last visit happened at midday, with the sun high and light flat. Lately, I’ve been learning to love this time of day and this kind of light. There were few, if any, people out, so I was mostly by myself. My camera kept returning to building facades and details, along with some adjacent park areas. A wide lens let me capture full buildings along with some of their surrounding context. Within an hour, I was done shooting.
Looking at the pictures later, what struck me most was how quiet and deserted the town seemed. I know Ashland is a living town but it looked like a ghost town from the Old West. The flat light and facades almost make it seem like a movie set. Even the signs seemed like they were put up by ghosts from the past. More fascinating than scary or sad. It felt like I had just missed the people.
That got me thinking about my place in photographing a small town like this. What do I owe this town, if anything? And what do I owe myself? Ashland is a place I’ve visited a number of times since moving here, but it is not the place where I live. Only a few hours in total have been spent there. Hardly enough time to create any kind of meaningful photo story about the town and its inhabitants.
That day, nothing was inviting me in. No welcome signs or outdoor displays. So I stayed out on the street and photographed from there. And my photos show that. Nothing too close up. More like a record of where I was standing in relation to what I was photographing. It’s like the town and I came to an agreement: you stay at a distance and so will I. That was fine with me. I know I can only see the place from an outsider’s point of view.
The pictures are not Ashland itself. They are just my encounter with it, brief and passing, and shaped by what the town gave me that day. Maybe that’s enough. A place can hold you at arm’s length and still leave an impression. Maybe that’s part of what a photograph is for. Not to sum a place up, but to be honest about the passing relationship you had with it.
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Although I’ve never been to this exact town, I’ve been to many like it. You really captured what feels like loneliness to an outsider - but knowing it likely feels very different to those who live there.