Fair Ground

Still learning the lay of this land

It’s been just shy of two months since I moved to Nebraska, and only a few weeks since I wrote about photographing the familiar as a stranger. That post was about bringing my Brooklyn way of seeing into a place that still felt new. Last week, I went to the Cass County Fair—my first real chance since then to photograph here not as a visitor, but as someone starting to plant roots. I kept thinking about my friend Ward Rosin’s long-running project at the Calgary Stampede as I walked through the fairgrounds, and it felt like my own smaller-scale version—cowboy hats, the smell of fried food, even a bull riding arena. I’m not planning to make this a project, but I wanted to see what kind of pictures I’d make here and what they might say about where my photography is heading.

We left Lincoln around six. Forty-five minutes later, the city had dissolved into farmland—straight roads rolling over long swells, bordered by corn and soybeans as far as I could see. That kind of vastness doesn’t exist back home. By the time we pulled into the huge grassy field that served as parking, the smell of cut grass was already in the warm air, and I was thinking about pictures.

I’d brought my often-neglected Fuji X-Pro3 with a 16mm lens—the equivalent of a 24mm on full frame, a favorite for my street work. On top was a new Godox iT30Pro F TTL Mini Flash I’d been eager to try, imagining Bruce Gilden-style shots at the fair. In the end, I didn’t have the nerve. Blasting strangers with flash felt like the wrong way to start. I wanted to move quietly, to blend into the flow. So I stuck with the approach I know best: candid frames, unposed moments, letting the picture build as I walked. I cranked the ISO and trusted it would work.

The first frames were gentle warm-ups—a couple standing near the entrance, a strange pickle character attached to a tent, mine and Angie’s long shadows on the pavement. Easy photographs, the kind that get me into rhythm.

Inside, the fair hit hard—noise, lights, music, and the smell of food all at once. Hunger didn’t help, so we stopped to eat. Afterward, we wandered through the 4H exhibits—crafts, artwork, prize animals—quieter places where I could take my time.

On the path to the bull riding arena, a young man in a cowboy hat walked toward me. I tried to catch him mid-stride, but low light slowed the shutter. Later, in post, I saw how blurry he was and realized I didn’t need perfection. I cropped the frame so that a figure opposite him was cut in half—both choices intentional. It reminded me of Trent Parke’s photographs, where blur, grain, and odd framing aren’t mistakes but part of the process. The result had more feeling than if I’d made him tack sharp. This is new for me.

Near the end of the night, I noticed a man in a baseball cap, a crucifix printed boldly on the front of his t-shirt, walking through the crowd holding the hands of two little girls. One had light hair that caught the midway lights, the other had her hair up in tight curls and a quick smile. The cross on his shirt stood out—proud and unashamed. I liked the symmetry of their hands linked with his, the way they formed a loose triangle in the frame. I didn’t know their story, and I didn’t need to. What drew me was the steadiness of his stride and the quiet sense of parental care in his posture. The gesture mattered more than the details, so I made the frame before it disappeared.

On the drive home, I thought again about Ward’s Stampede work—how his years of returning have built a record of place and people that’s become part of his identity as a photographer. The Cass County Fair isn’t that for me, at least not now. But it comes at a point where I’m still figuring out what being a Nebraskan photographer might mean. This night didn’t answer that, but it moved me a step forward.

A few weeks ago, I was still looking at Nebraska as an outsider. That night at the fair felt like my first step toward seeing it as my own. At least a little bit.

If you’ve ever found yourself in a new place—camera in hand or not—how did you start to make it yours?

P.S. Ward and I spoke about this on our latest Street Shots Photography Podcast.