The Story Corner

The Story Corner, a photo by [Nocturne] on Flickr.

All of these place I shoot all have a story to go with them, the story of this place sees some what as a suicide house, but obviously it would not have always been such a negative place.

Everyone who has every shot at this house always comes to this corner, low angle with a wide angle lens, we now call it the universal angle. This house has so much more to offer but this is such a pleasing angle, which after shooting here for 5 years I have seen the decay happen before my very eyes, when I first shot here this wall was right up at the roof, now it is near the floor, this place won't last another 10 years, which means I'll have to find another house to shoot at locally.

I didn't even light this as I much preferred it this way, there was a full moon with a nice amount of clouds, so I went for a short exposure with no lighting, it has worked out well, some may say it could have done with some lighting inside, but I feel the darkness we can see in the hole still holds that mysterious what lies beyond sort of feeling, which in today's society doesn't happen to much any more, everyone is so de-sensitized to everything now things are almost predictable if not boring.

The title is simple, It is not a story corner, I've never told or heard stories here, apart from the fact when me and my buddies are shooting we just stand exchanging stories. As a child I never was in to books at all, to be honest I've never actually read a whole book in my life, but my son is now at that age where stories are very interesting and imagination is the key to life, I often read him stories of many contexts which I guess has ignited something in my life that I have never really done before. In these stories everything is quite rhyming and has some form of moral at the end of it. I don't really remember any specific stories from when I was a child so I found a nice poem online about an abandoned house and I feel it quite fitting so I have included it below.

Who built it, who owned it, who grew up inside?
Who painted and fixed it, and lived there with pride?

The place now deserted just left to fall down.
Except for the wind chime there’s nary a sound.

A great many stories this old house might tell,
With its squeaking wood stairs and musty old smell.

If the walls could converse somehow with the ceiling,
And we might interrupt with words what they’re feeling,

Whose secrets are buried and gossip lay hidden.
With thoughts left unsaid and others forbidden.

What joy and deep sorrow has transpired within?
Where a life was completed before it begin.

Where children grew up leaving only their dreams,
To this house they abandoned with its wide-open beams.

Now tattered and aged with its rooms left undressed,
As they stripped all the carpet that it once possessed.

The bricks have collapsed from a chimney so high,
They’ve toppled to rubble barely reaching the thigh.

This house will be gone in its place you may find,
A big shopping mall with its stores all combined.

Remember with time if your memory should fail,
The "home" that once stood here, was never for sale.

A really nice poem.

I will be doing a very interesting photo here quite soon which I hope will not be seen as distasteful.

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