Whenever I see a farm that is neat and clean and painted and clear of debris, I know it is a hobby farm or rich person’s farm or, with few exceptions, a Vermont farm (or my farm). Landscape painters and photographers rarely spend much time capturing real farms – a New York art photographer I drove around with would remove the cans and tractor parts and old engines, he thought they cluttered up his photo. You don’t see real farms on calendars or notecards. I took photos of real farms and offered them as notecards once, I hardly sold a one.

Nobody seems to want to hang a photo of a real farm on their wall.

Real farms are debris fields, cluttered with old junk, salvageable parts, cans of mysterious oils and liquids, browning and soggy old hay bales, pitchfork handles. Real farmers do not buy retail, they keep everything, their barns are keeling over with holes and rotten boards, their fields littered with debris. I love real farms, they are stinky, chaotic,  smelly and cluttered with stuff – like my mind.