Strangers
Driving the backroads of West Virginia, I am looking for people whose portraits will tell the story of rural life. Yet each person I stop and ask to photograph begins as a stranger.
When we first meet, a preconceived notion takes over. He or she is the Other and I imagine I am the Other to them. I get a slight feeling of alienation. Shyness. That man with the bushy beard, he’s sure to be mean and bark: “No, no photographs today.” Or that young woman sitting on her steps? Don’t even ask—she will decline and quickly disappear inside her house. But I know after many trips to West Virginia that people are friendly and embracing. I can think of only a few who refused out right to be photographed.
I like the magic that unfolds as soon as I exchange words with a stranger. I remember driving and driving late one afternoon looking for Elk River Road, a short cut off Route 219, which would get me home faster. Dusk was quickly making way for darkness and I wanted to be back at my cabin. Feeling lost and discouraged, I saw a pick-up truck pulled off to the side of the road and I angled in behind him.
“Hi, can you tell me—is Elk River Road up ahead?” I said to a man sitting in the driver’s seat.
“Head back that way, ‘bout 5 miles on your left,” he said. “Can’t miss it.”
He didn’t smile but his words were reassuring. I was instantly reoriented and relieved, thanked him and went on my way. We shared words and the spell was broken. Judgement fell by the wayside.