Pioneertown

Author's Comments

Pioneertown is a strange and lovely contradiction. It was built as a set and it became a town, and the seam between those two facts is what I find myself photographing every time I drive up from the basin. Mane Street faces roughly west, which means the last hour of light hits the facades directly, and the wood goes the color of weak tea against the blue shadow of the hills behind. That is the hour. Earlier in the day the buildings read flat and a little tired, but at golden hour they come alive in a way that feels almost cinematic, which I suppose is the point. I tend to work wide first to get the full street, then move closer for the details that give the place away as something still lived in - a satellite dish on a saloon, a hand-lettered sign, a screen door that has clearly been repaired more than once. These are the photographs that interest me more than the clean western tableau. The set is beautiful. The fact that people actually live here is more beautiful. Saturday nights at Pappy and Harriet's bring crowds and headlights and a different kind of energy, and if that is what you are after, go. But for the photograph, come on a Tuesday in November when the light is long and the street is mostly empty and the high desert cold is just starting to settle in. You can hear your own footsteps on the dirt. The buildings hold the warmth of the day for a few minutes after the sun drops behind the ridge, and then everything goes blue at once.

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