UNTITLED, MCMINNVILLE, TN by Ian Edward White

2023
From the series Townes Ferry Pike

PhotoTex print
32 × 40 in
Strata edition of 1

Archival pigment print
11 × 14 in
Strata edition of 9
Available as print only or framed

Project Statement and Prose for Townes Ferry Pike by Ian Edward White

Townes Ferry Pike is a lyrical interpretation drifting through Middle Tennessee,
where sun-drenched rivers and roads intertwine with layers of personal history and
collective memory. The photographs capture the quiet persistence of life through
fleeting moments—portraits of locals, everyday objects, and the textures of lived-in
spaces—revealing the tension between past and present. By framing these scenes with
a careful play of light and shadow, the work ruminates on the transient yet enduring
connections between people and the places they call home.

I
It’s quiet around here. The only two noises are the trains at night or Kenny and
Lee going out for a smoke. Most of my outings begin and end with a conversation with
them. They ask me how I’m settling in. I ask them about their life before and what’s
ahead. Houston, North Carolina, Stockton—they’ve been all over. I’ve been all over
recently, too—Rohnert Park, San Diego, Rochester, and now Nashville.

Buster was found on the backyard lawn near the tree line. Still sopping wet from
birth, Kenny picked her up and brought her to the back porch. He’s never had to care for a doe before. After a call to the local animal control, Kenny fed Buster fresh milk,
chickens’ eggs, and tomatoes to keep the baby deer alive. It didn’t take long for Buster
to assimilate into her new environment.
One night, Kenny found Buster asleep on the back porch by the chickens, cat,
and dog, all sleeping in perfect harmony. The next morning, Buster was gone.

 II
There are often moments throughout the day when I see something moving out
of my periphery. Reflections from windows and shadows on walls become mice running
along countertops or mysterious figures peering in from dark corners. I can’t help but
look up every time and be convinced it will be the latter, only to be relieved, yet slightly
disappointed, that it isn’t.

When I first moved here, I thought I was seeing the same fields Ulysses, Delmar,
and Pete ran through while handcuffed together. When I would go down to the river, I
thought I would happen upon churchgoers being baptized in the water, maybe even be
serenaded by the songs of beautiful sirens as they lay along the banks. Every time I
looked up, my convictions weren’t true, and I was left slightly disappointed but not yet
relieved.

This place that exists in my periphery only exists temporally. That’s not the
silhouette of Tommy Johnson with his guitar or big Dan Teague sitting underneath an
oak tree. They’re not the mice running along countertops nor mysterious figures peering in from dark corners. No, they’re the reflections from windows and shadows on the walls outside my periphery—outside my temporal idea of Middle Tennessee. For that, I am no longer slightly disappointed. I am relieved.