Tom Karangelov. 2014

Greensboro, Alabama. 

“Nights were best. Then as the thick singing darkness settled about the little caboose which shed its cheerful square of light on the dark soil of old Carolina, they might debark and, with the pleasantest sense of stepping down from the zone of the possible to the zone of the realized, stroll to a service station or fishing camp or grocery store, where they’d have a beer or fill the tank with spring water or lay in the eggs and country butter and grits and slab bacon; then back to the camper, which they’d show off to the storekeeper, he ruminating a minute and: all I got to say is, don’t walk off and leave the keys in it-and so on in the complex Southern tactic of assaying a sort of running start, a joke before the joke, ten assumptions shared and a common stance of rhetoric and a whole shared set of special ironies and opposites. He was home. Even though he was hundreds of miles from home and had never been here and it was not even the same here-it was older and more decorous, more tended to and dream with the past-he was home.”

— Walker Percy. The Last Gentleman.
Lucius. Peter Larson.
A couple of the student living Pods at Rural Studio.

“Not about us. Not about our kids feeling good about themselves. It’s not about happy, feeling good. It’s about doing the right fucking thing.”

— Andrew Freear. Director of Rural Studio.

“A self one does not want. A heart one cannot help.”

— The Goldfinch. Donna Tartt.