Little did I know twelve years ago, that photographing endangered Southern architecture, and starting a non-profit organization to administer the photographs, would end up infuriating so many professionals who work in historic preservation. Maybe I should have seen it coming, given today's prevailing stereotypes about preservation, but I really wanted to believe that the movement was all-inclusive, and that its fundamental purpose was to raise genuine awareness about the need to preserve historic buildings. As someone who has spent most of his adult life methodically identifying and photographing endangered Southern architecture, I've correspondingly been motivated to disseminate these pictures on the Internet, print medias, photographic exhibitions, and books — as an immediate and tangible way to raise awareness for the threatened structures. But in championing these endangered buildings to the degree in which I have, I seem to have ignited a hornet's nest of opposition by the very people who I thought were my colleagues and friends.

When one honestly takes into consideration that the Southern countryside is currently dotted with thousands of ruinous and forlorn historic structures, it's about time that we ask ourselves if we're just going to sit back and watch the historic landscape systematically disappear, or is organized preservation going to start working together and attentively address this problem? In an era when fifty-years time designates that a building is considered officially historic, it remains my contention that America's earliest constructed homes certainly deserve to be keenly addressed for a whole host of reasons, including their high degree of craftsmanship and raw materials, but also for their fleeting, yet tangible link with the nation's earliest history. Throughout eight Southern states I have undertaken a thorough photographic campaign to record these empty plantation dwellings. As one can imagine, locating and gaining access to these isolated rural properties has never been a walk in the park. One positive result from all this time in the field has been the interaction with hundreds of endangered property owners, many of whom have indicated to me that they are willing to work with preservationists. Of the 800 antebellum farmhouses now recorded for this work, broadly disseminating these photographs seems a surefire way to ignite local and regional interest to get more of these buildings rescued. And after all, isn't that what raising awareness for preservation is all about?

But little of this photographic endeavor will ever come to fruition as long as the messenger finds himself forever defending the worth of his documentary to the leading preservation organizations in North Carolina, Virginia, and Washington D.C. Officials at these organizations have willfully turned a blind eye to all aspects of this effort, steadfastly resisting any support, participation, and in some cases, even communication with Southland Historic Preservation. Just because those organizations are not willing to address the often-desperate circumstances these properties find themselves in, that is no justifiable reason to deliberately band against another preservationist who only seeks to bring this time-sensitive body of work into the public domain.

And what message are those preservation organizations really conveying to Southland Historic Preservation when their leaders publicly galvanize their resistance against another man's hard work and dedication for the preservation cause — a cause that by most indications in the South, could use all the help it can get.

Gaston Ward Callum II
February 07, 2008