If We Lived Here

Emily Louise Smith:

How would you describe your bond to this place?

Paula Rebsom:

It was a childhood dream, a place of beauty, wonder, and mystery. While the homestead and barns no longer exist, they are recorded in memories, stories, and photographs. The place feels very much alive, though no one calls it home. It feels wild, even though it’s fenced, farmed, and grazed. Fortunately, my family doesn’t rely on the land for survival anymore. We continue to rent out the pastureland, and we do so sustainably. My sister and I will inherit the acreage, and with that will come the continued obligation to manage it responsibly, to preserve our family’s history and connection to this place which has defined us for generations.

ELS:

What is the relationship between the installation and the original house?

PR:

The installation is a billboard-like replica based on the last photograph taken of the home before it was burned. I wanted to install it on the exact location of the original homestead, but my father insisted we build it over the hill to protect it from the elements and vandalism. While these threats are real, I’m pretty sure he also didn’t want the neighbors to think we were crazy.

ELS:

How did the experience of building the installation with your father affect your connection to the place?

PR:

He’d share stories about the time that he and my mother spent trying to make a living off the land after my grandparents retired and moved into town—stories of how he’d shovel his way through waist-deep snowdrifts and of their eventual decision to leave. While I’ve always been close to my family, this project provided an opportunity to learn the history of this place. Their stories highlight the struggle to make a living off every last bit of the land and celebrate its transformation to a pasture managed holistically—reseeding native grasses, planting shelterbelts for deer and pheasants, and allowing the land to heal some of its scars.

ELS:

How do the habitats in this project—both human and animal—complicate or complement each other?

PR:

In its simplest form If We Lived Here provides shelter for the barn swallows that were displaced. Only they haven’t returned yet. Perhaps because a pair of territorial eastern kingbirds moved into the letter H of the word Here that first summer, or perhaps because their connection to the place was more complicated than I’d imagined. I always hope for something amazing when I create structures, but complexities exist with human and animal relationships. These in-between places are the most interesting to me.

Thirty-one years ago, when my mother was three months pregnant with me, a harsh winter forced my parents off the farm that has been in our family for more than fifty years. The 1,300-acre farm is tucked away in the little Badlands of North Dakota and only accessible by nine miles of scoria road.

Before: Aerial photograph circa 1970

After my parents left the farm, they moved to nearby Dickinson. The land was rented to neighbors, and the home was rented out to a couple that left it in such disarray it was no longer safe for human occupancy. That is when the barn swallows, rabbits, raccoons, and mice began to settle into their new home. I was able to enter the home a few times as a child to view the new nests these animals had tucked into the corners and recesses of the rooms. Eventually the floor by the front door collapsed barring any human access to the remainder of the home.

After: Photoshopped illustration after the cleanup, 2009

Last photograph taken of the house before it was burned, February 2009