The title came to me the moment I turned and saw the room inside this dilapidated structure, and the view beyond, on a middle-of-no-where road through central Oregon farmland.

I imagine this scene inspires many different and competing ideas on what the American Dream is, where we are, as Americans, on the journey toward that dream, and what we must do to achieve this end.

One thing is certain; one thing that we can both agree on; is that we have not yet achieved the dream.

On the right: "We Are Paramore"

I've tried to make out the rest of the writing here but can only walk away with the three words in reference to the band. This makes me think of their song, "We Are Broken". In the context of the American Dream... or an America divided...

On the left: "Mute"

So, so many voices are muted today. Beyond the obvious and implied, I think of big-country voices ignored in urban regions. I think of the wholly ignored voice of suburbia. What used to be the foothills before a big city, suburbia's are now sprawling and caught between their urban roots and their infiltration of rural America by urbanites. I think this divide is the most pressing in our nation's culture.

I left the scene exactly as I found it. I didn't step an inch beyond where I placed my tripod. It had become a work of art and a message to me and here was the proper viewing distance.

I continue to be fascinated by all the individual elements of the photograph. I want to ask 'Why,' but I know that the individual whys have only the meanings I attach to them yet somehow influence the wall's whole. It might be better to ask 'When' to ascertain how one element's intent influenced the next.

The American Dream

This photograph was taken inside a crumbling structure off a forgotten stretch of farmland road in central Oregon. The moment I turned and saw the room—and the bright, open land beyond the window—I knew the title.

The American Dream.

It’s a phrase heavy with expectation. We all know it. We all feel some relationship to it. But standing there—surrounded by decay, by chaos, by graffiti and silence—I couldn’t help but wonder:

Where are we, as Americans, in relation to that dream?

Have we come closer to it, or farther from it?

And is the dream the same for all of us?

Inside the room, the walls are loud. Layers of handprints, graffiti, and splattered paint speak to frustration, rebellion, or maybe just the need to be heard. Words like “Mute” and “We Are Paramore” linger faintly in the background—one evoking silenced voices, the other reminding me of Paramore’s “We Are Broken.” That, too, feels relevant. The noise of the present moment, the fractures in our culture, the tug-of-war between urban and rural values—it’s all in here.

And yet.

Through the window, the view is wide open. A golden field. A soft sky. A sense of calm. It’s not far away—but it’s not accessible either. It’s framed, like a painting or a promise, while the interior crumbles around it.

There’s a single cushion on the ground. Torn, used, and forgotten. It could’ve once been a seat of rest. Or maybe it was a place to wait. I didn’t move it. I didn’t step past it. This scene had already become its own work of art—and I knew my role was not to change it, only to witness it.

I imagine this piece will stir different interpretations in different people. That’s part of what I love about it. But one thing I think we can all agree on: we haven’t arrived yet.

The dream is still out there.

And maybe the first step toward it is being honest about the room we’re actually in.