I took these photos of an abandoned whare in Main Street, Aotaki.
The place sat in a pool of sunshine on a completely empty section.
No gardens or washing lines.
No signs of life, except a few manky old mattresses piled up by the back door.
You wonder lived here.
What became of the whanau, their hopes and dreams, their destiny.
When does a home become a pile of wood, steel, wiring, broken glass, rusty nails?
When does the identity leave?
When does this place go from a place of belonging to a location, a place on a map, a stake in the ground,
but without a soul?
Is this real – this estate?
freshthinking 