Jim Harms couldn't be a more amiable fellow. He lets me in the front door of his little white and neat bungalow. I step over his sneakers on the front porch, but leave mine on. We sit across a small coffee table and I see he's a music fan, the Elvis Costello box set gives that away. A Dell laptop rests between us, as if any moment it might be needed. The warm breeze comes in the open windows, mixing with the downward draft of a single, lazy ceiling fan. Harms wears a t-shirt and shorts, loose white socks. He moves his hands around when he talks, but it's all relaxed. No rush, but he's got much terrific stuff to say about place. He tells me that his own "default" landscape is that of California, where he grew up, but that now he's ten years into his life in West Virginia, that these places all sort of mix together.
We talk for about an hour, and then go out to the grass of the front lawn to shoot some photos. I make him move a couple of chairs and a garbage can, and he sits on a brown wicker number while I shoot. He doesn't smile, but he doesn't not smile. He's just taking a day off at the bungalow. I shake his hand, we talk about staying in touch about the project, and I get on the highway to Columbus.