Genevieve Maynard Photography

Climb the hollowed stone stairs, push open the worn wooden door; your hand rests where hundreds of thousands of hands have before. Details hide in the cool, dim interior - timeless beauty not judged by taste, fashion, or the greatest artist plying his trade. Listen. Be still, quiet, wait. The hopes, dreams, fears of the many - thought, whispered, murmured, chanted, sung. The stone is grimy with the weight of need, cobwebs catching the dust of faith that drifts through the high reaches of the space. Pews polished by hands, knees and thighs, the dark wood stained by years, witness to joy, hope and despair; the smell of candle wax, incense and age on the air.