There was a barn where I grew up. I remember the loft, filled with square hay bales. I would climb on them and get the picky stuff in my clothes and scratch up my wrists and ankles. There was a large opening where the hay could be tossed outside. It seemed high up from the ground. Come to think of it, I don’t think I was really allowed up there.
The barn in this painting has metal siding, ours was cement blocks that were whitewashed once a year. When I was a little older it was my job to muck out the horse’s stalls. Fortunately, in the summer, like in this painting, the horses wandered the fields and didn’t spend much time in the barn.