At 21, Mike Brodie would be forgiven for having a callow, scattershot approach to photography,

Mike Brodie, “Pensacola, Florida,” 2005, Polaroid photograph.

but the contemplative Polaroids he’s produced over the past few years already feel like the work of an old soul.

His subjects are friends from his home base in Pensacola, Florida, vagabonds he meets on his rail-riding travels across America, and the places he visits, including plenty of beckoning railroad tracks and hospitable abandoned buildings. Even if you’re not intrigued by Brodie’s ragtag bohemian cohort—a band of outsiders with an unerring sense of post-punk style—the intimate size and warm, slightly faded color of his prints are seductive. (Another attraction for collectors: each Polaroid is unique; no reproductions are made from the originals.)

Brodie, whom one gallerist describes as virtually homeless, picks up on the tradition of American restlessness and outlaw romance from Huck Finn to Jack Kerouac to Larry Clark. Unlike many young photographers, he’s genuinely interested in the world beyond his bedroom, and his portraits of men, women and (especially) children in New Orleans; Mobile, Alabama; Denver and Austin, Texas, have a tender incisiveness that is rare at any age.