Digital Ink'd

  Sifting through the digital dust of my archives often feels like a treasure hunt. But sometimes, you find what’s missing instead of what’s there. That’s what happened recently as I revisited photos from my early days, back when I was constantly on the road, exploring the forgotten corners of the Northeast with my trusty Canon T3i. I clicked through folder after folder of decaying interiors, and a frustrating pattern emerged: I seldom photographed the outside of these places. It’s a rookie mistake that haunts me now. How could I have ignored the very skin of these buildings? I see it so clearly today: the story starts on the outside. It’s in the faded, ghost-white letters of a company name clinging to a red brick wall, a signpost to a world that no longer exists. Many of those walls are gone now, victims of demolition by neglect, the black scars of arson, or the sanitized sweep of redevelopment. I missed my chance to capture their final words. I suppose my compositional "third ey...

  There is a certain irony to the story of the Budd Company, a tale often told online. They built things to last, from automobile bodies to stainless steel train cars. Their craftsmanship was their badge of honor, and in a strange twist of fate, a contributor to their decline. When you make a product that never needs replacing, you eventually run out of customers. It’s a paradox of quality over capitalism, but that’s a story for another day. This story begins on the road, with my friend Peppa and me cruising toward Philadelphia. We were on a pilgrimage of sorts, seeking to document the beautiful decay of the city's forgotten industrial giants. The list was a who's who of fallen titans: the C.H. Wheeler Manufacturing Company , International Harvester , Freihofers Wholesale and Retail Bakery , Steel-Heddle Manufacturing Company, Uptown Theatre, a Sears Roebuck Warehouse, and Steel Units Manufacturing . But the Budd Company plant was our grand prize. From the street, the complex w...

Some places hide in plain sight. You could drive Route 9 a thousand times, your eyes fixed on the traffic ahead, and never notice it. Tucked back from the highway, shielded by a dense curtain of trees, a long, low building sits in silence. It’s a flicker of grey through the green, a place the world seems to have forgotten. But to step inside is to walk into another dimension. What was once a series of five long, industrial bays is now a cathedral of concrete and spray paint. The air is still, but the walls scream with color. This is a living gallery, an ever-changing canvas for artists whose names, Taco, Ikay, Jase, Zy, Toco, Cent, Toasty, Soma, Tobe, are layered one on top of the other in a vibrant, silent conversation. For a moment, the function of the space is lost. You’re not trying to read the words; you’re simply absorbing the sheer, explosive artistry of it all, a language of shape and color plastered against a willing canvas. What was this place? The building kept its secrets w...