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Garden Buds, Flowers & Bees (Lens Test)
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This is a shot of some weeds in my neighbor's overgrown backyard. Just the other day he cleaned it up. I wonder why? :)
Inside the old Holo-Krome building, made up of about eleven connected blocks at the far end of Brook Street along the west side of the rail line running between New Haven and Hartford, Connecticut, there wasn’t much left. After the company’s move to Wallingford, the place was pretty much empty. Most of the old machines had already been packed up and sent to the new facility. All that remained were piles of scrap metal scattered around the floor. The building was demolished in 2018. The building itself was something to see. Its sawtooth roof, complete with skylights, was a rare sight in today’s world of modern warehouses and factories. But this building wasn’t part of the sale. Environmental concerns and the high cost of upkeep kept it off the market. What stands out in this story is what happened next. Fastenal, the company that bought Holo-Krome’s machinery and inventory, had planned to ship everything to their big factory in Minnesota. But once they got a good look at who was still w...
It was one of those dusky afternoons when the sky fades to the color of old denim that J and I once again found ourselves standing outside Acme Mill, a relic of industry, timeworn and nearly cartoonish in name, conjuring images of Looney Tunes contraptions and Saturday morning chaos. The irony wasn’t lost on us. But beneath that whimsical name was a place brimming with real history, the kind that clings to the walls and lingers in the dust. We slipped in through what can only be described as a makeshift rabbit hole, a gap near a boarded-up garage door barely large enough to squeeze through. Unknown to us, there were several open doors around the property that we failed to see. We went the hard way. Inside, the air was still, stale with the scent of decaying fiber and damp timber. Light was running out fast, and shadows began creeping in with intent. The interior unfolded like the final act of a forgotten play. Piles of old product labels, some spilling from the corners, others st...
For weeks, I had been orbiting the perimeter of the impending demolition of the Church of St. Michael and St. Edward, a once revered church in the heart of Fort Greene, like a moth drawn to a flame. The neighborhood, a patchwork of tight project housing, seemed indifferent to the fate of this historic edifice. The intel I had received suggested that entry was as simple as scaling a wooden fence, yet the timing had never felt right. Until one day, it did. With a mission in New Jersey looming, I knew it was now or never. The demolition was advancing at a startling pace, the church's twin steeples already reduced to rubble. The skeletal remains of timber beams and rusted steel frames peeked out from the ruins, a testament to the relentless march of progress. Summoning a surge of courage, I seized a moment of quiet in the bustling housing project and vaulted over the fence. My heart pounded in my chest as I slipped unnoticed into the church grounds. The once grand entrance now stood as...
Six years ago, I embarked on an exploratory journey through the forgotten corridors of a place whose name was unknown to me then. Only recently, with a bit of help, I unraveled the mystery: this place, archived in my memory and on my hard drive, was the Freihofer Baking Company. This discovery rekindled a special connection in my heart, remembering my early days in urban exploration in Philadelphia. It was here that I first tasted the thrill of exploring abandoned buildings, a passion that soon had me crossing state lines in search of that exhilarating, novel feeling once more. The neighborhood surrounding the Freihofer Baking Company was a stark canvas of socio-economic hardship, a desolate space that spoke volumes of its forgotten glory. I remember vividly the day I ventured there. Agile and swift, I maneuvered over a wall of large rectangular stones – a barrier against scrappers seeking to plunder valuable metals. These stones were a gateway to the past, leading me to the nearest op...
Over the years, I have had the opportunity to visit the Remington Munitions Factory three times, each visit a unique experience. The first time, I ventured there alone, driven by curiosity to explore what remained of the once-bustling industrial complex. Back then, the neighborhood was far from welcoming, and my solo exploration felt risky. However, the allure of the factory’s history and its remnants was too strong to resist. Upon arrival, the decay was evident. The complex was a shadow of its former self, ravaged by time and neglect. Scrap metal scavengers had stripped the buildings of valuable copper, steel, and iron. Every surface was a canvas for graffiti, a mix of juvenile doodles and more elaborate street art left by local kids and adventurous visitors. A fire in 2017 had already claimed part of one building, and the area had a reputation for violence, with frequent assaults and shootings on Barnum Avenue. Despite the deterioration, the factory had a certain haunting beauty, esp...
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