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On the Straight & Narrow Path
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Abandoned Brooklyn Subway Train Line - Disused
Sometimes you have to keep plugging away and just keep moving forward. Don't get derailed. Lens Info: Super-Takumar 55mm 1.2 @ f/2
In July 2024, the historic Quinebaug Mill met its fate, reduced to rubble after standing for over a century. Despite plans to transform the site into residential apartments, the project fell through. The primary roadblocks were a mix of logistical challenges and financial impracticalities. The Town of Killingly’s sewer system, already nearing capacity, couldn't accommodate the additional strain a large housing development would bring. Alternatives, like installing a private septic system, proved just as unfeasible, leaving developers with few options. In the end, the mill’s long decline culminated in demolition, another chapter closed in the story of New England’s once-thriving textile industry. Unlike many abandoned mills that became storage spaces for forgotten relics or junk, Quinebaug Mill was eerily empty. Its interior, stripped of its former industrial vibrancy, showed little evidence of its past life as a cotton mill. Decay had taken hold—moisture had compromised the wood ...
I finally made it to the place I had been dreaming about for years. Ever since I found out the substation by the Harlem River was still standing, I had been trying to visit. Every time I came up from Brooklyn, though, the main gate was locked. It had become a routine—checking in once a year, hoping for a change, only to be disappointed. But today was different. Funny enough, I almost didn’t go out at all. I had been putting up with the noise of kids playing next door, and their summer fun was starting to grate on me. I’d had enough of it. I needed to get out of the house, and this time I was determined to see if the gate would finally be open. When I arrived, I started by photographing the building’s exterior. The gate looked like it might still be an issue, but I wanted to document what I could. While I was snapping shots, a guy pulled up on a motorbike. We got to talking about photography and our shared passion for preserving old, forgotten buildings. He told me he’d seen local...
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...
This place holds a special meaning for me. I’ve visited several times, determined to explore every corner and uncover its secrets. But no matter how hard I tried, I never quite managed to see it all. The main front building, the one closest to the road? Never got inside. The massive cooling building in the back with its giant fans and smaller outbuildings? Missed that, too. And then there was the tank farm—a cluster of 22 rusty tanks tucked away in the upper right corner of the property. For some reason, no one ever took pictures of those tanks, even though they sat quietly in the shadows. I only noticed them recently, flipping through my old research notes. That’s when it hit me: I’d never taken the path that led there, too hesitant to get close to the Trenton-Mercer Airport’s fence line. I wasn’t here to get in trouble. I was here for the peaceful, empty buildings, not to risk getting caught wandering near airport grounds. Still, being there felt like stepping back in time. Walking t...
Teutonia Hall stands as a testament to Yonkers’ vibrant cultural history, a beacon of community spirit since its inception. Erected in 1892 by the Yonkers Leider Kranz Society, a German-American organization founded in 1856, this historic venue was initially built as a music and literary hall. At $32,000—a considerable sum at the time—Teutonia Hall was more than just a building; it was a community hub, equipped with bowling alleys, a billiard room, committee rooms, a dining room, and a grand assembly hall. In the early 20th century, Yonkers, like much of the United States, was a mosaic of ethnically distinct neighborhoods. Immigrants from various backgrounds clustered together, fostering close-knit communities that mirrored their homelands. This clustering was not merely for comfort; it was a practical strategy for survival and success in a new country. Social clubs, brotherhoods, and houses of worship emerged as cornerstones of these communities, providing essential support and a sens...
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