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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
Update May 2024: The Highland at 2480 Atlantic Avenue, the site of the landmarked Empire State Dairy Company complex in East New York is now available for leasing. The site has undergone a massive redevelopment. Check it out sometime. The exterior scaffolding and netting are now down. The Architecture The property in question encompasses 0.72 acres, bordered by Schenck Avenue to the west, residential properties to the south, Barbey Street to the east, and Atlantic Avenue to the north. This site boasts a rich history of diverse commercial and industrial uses. Dating back to the 1890s, it served as a dairy bottling facility before accommodating companies such as the Royal Plastics Corporation and/or Allied Tile Co. After the cessation of dairy operations, businesses that utilized petroleum products, solvents, and hydraulic fluids occupied the site, leading to subsurface contamination over time. The dairy complex has remained vacant since around 2020, and after the owner of Royal Plast
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
I remember it was rather cold this day and nearly lost my fingers flying the drone around the complex. Entering the complex was rather easy since the drive-in gate was unlocked and unsecured. From the first look of it, the site was definitely an illegal dumping ground. The still-standing batting range with its intact green netting and overgrown golf hill facades stuffed with weeds. The place definitely had a family atmosphere minus the mini rainforest. The golf tee pavilion was a site to behold standing in the grass looking dead center to the structure. Beneath my feet, I could make out various colorful branded golf balls all over the ground. I eventually took a couple golf balls home as souvenirs knowing full well that next time I won't be as lucky to enter the property again. A former golf driving range shows purpose for Bronx residents to become an all-electric bus depot. The 12-acre complex (550,000 square feet) has compounded and bemused Morris Park residents since its opera
Founded in 1906, Herrmann-Aukam & Co. emerged as a key player in the world of handkerchief manufacturing, setting up its base in New York with factories in places like Lebanon, PA, Belfast, Ireland, and South River, NJ. Their property in South River was a sizable, industrious hub: a sprawling 128,000 square feet across five interconnected brick buildings, with two and a half acres of open land. There was even a railroad shed served by the Raritan River Railroad, linking it to the Central Railroad of New Jersey and creating a critical route for distribution. Originally, Herrmann-Aukam had acquired their first mill in 1882, and soon after, they began producing handkerchiefs in full force. Their products ranged from plain and hemstitched white handkerchiefs to the distinctive blue and red bandannas that became favorites among workers and mechanics. The company invested heavily in state-of-the-art upgrades, including a new power plant and Swiss embroidery machines. These machines allow
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