Digital Ink'd

The long-abandoned Queens Parkway Hospital in Forest Hills is finally set for demolition, marking the end of a saga that began over 15 years ago. Nestled in a bustling residential neighborhood off the busy Grand Central Parkway, near P.S. 196 elementary school, the hospital served the community for roughly four decades before shutting its doors in 2008. The closure was part of a broader initiative led by the New York State Commission on Healthcare Facilities in the 21st Century, also known as the Berger Commission. The commission identified Parkway as one of several hospitals with an excess of unused beds, prompting the state’s Department of Health to mandate its closure. Despite a series of legal battles by the hospital’s owners to keep it open, the courts ultimately upheld the decision, sealing Parkway's fate. The hospital's troubles were further marred by scandal. Robert Aquino, Parkway’s CEO, and former State Senator Carl Kruger were both imprisoned after investigators reve...

  In Derby, a quiet transformation has taken place, one that tells a story of economic ambition, missed opportunities, and a community left to wonder what might have been. Back in 2016, the site of the former Derby Garden Center and Derby Feed Co. was little more than a memory. The buildings had already been torn down, leaving behind rocky soil and empty foundation pads. The only remnant of the feed company’s once-busy operation was a towering grain silo at the back of the property. Its ladder hooks had been sawed off, ensuring no adventurous climber could scale the now-defunct structure. For years, the silo stood as a symbol of the company’s legacy—a place that had provided feed materials to countless customers. But even that was eventually removed, demolished by the city to make the land more appealing to developers eager for a clean slate. Fast forward to December 2024, and the site has found a new purpose as a home for a construction materials business. Yet, the surrounding are...

If you find yourself driving down Meadow Road in Rocky Hill, Connecticut, there’s not much left to catch your eye. The area, once a bustling hub of industry, has quieted down to little more than a stretch of road with a few remnants of its past. But one sight still stands out: three towering concrete silos, the last visible relics of what was once the Connecticut Foundry. It is rumored the silos were used to store cement during the construction of the I-91 when it was built in the early 1960s. These silos, weathered but steadfast, are all that remain of a 10-acre property that was once home to a sprawling industrial site. The Connecticut Foundry, which officially closed its doors in 1983, was demolished nearly 30 years later, its decline documented in pieces. Based on old photographs and archived Google Street View images, the foundry was gradually taken apart over the course of 2012. By the summer of that year, only a few structures lingered before the land was cleared entirely, leavi...

  One warm day, J and I set off to explore an old mill he’d discovered some time ago. The place was hidden away and seemed ideal for the kind of photos we loved taking—rustic spaces with that raw, forgotten feel. We entered casually through the front, our cameras ready, aiming to capture as much as we could before moving on to the other buildings. About 20 minutes into our shoot, J’s voice broke the silence. “There’s a white truck out front.” He’d spotted it from the second-floor window. I joined him, snapping a few more pictures along the way, trying to stay calm. We figured maybe it was someone stopping by briefly. But just as I was getting my last shot in, I saw movement at the entrance. A man stepped inside, chatting on the phone. Alarmed, J and I ducked behind a wall, hearts racing. Before we knew it, three more people had joined him—a second man, a woman, and a small dog. We realized, with sinking dread, that it was the property owner, likely giving contractors a tour and get...

  The neighborhood felt like a forgotten patchwork of empty industrial buildings, each one silently decaying next to the other. Years ago, walking past the block near the old Freihofer Wholesale and Retail Bakery Complex , I noticed that the gate I'd once found shuttered was now slightly open—just enough to slip under and explore. I couldn’t resist. Inside, the first thing I saw stopped me in my tracks: graffiti by artists who had transformed this abandoned space into their gallery. The centerpiece was surreal and monstrous—a sprawling, gray figure with jagged yellow teeth, too many yellow eyes to count, two exposed red brains, and a long, blood-red tongue. It was a disturbing mix of body parts, like something conjured from a fever dream. This wasn’t a piece that could’ve been drawn sober; it had an intensity that felt born from wild imagination and maybe a little psychedelic inspiration. After taking in the scene, I moved farther inside. The rooms were filled with the usual debris...

Minck Brothers & Company began in Brooklyn with modest beginnings, incorporated with just $25,000 in capital split into $100 shares. Their business focused on soda, soda water equipment, and various other carbonated waters. Despite the straightforward mission, Minck quickly grew into a prominent name in Brooklyn’s beverage industry, especially in Bushwick, a neighborhood known for its breweries. They succeeded with consumer favorites like mineral waters, which were especially popular during Prohibition. But they also bottled porters, ales, and lagers, and even crafted a specialty celery and nerve tonic. Minck Brothers had ties with Consumers Park Brewery as well, selling their beer to meet local demand. A Minck Brothers newspaper ad.  But not all the company’s headlines were about drinks. Minck Brothers faced a few memorable lawsuits that grabbed public attention. In one such case, Mrs. Cathi Lang, a winemaker originally from Alsace, France, sued the company for $1,000. Mrs. L...

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...