Digital Ink'd

Crisscrossing the tracks of the abandoned Long Island Railroad Penny Bridge Station, I found myself drawn to a towering relic of industrial might—a colossal metal structure that once belonged to Certified Concrete Industries of Queens. This behemoth, still standing tall over the rail line, piqued my curiosity and beckoned me closer. As I snapped photos, I scanned the perimeter for potential entry points, eager to explore the secrets of this imposing edifice. Unfortunately, I had no luck finding any entries in the well-maintained fence.  The site is currently utilized for parking and storing concrete pumping trucks, though concrete mixing is no longer conducted on-site. Despite its diminished role, surprisingly, few have documented this site from within; most photographs are taken from the Newtown Creek waterway, offering a distant view of the rusting tower. It was a rare sight, even more so now that the tower has been demolished, a fact that escaped my notice until recently. The curren

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

Once again, I failed to take any former Mohawk Mfg Co exteriors. 🙄 We pulled up to the old building, the car's engine humming softly before we killed it. J, ever casual, slipped between the fence and the building’s weathered walls, threading through the ornamental bushes with practiced ease. Suddenly, he whipped around, his face etched with unexpected concern. “What happened?” I asked, my pulse quickening at the sight of his urgency. “There’s a local Middletown cop parked right by the only entrance to the old Mohawk Mill,” J stammered. His usual cool demeanor had melted away, replaced by a sense of immediate alarm. Our hopes of a smooth, unnoticed entry vanished in that instant. We had anticipated an easy in-and-out job, but it seemed the law had other plans. He was parked right in the corner, a black-cloaked sentinel surveilling the property.  The blazing sun beat down on us as we trudged up the street, the oppressive humidity wrapping around us like a suffocating blanket. Our ne

When I arrived at the former Aerosol Techniques factory, I was filled with a mix of anticipation and curiosity. Meeting a group of new friends for a day of urban exploration in Connecticut, we had a lineup of intriguing abandoned sites on our agenda. Our itinerary included the hauntingly beautiful Seaside Sanatorium, a former hospital, along with a few other potential spots that we were less certain about. We chose the factory as our starting point, mainly because it offered easy access and was conveniently situated next to a Lowe's hardware store. Walking along a well-trodden path, our group made a seamless transition onto the property. The sense of camaraderie was palpable as we embarked on our adventure with eager enthusiasm. The factory grounds, long deserted, were a canvas for countless graffiti artists. Every inch of the building was adorned with vibrant and eclectic street art, each piece telling its own story. This rich color and creativity set the perfect stage for our imp

La operación de Wolff-Alport Chemical Company en la década de 1940. Sin embargo, los registros fiscales de la ciudad de Nueva York sólo cubren este período y carecen de información sobre los cambios significativos de la empresa en la década de 1980. (Fuente: Registros fiscales de la ciudad de Nueva York y Nueva York de los años 40) Era una tarde tranquila, hace poco más de un mes, cuando me dispuse a explorar uno de los últimos sitios Superfund que quedan en la ciudad de Nueva York, una reliquia de una época en la que la ciudad desempeñaba un papel clandestino en la producción de armas nucleares. Esta instalación abandonada hace mucho tiempo, escondida dentro de la expansión urbana, había estado programada para su demolición durante años, pero permaneció obstinadamente intacta hasta ahora. Mi viaje me llevó al final de Irving Avenue, donde se encuentra con Moffat Street. Aquí, en medio de una curva sutil, se encontraba una zona industrial sorprendentemente tranquila: el sueño de un exp

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

Unfortunately, I did not take any exteriors of this former laundromat. I blame the heat that day.  As we pulled up to our next target, a defunct laundry business, the sting of our recent failure still lingered. Just minutes before, we had attempted to gain entry into another historical property, the former Mohawk Manufacturing Company factory on Hamlin Street, only to be thwarted by a lone police vehicle sandwiched in the corner like a sentinel. This time, from our vantage point at the front of the building, it was immediately clear that we faced a similar challenge albeit not of the law enforcement kind. The structure was meticulously boarded up, with no ground-level entrances accessible. Refusing to give up so easily, J and I decided to circle around to the back, harboring a faint hope that perhaps someone had already created a discrete entry point out of the public's sight. Our optimism quickly dissipated as we discovered that the rear of the property was as secure as the front.

  It was a calm, cold winter day, with the sun beaming from above. The remnants of a past snowstorm were piled along the sidewalk, and the conditions were favorable for exploration. J and I ventured into a former foundry on Homestead Avenue, once a bustling manufacturer of steel castings of all sizes. Casting dies room. As we stepped inside the nearest entrance, we were greeted by an extraordinary sight: an old room filled with original casting dies, remnants of the standardized molds that once produced steel castings. The room was a tangible link to the foundry's industrious past, and it felt like stepping back in time. Moving deeper into the facility, we entered a large open space dominated by an unidentified mechanical arm machine. Although it had been picked apart by metal vandals over the years, its presence still hinted at the advanced machinery that once operated here. Continuing our exploration, we encountered a large air compressor still standing proudly on its foundation