Looking toward a void–formerly a hallway to the mineshaft–now a hole in the ground.
The women of the hospital made clothes for the other patients.
Through a section of the tailings boom where mountain winds tore open the sheet metal around the conveyor, I poked my head out.
An unplanned skylight. It’s unclear why some parts of the building had wooden roofing, while others were highly reinforced with brick.
Like a grave marker, a single post remembers where Dock 3 stood on the bay.
We mark our world in unexpected ways… this is how patient possessions would be stored during their stay in the old asylum wards. It’s about the size of a shoebox, and this particular drawer has a name where the others do not. Its place reminded me of the hospital cemetery where more than 3,000 are buried and less than 1% of whom are recorded by stone or plaque in their resting place.
After demolition in the mid 2000s, this interior door became exterior. I remember walking through the car shed as a teenager. It was a shortcut, if I didn’t get caught.