Looking through the an access panel at the hoist room for Shaft No. 3. The cable had long ago been scrapped, along with the motors to drive the pulleys. I still admire the workmanship on the spool’s arching metal shell.
I believe these hooks were meant for hanging filters to dry.
Ladders crawl the back of the signs. Graffiti writers’ right of passage.
A heavy steel device locks the anchor up.
Dora, the pagan god of urban explorers, stood little chance off Alfred Street.
Small stained panes and orange brick. I had no idea when I took this picture that the colored glass would turn the insides of the mill into a bright aquamarine. It was a beautiful intersection of nature and industry, in the most unintended way.
I never knew that all those elementary school balance bar exercises were for a very serious purpose: not falling to one’s death in the event they uncover lost Chicago history.
Noontime light, long criticized for the boring shadows it grants photographers, comes into its own sometimes.
Behind the small stage is a hallway signed by practically every act that walked through its doors. There’s also a pair of palms. Since all the heat in the building collects in this area, it did seem more tropical.
I revisited the mill years after my documentary. Now it is even more destroyed and surrounded by new fences.