Standing on a caustic tank with my head out a roof hatch, I look at the sign of the last brand to be produced here.
Kodak Tri-X 400, Leica M7. Serious enough to write across the side of the tank, but not serious enough to have a sign made.
Watching the comings and goings of doctors, nurses and new patients was a mainstay of asylum routine; one can find it easy to imagine pale faces pressed against the block glass windows, staring out at the world moving past them.
Between the gauges for the power plant boilers and the steam pump flywheels.
Broken dishes and rotten burlap, mixed with the general trash left behind after the roof collapsed on the poor house.
The end of the heating line allowed glass to cool slowly, and thus be stronger.
An original stencil-brushed sign.
In the corner of most of the factory floors, freight elevators flanked restrooms to leave more central space for machines and their masters.
I wish I knew what has become of this great one-of-a-kind sign that used to brag how many days the Clyde Iron factory has gone without a serious accident. Update: It’s hanging in one of the smaller venue spaces behind the bar.