In front of a rust-welded Illinois rotary stoker is where the boiler-men made their mark. The last year I can make out is 1985.
Beside the shaft building are two fans on skids, indicating they were used underground.
After a religious conversion from actors to projectors, a rebranding was in order.
The grand staircase with little balconies leaning over it. All the stone stairs are broken and graffiti marks every wall.
Don Crist ’83. Brick Graffiti Series.
HDR matrix panorama. Looking from the grain elevators, now doomed, toward the city between the flour mill’s water tower and tile elevator’s neon sign, the old and new economies seem almost united. Yet the financial centers rise in reality to shadow the now-abandoned industry and manufacturing. The way of things, I’m told.
Another. Planet. Coal crushers and the coke loading line.
From the bottom of the skyway I looked back, my eyes tracing the vines from the marsh up the smokestacks to the perfect Midwestern sky.