A porcelain basin in the locker room is detached, but shows excellent patina. I hope when the machine shop is repurposed that this can be saved.
What you see is not a crack in the floor, but a long vine extending ten feet onto the shop floor, as if reaching in to escape the wind and rain.
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.
An Old Crow warehouse, formerly federally controlled, near Old Taylor Distillery.
One of a few rolling workbenches to keep the thousands of pulleys, cogs, and belts working properly.
A me-sized hole in the half-demolished skyway looks about a story down to the ground. Step lightly. Arista 100.
Between the room with mold sand and the space where the car’s metal bits would be put together, a pillar is marked as structurally vital.
Bits and things in a pile in the corner of the smelter, the unsold chunks of industrial history that didn’t sell at an on-site auction before my visit.
Robotic pincers to move molten rods of glass between machines.