These long curved corridors connected the wards. Locked doors on both of their ends were a security and comfort feature. Sounds and people would be sealed in their respective wards, as the hallways would act like beautiful airlocks; they were so long that it was unlikely that doors would be open on both sides at the same time. Portra 160.
Behind one of the kitchens is one of the few pieces of furniture remaining. Beside it, a small electric space heater–small by 1970s standards.
A control panel that was mothballed, anticipating a time when the plant may be reactivated.
The texture of the cracking poured concrete ore pocket is somewhere between stone and driftwood.
The ice reflects the blue sky on the rust. The sunset blasts through the concrete pillars holding it all up.
“B. M.” Brick Graffiti Series.
The hole in the floor, I like to joke, is a not-so-sneaky trap for the photographers creeping to get a close-up of the amazing peeling paint. I somehow escaped this snare, however, to warn the rest… perhaps you.
A reminder to the manlift riders to get off the belt before they hit their heads on the ceiling. This is the top level of the headhouse, where dust collectors would extract most of the grain bits from the air to reduce risk of explosion.
The grand staircase with little balconies leaning over it. All the stone stairs are broken and graffiti marks every wall.