Saturday, September 24, 2016

The Last Machine, Part 4

NEXT SLIDE TALKS: 
"Brass Valley: The Fall of an American Industry"
Nov. 3 @ 6:30 PM - Two Roads Brewery, Stratford, CT, for CT Trust for Hist Pres
Nov. 14, 7:30 PM at Newtown Public Library for Newton Hist.Soc.



PHOTOGRAPHER’S JOURNAL: This summer was full of photographs, but we returned to the last machine too late! Pieces of the “coil basket conveyer,” lay at the end of the shed waiting for the hauler, and if the “walking beam transfer rack” was there, it was unrecognizable to me. The control consoles, furnaces and other machinery had been cleared to the front end of the shed. Where previously it had been too tight to make pictures, there was now space to turn the large fork lifts that Art and Ben would use as they began the dismemberment of the long body of the extrusion press. Art and Ben would start at the back, called “The Bottle” that held the hydraulic cylinder (The Last Machine #1), and finish at the face that once extruded metal rod in infinite lengths.

For the first time we saw it without its drab raincoat. If I stress too strongly that it struck me as sphynx-like people might question my sanity, but in time I wasn’t alone in calling it, “The Cat.” Whatever the beast that hunched there at the back of the shed, it weighed a half million pounds according to the engineering parts list, and it wasn’t going anywhere quickly.

I’d learned that torch cutting makes for fireworks pictures. I asked if there would be fireworks pictures. A half million pounds of extrusion press made that a foolish question.

[This series, “The Last Machine” records the story and demolition of the largest extrusion press in New England, a massive machine which is currently being dismembered and scrapped at the old American Brass property in Ansonia on the site of Anson Phelps original brass mill there.]


Friday, September 9, 2016

The Last Machine, Part 3




PHOTOGRAPHER’S JOURNAL: In the extrusion shed, the row of machine shops (previous photo) received most of our photographic attention, though the giant extrusion press, “the last machine.” was like nothing we had ever seen, and we never really saw it. Always wrapped in black plastic and crowded in by furnaces and other machinery, it remained a Sphynx-like mystery. I photographed reluctantly and without conviction until I knew it would be gone.

An extrusion press squeezes molten metal the way a toothpaste tube squeezes toothpaste. The WWII extruder in Waterbury, which we photographed in operation, may be the central “character” of my book, but it was a minnow beside this whale. I was told this machine could extrude metal rod, “in infinite lengths.” All we could see beneath the plastic were the partially exposed haunches that squatted above a deep, wet cavity, accessed by stairs, too dark to photograph and too raunchy to tempt exploration. In front of the Beast were vast beds and a racetrack of coils; they were two distinct systems to which it once spewed its infinite rod. The plans refer to these as the “walking beam transfer rack” and the “coil basket conveyer.” They made good pictures but seemed incomplete without the machine that fed them.

The rest of the vast shed was empty, though the plans  show it was once populated with pickling tanks, wire machines, something called a “Vaughn Block,” and four large “Schumags,” (drawing machines, I believe) with pointers. It is a newish shed built onto older structures sometime after the aerial map of 1921. Its empty newishness made it, of all the sheds on the property, the place we photographed least until this July.  These pictures were taken much earlier. I had no idea the dismemberment of all this would provide a photographic spectacle like fireworks.















Saturday, September 3, 2016

The Last Machine, Part.2 - "The Lady Chair"



PHOTOGRAPHER’S JOURNAL: The story of the largest extrusion press in New England, “the last machine," is still mostly unknown to me. The press was always there when Lazlo Gyorsok and I began photographing in the casting shop on the same Anaconda American Brass property in Ansonia in 2011. The casting house was our primary interest, but in the long periods between pours, we’d explore the other buildings of the property, all silent and decaying. And so, from time to time, we’d shoot in the extrusion mill. There were many wonderful things to photograph there in machinists' bays along an ancient back wall that may have been built in 1845, when Anson Phelps built his own Ansonia Brass & Copper here. That was when he built the canal and industrial village that founded Ansonia. 

Unfortunately, the rest of this shed was newer, difficult to shoot, and uninspiring, but I wish I could go back and photograph that hall of idle machine bays when it looked like this.




Saturday, August 27, 2016

The Last Machine, Part 1


NEXT SLIDE TALK: "Brass Valley: The Fall of an American Industry"
Norwich, CT, Otis Library @ 6:30 PM on Monday August, 29.


PHOTOGRAPHER’S JOURNAL: Whether this is the largest extrusion press ever installed in New England, as the men tell me, is a question beyond my expertise. That it is the last machine standing of old Brass Valley is certain.

My friend, Lazlo Gyorsok, and I have been photographing the demolition of Brass Valley since 2010. This year we received a Preservation Award from CT Trust for Historic Preservation for our efforts. For the past two weeks we’ve been photographing the demolition of the last machine. It is an excruciatingly slow process with time for all sorts of photographs. One of the first steps was to slide this giant hydraulic cylinder as far forward as it could go in preparation for removing it from, “the bottle.” Here Art (real names withheld) is removing bolts that connect the fully extended cylinder to the steel block known as the "cylinder cover.” 

The men deny it, but taking this machine apart is a bit like solving a Rubix Cube. Some months back when the machine was operable, the cylinder might have been ejected by running the machine, but power is long gone from this building, and so Ben and Art must plan carefully which piece to move and when to cut so as not to waste effort, time and money.  They do this while recognizing that mistakes can be deadly. The cylinder alone weighs 55,000 lbs. No single machine in the shop is strong enough to lift it. They will have to position it so that two, giant fork lifts can grab it together.

Demolition of this giant extrusion press is, arguably, the final step in the dissolution of old Brass Valley. After this it’s only the truss-work sheds that sheltered the vanished men and machines. These men who have come to pick apart the last spoils of the industry may be the most hard-working I’ve yet met and photographed. 

[Extrusion Press demolition: Former Anaconda American Brass, Ansonia, CT.] 




Sunday, August 14, 2016

Making It Square


NEXT SLIDE TALK: Aug 21 @ 10:30 AM, JCC in Sherman, CT




PHOTOGRAPHER’S JOURNAL: I have been visiting recently with my friend, the cabinetmaker, Craig Chessari and photographing him in his shop in Woodbury, CT.  I’ve caught him in different stages in the construction of a single cabinet. The pace of work is relaxed with time for side conversations that may concern art, craft, music (He has a special love of Russian opera) or an antique tool which Craig has just picked up to use. Sometimes he stops to explain the characteristics of a certain wood or how a joint has been designed to contend with the stresses at work in the wood as temperature and humidity change. However, when Craig turns back to his work he enters a space all his own. His motions are at once calculated and instinctual. When he spins some wooden clamps over his head, it is a dance, when he anticipates the drop of a shaving, his face suggests a song. His music is in making it square, and I’ve taken up his theme.




Sunday, August 7, 2016

Bone White and Dark of the First Opera House


Next book signing and SLIDE-TALK on 
"Brass Valley: The Fall of an American Industry"
August 21at 10:30 AM at the Jewish Community Center in Sherman


PHOTOGRAPHER’S JOURNAL: Main Street in Ansonia passes below these slender windows, but few who go there suspect this silent space is above or remember the stories it contains. It's a relic of its time, silent but for pigeons - except for those with the ears to hear more and the imagination to remember. Recently, the windows on Main Street were boarded up, so now the space is dark as well as silent, and no more pictures will be made. However, when seen, it still looks much as it did in 1870 when it was built. It is a treasure waiting to be discovered and find new life as a gallery or maybe a historical museum to preserve something of the historic mills now being demolished nearby. It might even make a fine exercise club while preserving intact its historic character.

I’m not from town, and I’ll never know it as locals do, but inside and out, the opera house speaks of the decade after the Civil War had boosted manufacturing throughout Brass Valley. Factories increased production to turn out cannons and bullet shells for the war and swelled mill towns throughout New England. In 1870 business leaders of the Borough of Ansonia, not yet a city, decided that Ansonia needed a large, multipurpose meeting space. Twenty-five years earlier there had been no Ansonia. Suddenly the borough was filled with mills and workers and new families and civic groups and associations and events.

A large meeting and function space was needed. It would also be a place for wholesome entertainment the whole family could enjoy; a place for performers to stop along their circuit: minstrels and medicine shows and opera stars on tour. A place they can play to paying crowds - not a theater for lowlifes but a cultural institution for the arts, an Opera House! It would be Connecticut’s first opera house. Imagine Ansonia, a cultural center. A place for Jenny Lind to visit should she make another tour. Did Tom Thumb ever play here?

By the 1870s the men who had pioneered the brass and copper industry in the 1830s, and 40s were becoming elderly and could look around them at towns they had built. Up and down the valley they sought to burnish their legacy with public buildings and infrastructure that would last.  What better investment than an opera house, a place to keep idle workers occupied and out of trouble? Not a music hall or a theater that would provoke rowdies, but an Opera House to give the community culture.

For this project the business leaders hired an up and coming architect. Robert Wakeman Hill. He would go on to design civic buildings and monuments all over the state for which he is justly remembered. He gave the business leaders an opera house with a row of shops along Main Street between the bridge and the mills which Almon Farrel and Anson Phelps had built. The Opera House is a building to fall in love with. In the center, a grand stairway still ascends under crimson carpeting to a second-floor promenade (less-than-grand) past suites of offices boasting the town's most distinguished address, and leading at the end to the more-nearly grand stair that folds back on itself as it reaches up to the third floor grand hall and the grand proscenium arch, both aged to the color of bone. There is no backstage, no fly-space. The floor was level and the seats folded so the floor could be used for roller skating and other indoor activities when needed. It’s unclear when basketball hoops were added. There are still footlights in place.

The Opera House maintained most of its prominence until the labor riots of 1919, though it lost some of its luster when a real concert hall was built in nearby Birmingham. After the 1919 riots a larger and even more multipurpose space was needed, and the armory was built on the hill above the factories with facilities for large functions and others to house troops, if needed. By then trolleys took people everywhere, and people in Ansonia could easily travel to New Haven for entertainment. 

Even then, there were countless town meetings and functions, organizations and committees to keep the Opera House busy. Annually high school seniors took their diplomas there and it became part of their lives. In this manner the Ansonia Opera House continued to serve the community and profit investors through World War II. It’s been silent now for well over half a century, and now it has gone dark as well. What might it become? 


Wednesday, August 3, 2016

The Dressmaker's Daughters - ANNOUNCEMENT


ANNOUNCEMENT

I’m proud and honored to learn that my set of six images entitled, “The Dressmaker’s Daughters,” photographed in the Ansonia Opera House in Ansonia, CT, has been selected for publication in Seeing in Sixes, a volume of art photography that will be available this fall from Lenswork Publishing. 

Seeing in Sixes is the idea of Brooks Jensen who created Lenswork Magazine to explore the potential of photography as an art form. Over many years of publication Lenswork has become for serious photographers what Aperture Magazine was to an earlier generation. 

Seeing in Sixes was born from Brooks Jensen’s belief that book format is an ideal way to present and enjoy art photography. “Sixes,” refers to six photographs set across three page spreads with whatever captions or bit of text might add to the fun. This format provides a container, as rigorous as haiku or perhaps sonnet form are to poetry. In it the photographer may place six images, no more or less, that make a coherent whole. I’m eager to see the other 49 “Sixes” in the finished book. The selection of photographers in the magazine is always eclectic and consistently excellent. I expect no less here. I'm proud to have been included in the first such effort and thankful to colleagues who looked at drafts of the finished submission.

“The Dressmaker’s Daughters,” tells the imagined life stories of four of the dressmaker’s 24 daughters... in six images. 

Those interested in learning about or subscribing to Lenswork Magazine or who are interested in purchasing a copy of Seeing in Sixes, here is a link to the Lenswork site:


NOTE: I will be giving my SLIDE-TALK on Brass Valley: The Fall of an American Industry on August 21at 10:30 AM at the Jewish Community Center in Sherman, CT.


PHOTOGRAPHER’S JOURNAL:  This is the second time this image has appeared in my blog. It is an image that always seemed to work better in monochrome than in color. Since five of the images in “The Dressmaker’s Daughters" were color, I needed to find a satisfactory color solution for  this image in color or I needed to choose another image. In the end I found a solution that saturated color to make the blue window light from the street contrast with the warm interior light of the opera house. The finished color version of this image was one of several challenges met in composing for Seeing in Sixes.




Wednesday, July 6, 2016

Watercolors No.9



To see other images in the "Watercolors" series, click here: http://rothphotos.blogspot.com/search?q=watercolors



Sunday, July 3, 2016

A Postcard Shot



PHOTOGRAPHER’S JOURNAL: I call a shot that under half-way decent lighting conditions sets itself up so naturally and so easily that one must be blind to miss it "a postcard shot.” It is an instant cliché. Many lie undiscovered, but others are known everywhere - are made into real postcards. The visitor center at Mt. Rushmore is so placed that, through all kinds of weather, every tourist with a camera owns the shot while photographers look hard to see something more. 

The view from Liberty Park is similar. It is so placed that if one knows where to look, one can see from the mouth of the East River and Battery Park to the Freedom Tower in Lower Manhattan to the Empire State Building on 34th Street, the Met Life and Chrysler Buildings on 42nd Street, to the suddenly famous, “pencil thin,” apartment tower on 57th Street, and including any new towers that sprout. Liberty Park offers, arguably, the ultimate NYC “postcard shot” - New York’s ultimate cliché? That didn’t stop me from standing in awe and then adding my own photographic moment to the river of such images.


A happy Fourth of July to all.



Thursday, June 30, 2016

Ellis Island Hot Box



PHOTOGRAPHER’S JOURNAL:  One room was filled with chairs piled as if for a bonfire, a few rooms had dressers, but most were empty. However, some hospital equipment must have just been too costly to remove. It was always a surprise after turning many similar corners to come on something different, and one might be forgiven for thinking s/he had arrived at the hospital’s secret center of operations. What strange, Medieval medical instrument was here devised to cure the aching human soul? In fact, those who read the "Abandoned Ellis Island" link I posted know it is a wholesome bit of early technology to sanitize hospital mattresses. 

Sunday, June 26, 2016

Ellis Island Hospital Abandoned



[When ready, click the image above, and scroll right as in a slide show.]

PHOTOGRAPHER’S JOURNAL: What does one make of photographic exposures made over eleven hours in a single visit to the abandoned Ellis Island Hospital? It is not just another ruin, though until I began researching I hadn’t really understood how the hospital's story was distinct from that of the island’s northern half with its “Great Hall," celebrated now as our gateway. 

The Ellis Island Hospital, opened in 1902, was the nation’s first public health hospital and one of the largest such efforts in the nation’s history. Hospital workers had to learn to respond to conditions never before seen. Doctor’s, nurses, orderlies, administrators and officials had to learn to work with immigrants deemed too sick to immediately enter the United States, who often had little or no English and had never seen a doctor or stripped off their clothes in public. All were in a strange new place far from networks of community. Many of them were our parents and grandparents. All faced a watershed moment in their lives. In order to stay, the sick had to get well, the pregnant had to give birth to a healthy baby.

Once fully operational, the hospital took in 10,000 patients a year. Medicine learned here was sometimes cutting edge, and the morgue was a lecture space for visiting doctors. The hospital closed in 1930 and the buildings were turned to other uses until 1954 when the islands were officially abandoned and ignored. In 1996 the hospital buildings were listed among the 100 most endangered historic places in the United States. I had recently come to appreciate this history when I arrived on Ellis Island at 6:45 AM to undergo security screening and begin the eleven-hour photo shoot at 7:00.

Ellis Island Hospital is not just another ruin. However, time has sand-blasted away almost all visible clues to its previous purpose, identity or occupants. A ward of beds is merely a large room, and the recent preservation efforts have left most windows covered with metal panels in a design that offers the minimum of light and air circulation, and which hides the bruised and broken windows. A giant kitchen, an industrial laundry, the morgue, a few residences offer only flickering shadows of the world once busy here and say nothing of the complex stories occurring daily in these spaces. 

The power of the Ellis Island experience lay in the slow exploration of the large, complex site made mostly of endlessly wandering hallways and empty spaces. My sense of where I was in the large complex was often vague.  This series of photos through some of those places is intended, not as a tour, but as an impression.

[Click the image above or below and scroll right as in a slide show]












































































Wednesday, June 22, 2016

American River




PHOTOGRAPHER’S JOURNAL: Immigrants bought their train tickets on Ellis Island and waited for ferries taking those who were bound West here (Jersey City) or to Hoboken, while those heading East boarded ferries into Manhattan. Twelve agents typically sold 25 tickets per minute throughout the day. This is the train shed in Jersey City. It is directly adjacent to Ellis Island, and for many immigrants this was where they entered the restless flow of the nation.

The shed is in decay. Vegetation grows from the undulating roof, and the space beneath is secured by chain link fence. It was something of a challenge to poke a camera lens in at an appropriate angle. Even in its emptiness, it is bustling. The train shed was completed between 1912 and 1914.

The terminal building, below, was opened in 1889. At its peak in 1929, more than 65,000 people arrived or departed on 350 trains every day. Just beyond the terminal building are the crumbling ferry slips where passengers crossed through New York harbor.





















Friday, June 17, 2016

Abandoned Ellis Island




PHOTOGRAPHER’S JOURNAL: At 7 AM last Sunday we crossed over the low, iron bridge, that staff and security people use to enter Ellis Island, to begin eleven-hours of making photographs inside the unrestored southern half of the Ellis Island complex. Tony Sweet organized this, first of its kind, event, and John McInnes, Public Programs Manager at Save Ellis Island guided us. The day was well planned and we were led by people who cared deeply about the places we were visiting.

There is an excellent photo tour of the buildings we visited here: http://www.scoutingny.com/abandoned-ellis-island-and-how-it-can-be-saved/

The southern half of Ellis Island holds the hospital buildings and related buildings as described on the link above. From within those buildings we could sometimes, see through grimy glass, the throngs of Sunday tourists disembarking to see the grand restorations on the northern half of the island. Ours was a world away and mostly silent.

I spent much of the day enjoying, but not photographing, an art installation entiteled, "Unframed –Ellis Island," placed in this most unlikely of galleries. There was much else to hold my lens. Late in the day I realized how much the art installation was calling to my lens to find ways to angle it and frame it.

We emerged from from this surreal journey Sunday evening and each of us encountered separately the news that had been blistering the world all day, and as I drove home from Jersey City Sunday night I thought about what Ellis island has still to say to us today.