Seth Thomas Tower

PHOTOGRAPHER'S JOURNAL:

To Eli Terry and his Four-Dollar Clocks

We rode the even gait of time

like cowboys on the drive,

easy in the saddle;

or like turnips and beans

in the black earth.

Daybreak opened our eyes

as the cock opened our ears;

we made music

when there was moonshine.

Until the wooden wheels of time,

the even grinding of their teeth

reset the axis of the earth

so equal moments fill each hour,

snug as cans sealed in a carton.

We sleep while the sun shines

or party 'til dawn

or work the nightshift

to moonlight at daybreak.

Hiddenhurst in Sunset

PHOTOGRAPHER'S JOURNAL:

House of Laughs

The illusion of sunset 

upends me, 

sends me 

reeling like 

a comet's tail uncertain 

of any truth but 

the sensation of a flight through time, 

my wild ride in the funhouse.

Resolute Hay Barn

PHOTOGRAPHER'S JOURNAL:  

When I last visited, 

regimental ventilators 

still stood watch 

over truant cats

and the putrid carcass of a pig,

and the hay mow dreamed 

of mooing cows 

though the floors were gone 

right down to the undercroft.

I wonder what the Winter's wrought.

Hay Barn

PHOTOGRAPHER'S JOURNAL:

Like a Violin

Nothing so hollow 

as an empty hay barn

in a fallow field

Leaning like dry grass

Hunched against absent winds

the great ridge pole arching

in the tensile magnificence of wood

fibers stretched against decline

and the tortured harmonics

of its splintering

without song

on these Cartesian hills.

Factory Buzz

PHOTOGRAPHER'S JOURNAL:  I visited the foundry in Ansonia this week and followed the old canal that was dug in 1845 a mile-and-a-half to the Kinneytown Dam.  The canal used to run through the middle of town.  Most of it is intact, but only old-timers know its there.  Three of the men were at the foundry, but one was making a social call, and it is still idle.  

Upstream in Waterbury, however,  tube, "in the pipe," so to speak, continues to be processed, and there's still plenty to be photographed. Here, George guides a bundle of partially finished tube to a rack near the draw benches, while Alfred waits in the crane for the signal to lower the tube into the bin.  

In the background, just behind the big, gray scale, you can make out the metal stair-ladder that goes up on top of the extruder. The large hydraulic pumps that drive it can be reached from a catwalk there.  The whole shed was constructed quickly in the build up to World War I and has a sawtooth roof and mechanical iron louvres typical of the period.  The extruder (operations photographed earlier) dates from the 1940s and WWII.

Alfred's day is spent in the crane shuttling up and down the central bay.  Here he has assistance in unhooking the straps, but he needs no such help. In the other bays and in this bay on other shifts, the cranes are operated from below.

What draws my camera, however, is composing the incredible detail and intricacy.

The Weight of History

Carbonation, Cha-cha-cha

PHOTOGRAPHER'S JOURNAL:  It might be a holy rite.  Like a thurible showering incense in ritual purification, each distributer cup showers sparks as Mike sets it aside so he can hoist the new billets from the furnace and set them down to cool.

Waltzing with the Runner Box

PHOTOGRAPHER'S JOURNAL:  Once the billets have been poured, the runner box must be removed to get at the billets.  It is a cumbersome task, attaching the crane to the runner box, lifting it while holding and working the controls for the crane in one hand, and holding the handle of the runner box and balancing its load and guiding it with the other.  Slowly Mike must back across the floor and set the runner box down to cool, out of his way as he goes back to remove the billets.

For an earlier shot of Mike scraping the runner box, click here: http://rothphotos.blogspot.com/2012/03/scraping-runner-box.html.

Raking the Runner Box

PHOTOGRAPHER'S JOURNAL:  The runner box is a heavy, steel channel in the form of a "T." When set in place on the furnace, the base of the "T" catches the pour which flows along the channel to the two tips at the top of the "T."  From there the metal flows through holes on the bottom of the channel into two distributer cups that help to spread the metal flowing down into the molds so no air pockets develop. 

The channel is lined with insulating cement, and before the pour begins it is covered in a layer of charcoal.  As the hot metal flows over the charcoal, the charcoal burns to keep the metal from losing heat while flowing to the molds.  Periodically Mike rakes out the channel in the runner box to keep cooling metal from clogging the channel.

Mike

PHOTOGRAPHER'S JOURNAL:  I was back at the foundry again on Wednesday as I have been on and off with no notice in this journal. Immediately I was told there had been layoffs here and at the manufacturing plant in Waterbury. I had heard earlier that they had been hit hard by the sequester, that the work that had been done to bring in new contracts by adding a new alloy might be all undone by the stalemate in Washington. At least those were the rumors among the men.

Most of the men shrugged. A few said it was a good time of year to have some time off, but nobody knew if this was time off or time over - the last brass poured in Brass Valley. In any case, it was too immediate, too personal for anyone to think it might be the end of an epoch. Two billets were cast on Wednesday, and they told me the last two billets would be cast and pulled at 9:30 the next morning, Thursday. I was there, and it proved interesting in that the billets needed to be longer than usual.

I described the unusual manner of pouring the billets into rings rather than molds in an earlier post (http://rothphotos.blogspot.com/search?q=molds).  The usual manner of removing the  billets is to lower them beneath the rings and swing the assembly holding the rings to the side.  This time the billets were too long to lower beneath the rings so instead, they were cooled to shrink and then, first pushed up a couple of feet through the ring far enough to get a chain on the end so the crane could lift each one up the rest of the way through the ring.  A three-ton, singeing-hot billet dangling from a crane always looks precarious, but these were yanked up extra high in the rafters, and the chain was very close to the end of each billet.  

There's a moment in this process that I'm always ready for and always surprised by. It is when the billet passes by, and I feel the immense wave of heat radiating from it; how easily it might slip! I'm always ready with an escape route, and I'm always surprised by how hot it is and must stop myself from pulling back and losing the shot.  That this billet was gray rather than orange did not make it feel any cooler.  That made it even more surprising.

The billets cast on Wednesday and Thursday will be trucked to Waterbury for processing while the factory in Ansonia goes idle and in Washington, D.C., Congress claims to know how to create jobs but remains deadlocked and goes on vacation. On Thursday morning, March 28, 2013, two extra long billets were cast. May they not be the last.

At the Opera

PHOTOGRAPHER'S JOURNAL, Ansonia Opera House, Part 2: 

Nothing happens at the opera house anymore. Most people don't even know it's here. It's a relic of its time and silent but for pigeons; except for those with the ears to hear more and the imagination to remember. 

The opera house speaks of the decade after the Civil War had boosted manufacturing. Factories increased production to turn out cannons and bullet shells for the war and swelled villages up and down Brass Valley. Transportation was good enough that performers were taking acts on the road and looking for good halls and new audiences.  In 1870 business leaders of the Borough of Ansonia, not yet a town, decided that Ansonia needed an Opera House. It seemed like a good idea. It would be the first in Connecticut.  It would make Ansonia a cultural Center.

It seemed like a good idea, a place for wholesome entertainment the whole family can 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, a place our town can be proud of - a place also where borough meetings can be held or town meetings if Ansonia becomes an independent village. 

It should be a place that can be rented out for weddings and  jugglers and magicians and patent medicine salesmen. Think what crowds would pay if the great Jenny Lind made another U.S. tour and came and sang in Ansonia!  What a profound and uplifting impact that might have on young people especially!

It seemed like a good idea, an opera house on Main street, one with a row of shops on the first floor bringing in high rents, and a not-quite-grand promenade past suites of offices boasting the town's most distinguished address and similarly high rents to the more-nearly grand stair that folds back on itself as it reaches the third floor and patrons come face to face with the grand stage of Ansonia's own Opera House.

They built it in 1870. The men who had pioneered the brass and copper industry in the 1830s and 40s were in the 1870s 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 like you find in the sinful cities, but an Opera House to give the community culture.

The new Ansonia Opera House was run by Ansonia's leading citizens, investors in the enterprise who ran it so as to always turn a profit. When transportation improved so that audiences in Ansonia could easily travel to New Haven, New Haven stopped doing the Valley circuit. Even then the opera house could still take traveling vaudeville and novelty acts and more and more people were getting married and then there was the skating. Annually high school seniors took their diplomas here 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.

After the war things were different. More and more people went to the movies or stayed home and most of the time the opera house was dark, except for the skating, until that stopped too, and the school had its own auditorium.  Everyone was getting cars and televisions, and the old place was feeling creaky.  We took to the road and the opera house was taken over by a community of pigeons.  Back in the 70s some people tried to start an art center here and chased the pigeons out, but there were battles with town officials. It was a new age for fire safety too. After one performance the effort lost its wind, and the pigeons were back. It was another twenty years before the opera house was sold off by the City of Ansonia for payment of back taxes. The new owner patches things as best he can, but now it's always dark and there are always pigeons.

Ansonia Opera House

PHOTOGRAPHER'S JOURNAL:

Skaters at the Opera House  

Everything important happened here,

weddings, graduations and town meetings. 

Romeo passed word to meet Juliet here, 

Mimi died,

Uncle Tom suffered dutifully 

while we held hands. 

We loved 

especially the magicians and their magic rabbits, 

Saturday afternoons everyone roller skated here, 

roller skating at the opera, 

and in the evening men sang and danced and juggled.

What spices can embalm the memories?

Will salt or smoke or drying make them last?

the voice cadances of childhood friends, 

this ones smooth assertiveness, 

that ones hesitation. 

a voice that smiled, 

eyes like kindling,

sometimes 

almost 

nothing 

we can name

yet a crystal cadence

etched on memory.

We fall nameless 

like oval photos 

from the flaking album, 

and our spirits return to the old opera house, 

eternally circling there as when we were skaters.

Composition in Primary Colors

PHOTOGRAPHER'S JOURNAL:   

Empty Factories

They are like cloisters

battered and broken,

time feels bigger here

space grander 

than walls imply

When time stops,

instants are eons,

and a drop 

of river's flow

is oceans overflowing

They are like cloisters,

I walk by stained and broken glass

ponder how things decay,

my tripod aligns and spreads the rowed columns,

my lens fixes each time-sculptured brick in its crystal grip

When motion ceases

silence rumbles,

by and by

the quickness

of black night

They are like cloisters

When it rains the ceilings run, 

and ducts and pipes channel fountains, 

and cascades from broken skylights fall 

to pools, and tin roofs thunder.  

Wheels & Cogs, a Decomposition

Henry James:  "It takes an awful lot of history to make even a little tradition."

Thunder

PHOTOGRAPHER'S JOURNAL:  

Once We Believed

An arpeggio of corbeling

like a ripple of wind,

tiny flourish of masonic art,

imprint of the mason's hand

claiming immortality

on the back wall

of the idle

factory.

The Idling Furnace

Garrison Keillor: "Even in a time of elephantine vanity and greed, one never has to look far to see the campfires of gentle people."

PHOTOGRAPHER'S JOURNAL:  I arrived in the middle of last week's snow storm to catch pictures of the factory yards covered in snow and to see the snow flakes falling in front of old brick.  When I went in to check on casting I found the furnace idling. The furnace idles to avoid the need for priming it.

Can human capacities also be kept idling: social structures, institutions, expertise, values systems - to avoid the need for priming them? - if, in fact, such capacities can ever be primed again once they are lost.

Industrial Idling

PHOTOGRAPHER'S JOURNAL: 

Alchemy's Touch

Toothsome particulates hang in the air, 

the tongue knows first what  simmers there 

or if casting has begun, 

and on the nerve ends round the nose

asperities of sooty harvest, 

before eyes see the furnace glow.

The Old Mill No.5 (conclusion): Engineering

PHOTOGRAPHER'S JOURNAL:  "A Day at the Mill, Concluded":  There were delicate calipers  and crow bars that were even heavier than they looked and a pair of glasses and an aging bottle of Alka Seltzer. I shot a number of pictures before I discovered a door at the far end of the room.  I opened the door and descended 4 or 5 steps to a passage that went on like a long, dark tunnel. Dim, dust-covered window lined one side of the tunnel and let in a bit of grey glow. It took some moments before I realized I was looking back down the same parts rabbit hole I had previously entered and photographed from the other end. 

I visited a few other places at the old mill that day, but when I returned to the trailer in the first shed, my friend let me know I had to leave. Perhaps he had no more stories to tell me. I tried several times to get back again, but it was clear the funhouse was closed for the foreseeable future and time to move along the track.