PHOTOGRAPHER'S JOURNAL: In the middle of Coal Pier #18, beyond the long arcades with the black track still climbing steadily above, the pavilion becomes a cluster of chambers and cells. When enclosed, these were shops where machinists kept the coal port humming smoothly, moving coal through the harbor to power steadily increasing demand for kilowatt hours that gave the morning air a chalky taste. Now the shops are sorry boutiques, galleries for a grim art of outrage, cave paintings for the new millennium.
