In the old shed beside the catwalks and bag-houes, oil-coated rainwater puddled on the floor of the gutted casting shop gives the space clarity that it lacked a decade ago, when furnaces smoked and steamed. In 2011 it was a place of blinding darkness. The president of the company was leading us on a tour of the brass works. It was the first of what would become regular visits. I kept trying to see what I was seeing, expecting my eyes to adjust to the dark, until I realized the dark adhered to every surface, hung in the air, soaked up light like paper towels suck spills. Where daggers of light managed to crack the darkness, they illuminated blue haze and turned high mercury-vapor lamps into small glowing orbs in space. I hadn’t yet discovered how they would scatter lens flare.
Behind us an operation’s foreman, safely muzzled in a breathing mask, puttered along on a yellow HysterCart. A hose connected his breathing mask to a large oxygen tank that accompanied him in the utility vehicle. He was not at all happy when the president invited us to return and shoot “anytime.” However, Mike, Willy, Damir, and Lucio became our familiar guides as we returned often until operations ended in December of 2012. Since then the space has been scrapped, salvaged and detoxed to its shell which has now been polished by rainwater, while every surface remains well-greased to the touch.
