Digital Ink'd

  In my extensive ventures across various businesses, churches, factories, and plants, I've encountered a plethora of remnants from bygone industrial eras. Yet, none have left as profound an impression as the sight of the leftover machinery at the former Potter Hill Mill. Nestled amidst its surroundings, these aging relics stand as silent witnesses to a vibrant industrial past, their once-potent functionality now subdued by the relentless march of time. The manufacturing equipment, once the lifeblood of cotton goods production, remains steadfast, firmly bolted to the floor, slowly succumbing to the relentless embrace of rust and decay. It's a scene frozen in time—a rare glimpse into the mechanical marvels of the 1800s, preserved in their original state, untouched and unscathed by modern interventions. As I gaze upon the weather-worn structures and rusted machinery, I'm struck by the poignant juxtaposition of past and present. The former textile mill, once a bustling hub of...

  Long before Amsterdam, New York, earned its title as the “Carpet City,” its story was written in water. The restless energy of the Chuctanunda Creek, a modest stream tumbling through the Mohawk Valley, was the city’s first engine. By the early 1800s, its currents were powering the fledgling mills, setting the stage for a transformation that would define not just a city, but an entire era of American industry. The real revolution, however, arrived on a man-made river. The opening of the Erie Canal in the mid-19th century, followed by the iron arteries of the railroad, was like a jolt of lightning. Suddenly, this small upstate city was plugged directly into the world. The goods crafted in its workshops, from linseed oil and simple brooms to intricate buttons and ironworks, could be shipped anywhere with astonishing speed and economy. Amsterdam was no longer just a town; it was becoming a hub. Yet, among its many trades, one industry rose to define its identity. The city’s name beca...

This one stings a little. Not every location hands you a story worth telling and then slams the door before you can photograph it, but the Ball & Socket factory had other plans for J and me that day. The cold was the first thing I remember. A sharp Connecticut chill that had absolutely no interest in our ambitions. We worked our way into the inner courtyard, feeling reasonably optimistic, and then hit a wall literally. Locked doors on every side. No entry points that weren't either sealed or watched. The only building we managed to get inside looked less like a historic factory and more like a very long parking garage that had given up on itself. Even the boiler house was off the table. We circled, debated, and eventually made the call that every explorer has to make when a site is still secured and possibly still monitored: we walked. Some days you document. Some days the building wins. We never went back, and before we got a second crack at it, word came down that the complex...

Photo courtesy of Loop.net The One That Got Away: A Lumber Mill, Some Idiots, and a Call I Don't Regret Some stories don't have a satisfying ending. This is one of them. And I've been carrying it around long enough that I just need to put it down somewhere. J and I drove out to Torrington on what should have been a straightforward documentation run in 2023. The target was the former Hotchkiss Brothers Lumber Mill on Water Street, sitting on the east bank of the Naugatuck River. We scoped it on the way in, circled the block, found our parking spot, and liked what we saw. Entry looked manageable. The building looked intact enough to be worth the effort. We were ready. We crossed through the Stop & Shop parking lot in the full summer heat, shoppers drifting past us with their carts, completely indifferent. We clambered over a wall, pushed through branches that swatted us in the face, and followed the sound of the Naugatuck moving over rocks somewhere below. The grass...

  You’ve got to move when the chance is right. That’s something I keep telling myself—but just as often, I forget it. Or ignore it. And then I end up learning the same lesson all over again. It happened on a quiet afternoon when I pulled up to the old Horsman Doll factory. The place has long been abandoned, but it still holds stories—ones I try to capture through my lens. The main gate was slightly ajar. Not wide open, but just enough for me to slip through with my gear. It was one of those rare opportunities. But across the street, half-hidden behind a rundown house, a group of men sat drinking and shouting over each other. The kind of scene you don't want to get caught up in—especially alone, carrying expensive camera equipment. I hesitated. I debated. I bailed. My gut told me to walk away, so I did. I figured I could find another way in. I circled the block, hoping for a back entrance or even a broken window low enough to climb through. I found one window that looked possible—bu...