Love Canal was a toxic waste dump cum community development gone devastatingly awry. It was home to the first mass-media publicized movement about chemical pollution and its incredible effects on nature and the human body. It’s significance years later lives on considering its not too far off from what still goes on all around us today.

Roughly twenty minutes or so west of Niagara Falls, researching Love Canal was how I spent my college thesis. For one year (and more than that really) I was inundated in creating a retrospective about the site. The finished product resulted in nine super-sized panoramas, seven detail shots, permitted use of period aerial photographs, and a book explaining the drawn out catastrophe. The entire work was shot on 35mm film and probably was the last work I recorded as such.

Steven Kobasa, a local writer, came across my work at a City-Wide Open Studios a few years ago. An acquired taste, indeed, we connected through my work and kept in touch. Stephen has recently invited me to exhibit one of the pieces in an upcoming art show (the entry’s featured image), which is why I’m showing it to you today. It’s strange to only show one, but in a way I feel comfortable considering the theme of the show itself.

The photograph above is entitled “Demolished Duplexes” and is now ironically flanked by a newer development of senior housing. The creepy thing about Love Canal is that it actually held up its blueprint quite well. They still mow the grass and the street lights still work. And all the homes you find sporadically placed are people who decided to stay.

This work meant quite a bit to me, so I invite you to observe more on my Flickr site. This also includes a more detailed understanding of why.

More information about the exhibit (if you’ll be in the New Haven area, of course!).

Chris and I passed through Bombay Beach on our way to visit family camping on the east side of the Salton Sea. We only had about twenty minutes to spend due to a considerate gesture gone awry.

The quiet, downtrodden neighborhood is the desolate ruin of a glamorous vestige. Vintage cars sit unscathed by the dry heat. Children kick up dirt as they ride their bikes through wide, barren streets. The lingering, rotting smell drifting from the Salton Sea is overpowering.

Situated in a California desert, the sea was conceived by an engineered mishap that gave rise to a blossoming resort community only to be destroyed by massive flooding resulting in the tremendous state of disrepair it’s loyal community continues to inhabit. The story is out of the ordinary.

The history of the Salton Sea is utterly fascinating – I had never heard of the place, but now I cannot wait to go back. For those curious, check out the documentary Plagues and Pleasures on the Salton Sea by Chris Metzler and Jeff Springer.

Mission Basilica San Diego de Alcala is the first of the 21-mission system that made its way up and along the Californian coast. The expedition of Franciscan Friars on the Baja mission was led by Father Junipero Serra (a face you become well-accustomed to in San Diego) who established the mission on July 16, 1769. The current structure is the fifth to be built on site having fallen victim to American Indian riots, natural catastrophes, collapse from conversion into a two-level barrack by Mexican artillerymen, and abandonment. Yet in 1931, the mission was rebuilt and stands as it is today.

Akin to my previous post, there were so many stunning details at hand. The fountain in the courtyard sits in place of the cistern that once provided water from the Old Mission Dam. It was magical sitting there listening to the faint sounds – wind blowing, children laughing, footsteps wandering – as we seized the rich history of tradition and antiquity.

The best part of this mission (ha ha!) was after Chris and I infiltrated a class of fourth-graders on a grounds tour (these kids spend a whole year learning history from their native state, something I thought to be very neat). The tour guide asks, “How do you think they got those wooden beams so high without a crane?” Curbing our desire to raise our hand to suggest an answer, we discovered the width of the church is decided upon the beam with the shortest length, all others cut to size. As for lifting them so high, roughly 30-ft., after each layer of adobe was applied, builders would lift the beams up layer by layer. And all we could think was what the kids were thinking: Coooool.

And as a side note, I think San Diego has given me a case of collage fever.

A couple of hours after catching up with Chris in San Diego, we perambulated Balboa Park absorbing a multitude of incredibly pristine detail every which way we turned. As any place with such grandeur, a long-lasting history endures.

Balboa Park was once known as City Park, a dedicated public park with 1,400 acres of “scrub-filled mesa.” The lackluster landscape started to bloom in 1892 when the Mother of Balboa Park, Kate Sessions, agreed to plant 100 trees every year in exchange for 32 acres to be devoted to a commercial nursery. Yet the vitality of the Spanish-Renaissance architectural style that prevails is attributed to the First World’s Fair: the 1915-16 Panama-California Exposition.

The Cabrillo Bridge, a historic 1,500 foot-long viaduct adorned with globe lights, follows the El Prado walkway to the San Diego Museum of Man, two of the three permanent structures originally constructed for the exposition, establishing the area’s arts & culture mecca. All other existing buildings have been reconstructed as they began as wood and plaster structures.

An odd marriage between old and new was the Bell Tower of the Museum of Man with visible foghorns that rang out its bell sounds. It was the only thing that troubled and reminded me of a similar feeling I had about an image I took in Portugal (I wished for a man to be ringing the bells!). Though the further we walked, the more I relaxed into the tranquility of the El Prado walkway, and it was soon forgotten until it was time to post to this blog.

Approaching the Bea Evenson Fountain was the blissful finale on this particular stroll as we people-watched and took in the final rays at sunset. Soon after returning to our charming bed & breakfast, I proceeded to sleep for ten hours – the best medicine to cure time change.

The Deep River Theater is hidden to the average eye. In fact, I had no idea it even existed until a couple of weeks ago when I covered Jams for Cans, a benefit concert requiring three or more cans for admission that would be donated to the local food pantry. A lovely event, it was the first to utilize this hidden charm in quite some time. The structure is magnificent with its inlaid detailing, large half-round windows and a wonderful dome gracing the ceiling. Supposedly the theater is currently undergoing renovation, seeing there is some hope more groups and events will use this wonderful place.

Gillette’s Castle sits atop a high hill overlooking the Connecticut River on the outskirts of East Haddam, Connecticut. This impressive, protruding oddity of architecture, which in a way looks like a primitive rock climbing wall, was home to Sherlock Holmes, or the man who acted as such on stage, William Gillette. Dying as a bachelor, the only persons he felt fit to leave his structure to was any…

“blithering sap-head who has no conception of where he is or with what surrounded.”

Those are your old-time thespians, I suppose!

Chris and I, accompanied by Chris’ hometown friend, took our first drive out to the castle at the very peak of the Fall season. Sadly, the leaves have withered, the colors faded, and the trees peacefully sleep once again until next Spring.

Reveling in their last days of a high school career, Valley Regional students set sail for their Senior Reception aboard the Mystique, a Lady Katharine Cruise ship. The casually-attired event featured an evening of fine dining, dancing and charming scenery along the Connecticut River.

East Rock stands at a staggering 366 feet and features a gargantuan 112-foot pillar known as the “Soldiers and Sailors Monument.” Atop on a clear day, one could see for miles supposedly stretching as far as four or five surrounding states. I have yet to bear witness.

The weather-beaten copper obelisk commemorates New Haven history by paying homage to courageous residents whose lives perished during the Revolutionary War, War of 1812, the Mexican War and the Civil War. Attached are some older images taken of the monument up close.

This factory is a re-purposed building now housing marinas, restaurants and a variety of cultural things. Naturally, I was always drawn to its dilapidated state. I have probably passed this factory more than a hundred times over the years (either didn’t have my camera or was in a rush or, quite frankly, something inexcusable). The only time I regret was this past Valentine’s Day – there was the most amazing sunset with its colors, clouds and glory. I hope to see another night like that.

Experienced a brief conundrum deciding between black & white and color; it’s nice to go back to black & white once and a while.

Strange mornin’. Woke up and the roof was half-near gone. Dun know whut happened, dun really remember nothin. In fact, the whole damn building was ’bout to implode. I wasn’t worried er nothing. It was weird ’cause I was very calm.

What goes up, must come down. Or that’s what physics tells us. It was really scary when you could see a couple a floors underneath your feet.

The eclectic dining room looked like it may have been designed by children. The central columns had varying patterns from argyle to geometric to damasks. There was a rather large upright piano caught in the rubble once the floor caved in. At this point, it was nothing more than a rodent’s wonderland.