Just a few days ago, the temperature was hovering at 100°F and the humidity was locked inside the old Tuberculosis hospital building, making the boards on the windows swell and peel. My flashlight scanned the darkness of the ward and caught something glimmering in the middle of the long, narrow room. I walked up, wiping the steady stream of salty sweat that was not refreshing in any way. Two large glass jars were mounted upon a wooden base, along with two manometers (used to measure pressure). One of the bottles still had a cap, where nozzles were located to hook various tubes into. It was also filled with a yellow fluid. Intrigued, I brought the apparatus into the shaft of sunlight that streamed in from a window whose board had fallen off.

Most of the canvas straps still clung tightly to their large tubs which lined the basement room, despite the excessive sagging from thirty-seven years of disuse. Diffused rays of sunlight danced along the row of mummified bathtubs, yellowed with time and blackened with mold. A strange breeze wafted in from the dark, tiled morgue down the hall. There was no other place I wanted to be.

Another one of those things slipped by me and I hadn't thought of it until today - The Lobotomist, part of the American Experience series by PBS. It was aired on January 21, 2008, and documents the life of Walter Freeman - once described as the "Henry Ford of lobotomy." Starting with his early career at St Elizabeth's Hospital in Washington D.C., the video follows his medical career as he "improved" upon Antônio Egas Moniz's method of the lobotomy. The quotes are to emphasize the differing point of view held between disapproving medical professionals, fervent followers of his method, and mixed blessings from lobotomized patients and their families. The documentary pulls all these perspectives in this well-produced documentary that I enjoyed watching (finally).

This "state village for the feeble-minded" (as it was called) opened in 1920, catering to girls and women with developmental disabilities or stricken with epilepsy. Although the hospital closed in 1998, the buildings have been continually monitored and maintained. Access to this recreation hall was surprisingly easy, considering the frequent security patrols inside the building. Stepping inside the echoing hall, everything looked to be in good order except for some dust and a bit of peeling paint. Exit signs glowed in the distance... this space was definitely not abandoned; perhaps a better term would be "disused."

I had been pouring copious amounts of research into abandoned places in Italy before returning this year, especially the former psychiatric hospitals (of course). A funny thing happened though... I had discovered a small abandoned complex consisting of two buildings in a rural town while looking at some maps. Nothing special, as there are plenty of these kinds of ruins scattered along the countryside, but I marked it down just in case I'd be driving by. Then one day I found myself in the area, after a disappointing scouting trip to a handful of places that were being torn down. I pulled up to a tall wrought iron gate - a faded sign contained the words "ospedale psichiatrico," psychiatric hospital, and the rusty gate had been locked shut for some years. What amazing luck to have found this! The place was surrounded by a stone wall to prevent escape, but a small hole that had been smashed out - that definitely meant running in to catch the place in the fading sunset.

Some thoughts while exploring an abandoned hospital complex that was constructed and closed in various decades, and saying goodbye to a couple feet of snow as spring approaches... Water slowly filled the deep footprints in the snow behind me as I trekked up a snowy hill in the early hours of the morning; I didn't like leaving a trail but there was no choice in the matter. The tail end of a late February storm moved sluggishly along the horizon and blocked out the rising sun, creating a layer of gray on gray. If one looked hard enough, the first signs of spring could be seen through the monochrome landscape, and if one was interested, a gaping black hole into a recently abandoned hospital. Climbing in, I stood in a long empty hallway for a moment and listened for anyone who might be inside. Greeted only by dripping and creaking, I quickly moved through the maze of passages into the dark heart of the complex.

Last December, NPR ran a very interesting story on the World War II pacifists who were sent to work at state hospitals by the government, specifically focusing on a man named Charlie Lord and his exposé on the Philadelphia State Hospital (Byberry). Mr. Lord managed to sneak a small Agfa camera in his pocket to show the world what the conditions inside Byberry were like behind closed doors; his drive was to promote the quality of life for these patients and others in similar institutions. These photos, initially shown to Elanor Roosevelt, spurred public outrage when they were published in LIFE magazine's article Bedlam 1946. The story at NPR put much more context behind the images, and also include some detailed letters written by another conscientious objector, Warren Sawyer. Lord's photos (some of which did not appear in LIFE) were also displayed in a slide show. Follow the links below to NPR's story:

On January 25th, more of the Bannerman's Arsenal delicate facade crumbled to the ground during a winter storm. This followed a previous collapse of a corner of the main tower on December 26th. Senator Charles E. Schumer met with members of Bannerman's Castle Trust Inc. to discuss the need and importance of preserving the structure, and is lobbying for federal funding and to secue the island as one of the 11 most endangered sites on the National Register of Historic Places. An interesting quote from a tour guide was found in this YouTube video: When we first came to the island we started to clean up we started pulling these vines down that you see on the sides of the building... we had an architectural engineer come on the island and took a look at that, he said 'You'd better not pull those vines down, they're probably holding the building up.' He also told us something else interesting. If you take a look at these buildings, again remember what I said, Mr. Bannerman would draw a picture of it and say 'Build me this.' Well, he knew the space that was left between the building, so sometimes you'd have a building that was like a parallelogram, sometimes you'd have trapezoids, all different geometric shapes. So the architect told us that what was happening was these buildings were leaning against each other, and that's what's holding them up. Were the vines really holding the building together after the masonry eroded away from between the bricks? If so, perhaps this mistake can be prevented in the future with other similar ruins (nearby Renwick Smallpox Hospital comes to mind, whose wall collapsed in January 2008). Thanks to Xydexx for finding that quote and the research. More photos of the collapse can be found at Hudson Valley Ruins.

I'd like to share a collaborative book that showcases photographs of gurneys in abandoned hospitals, called Dead Rollers. The hand-crafted book is part of the Transport exhibition at Proteus Gowanus in Brooklyn, NY. Along with the photographs, it also features straps from an abandoned gurney stitched into the cover.