Patinas of Decay (Spring Comes to Brooklyn)

Rhythm is the basis of life, not steady forward progress. The forces of creation, destruction, and preservation have a whirling, dynamic interaction.

—Kabbalah



Writing on the wall . . . ?


A late April stroll through Red Hook confirms that spring is nearing full bloom. The streets are alive with revelations . . . Sun-dappled and shadow-drenched, patinas of decay adorn the landscape in varied patterns. The decay seems less a manifestation of rot within than a veneer signaling the growth below; not a state of ruination, but a state of becoming—the surface giving way to sprouting vitality.

The roots of a small tree, like convoluted tentacles, burrow under a factory gate . . . The grit from a crumbling window ledge melds with buds from tree branches lodged in the grating above . . . Shrubbery grows along warehouse fences, interwoven with chain link openings . . . And ivy, supple, wondrous ivy—the way it snakes all over and throughout and between everything natural and man-made . . . Vegetation growing among the built world’s detritus heightens the sense of nature’s rebirth—a fresh, underlying force come to light, engulfing the sullied environment (when given a chance).


Home is where the heart is



A sunbeam shines through the latticework of a crane boom draped over the highway—a glittering symbol of the horizon/the future/growth. Jackhammers ring in the distance; destroying in order to create, pummeling the old to make way for the new.

In architecture and landscape design, it is now de rigueur to incorporate vestiges of the past into brand new projects. Often these elements are inoperative or “distressed," decayed if you will; used for adornment (a nod to history, a wink to the cognoscenti).

In the scrap business/recycling in general, old, nonfunctioning objects are transformed and reintegrated into the new landscape. In the existence of every such object, though, between its demise and rebirth, there is a singular moment. It occurs at the scrap yard, in a state of transition. In that moment the object, once a uniform piece off an assembly line, is like nothing else—the way it rusts, the gouges and the dents. It is unique, like a snowflake, a metallic snowflake.


Vegetation growing among the built world’s detritus heightens the sense of nature’s rebirth.



Majestic Decay


Unique to Brooklyn, especially Red Hook, the decay is up front—not behind a sunny façade (a la suburbia). This rawness induces a more probing truth—authentic, inviting, a spur to wonderment.  That’s the allure of Red Hook, in essence.

The Stoop Sale: A Brooklyn Institution

The stoop sale, that welcome rite of spring, is a Brooklyn institution. Of course variations exist across the country—garage sales and the like—but the distinct setting and a few essential details, the variety of merchandise especially, make the stoop sale unique to Brooklyn.



Underlying every stoop sale is a certain poignancy, born of the near-universal need to part with useful, even cherished items due to lack of space. Much of what’s offered at these makeshift bazaars could be dismissed as garbage, but a thing owned is a thing with a history, often invested with real emotions, like the thrill of discovery or the sadness of some personal association. That such things, freighted with intrinsic value, are sold to complete strangers for a song only intensifies the poignancy.



The avid consumer of culture is never fully sated; never is there a point when he has heard all the music or read all the books he wants to. And what a luxury it would be to have the bulk of all the books and CDs one has consumed in a lifetime within arm's reach, including the middling discs with one or two great songs or the books of short stories with only a few choice selections. But this is near impossible, which is among the most compelling arguments for the necessity of the stoop sale—as a vehicle for maintaining the churn of culture and passing along significant art and ideas (and for making one’s cluttered living room once again livable). It is axiomatic, however, that no more than three months after a stoop sale, the seller will yearn to hear songs on CDs or refer to passages in books that are absent.



The dizzying array of toys seen at stoop sales, from toddler diversions and pre-school learning games to elaborate adolescent amusements, provides a rare, concentrated look at the phases of youth. Eventually, though, the sale ends and all that remains are some unwanted objects and a few fleeting memories, not unlike youth itself.

Billboard Shells

Pitching the Demographic: A Message of Nothing (Coney Island Creek)

Every billboard husk is like a fingerprint—unique—the setting, the details, the way sunlight plays off it at certain times.

Multicolored hues of sunset trapped between empty billboard

Double Duty: Cell Phone Tower/Beacon of Emptiness


Clouds seen through a billboard shell





Billboard seen through hollow in trestle bridge

Billboard shell’s gridwork silhouette



Sunset over billboard shell beside viaduct

Dead Tech (No. 3)

Adolescence/Obsolescence

(Dead Tech: No. 1 . . . No. 2)

Slideshow of the Week: Abandoned Toys

Full Screen: ► . . . 4-way arrows (lower rt.)

Visit Big Sky Brooklyn on Flickr

English Kills: The Garbage District

English Kills (Dutch for creek) in East Williamsburg is a fetid body of water that leads to the even more fetid (and hyper-toxic) Newtown Creek. A big part of Brooklyn’s garbage industry is concentrated in the area, with both city and privately operated transfer stations lining the creek, and many small scrap/recycling companies nearby.




The creek is mostly hidden behind the gates of the transfer stations, all but inaccessible from the street. There is a spot, though, where one can not only see (and smell) the kills up close, but actually walk across it. The railroad tracks off Morgan Avenue, right across from Bushwick Terminal, turn into a bridge that spans the creek.

Indelible images from the bridge over English Kills: the claw machine in the scrap yard bobbing above the corrugated metal fence.


The price is right: someone is living in a shack right near the source of the creek.



Not for human consumption (it is water, though, technically).




On a hot day around English Kills, an infernal stench pervades and clouds of flies are like part of the landscape. The diesel roar of carting trucks is practically the only sound that can be heard in the otherwise barren place.

Mt. Zion Cemetery (Queens)

Mt. Zion is on the right. On the left is New Calvary Cemetery.

Next to the cemetery is a Dept. of Sanitation (DSNY) incinerator.





For the residents of bordering Maurice Ave., Mt. Zion is conveniently located.

Your ad here.

DSNY parking lots.

Looking down at the base of the DSNY incinerator.


A row of garbage trucks—a fraction of the large fleet parked at the complex.

Mid-March: Plows at the ready.

Pile of plows.


Garbage-strewn vegetation at parking lot edge.


Look what I found among the garbage. (What’s been going on there?)