Friday, December 7, 2012


     I have chronicled rusty layers of abandonment, high stakes paranoia-inducing infiltration, and places simply off the beaten path. This is one of the latter.
      This summer, I took a bus ride to Staten Island. As we rounded the borough, which has some interesting attractions, I searched for a ghost town within New York City known as Bloomfield, extensively covered in Nathan Kensinger's wonderful photo essay.
     Once it was clear that I was the only person left on the bus, the driver began to direct a vigilant eye to me.
    "Where are you going?" he asked suspiciously.
     "Place called Bloomfield," I responded truthfully.
     "Hmm, never heard of it," he answered.
     Bloomfield is such a well kept secret, apparently, that even transit personnel, who are required to be very well acquainted with the geography of the region, barely know it exists.
     I got off the bus and relied on dumb luck, walking in the direction that I believed Bloomfield was. There were no maps to consult. I walked along a large square of forest for a while, eventually doubting that I would ever find the place. Then, suddenly, I saw it.
     New York City's ghost town. An alleged mafia dumping ground (given the fact that it is so far removed from the rest of the world, it seems possible.) Emptiness, where industry conflicts with nature.

I found these flowers on the way.

Empty streets. I saw only one person who wasn't a worker here.

Approaching the railroad track.

The din of buzzing machinery persists here.

Old newspaper.

Nature v. Industry

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