jermalism

Abandonment Issues: Kawartha Downs Speedway House

2012-01-28T15:05:00.006-05:00

This little bungalow, with it's in ground pool and barn, is kiddie corner to the slot machines and horse race track of the Kawartha Downs Speedway in Cavan, Ontario. The plastic lining in the ceiling is exposed and bulging with dirty rain water, ready to burst. The pool out back is also home to a rain water pond, and evergreen trees are encroaching on the diving board. The barn is littered with the previous residents possessions, which are also scattered about the property. The rear portion of the house appears to have been either stripped, or was in the midst of renovations at the time of abandonment. From the road, the TV antenna and the tire swing blowing in the wind are the only things that indicate a house even remains on this property, hidden behind the overgrown trees and shrubs that are swallowing the house whole at the end of a long driveway.

1437

Overgrown abode

kAWARTHA dOWNS sPEEDWAY hOUSE

Tire swing

Diving in head first and learning to swim

Take a seat

Table of contents

Cheers

The road to success..

I tought i taw a wabbit

Slanted eyes

Treasure chest

Poolside

Diving bored

KDSH front entrance

KDSH collapsing kitchen cupboards

Come unhinged

Obstruction chair

KDSH master bedroom

The little boys room

click here to check out all of jerm & ninja IX's ABANDONMENT ISSUES

Abandonment Issues: Alcan Aluminum

2012-01-24T14:37:00.000-05:00

Alcan was founded in 1902 as the Northern Aluminum Company, renamed the Aluminum Company of Canada in 1925, officially registered as Alcan in 1945, and then Alcan Aluminum in 1966. By 2001, the Canadian owned company had grown to become one of the largest aluminum manufacturers worldwide. In 2007, known at that time as Alcan Inc., the company was sold to European multi-national corporation Rio Tinto for $38 billion, and was then flipped again in 2010 to Amcor.

During the first world war, aluminum production skyrocketed. As the second world war got underway in 1939, Alcan decided to build a massive sheet-rolling plant in Kingston, Ontario, known as Kingston Works, to meet the escalating needs for the war efforts of the Canadian, British and U.S. governments.

The first products manufactured at Kingston Works were aircraft parts. Over the course of time, the company adapted to the transforming demands of the market. Foil, extrusions, plate, and coated and bare sheet products were all manufactured here at one point in time. The plant also housed a testing and research facility. Kingston Works consisted of several plants. The plant featured here was known as the South plant, and was connected to the North plant by an above ground eight inch pipe line which carried 90 to 100 pounds per square inch of compressed air from the North to the South plant. The South plant was closed in April of 1987, the North plant is still active today. On December 7th, 1987, a 51 year old pipe fitter named Egon Holterman lost his life while attempting to shut off the compressed air that was still traveling through the pipeline to the closed South plant. He loosened the nuts and bolts, but nothing happened, an internal report states. It goes on to say that as he reached for a hammer, a loud explosion took place, and the eight inch pipe struck him in the chest. He was rushed to the hospital and died on the operating table. This was definitely a sad story to come across while researching this location, but is also an important part of the plants history.

The South plant has sat vacant since 1987, but was used for rave parties in 2004 and 2005, and in that context was known as the The Warehouse Jamspot, based on the sign-age still hanging above a rear exterior door, and some spray painted dates inside. I can only imagine that these were drug-fueled illegal raves, with an inherent danger looming, as the building would be quite unsafe to traverse while under the influence of ecstasy and LSD and alcohol and other narcotics typically consumed at raves. With almost two full glorious months of sobriety under my belt, I'm just going to go ahead and change the subject.

Ninja IX and I stumbled upon the abandoned Alcan Aluminum Kingston Works South plant in April of 2011, after a failed attempt to access the interior of the historic and beautiful Rockwood Insane Asylum, which of course we accessed a few months later. To say that the South plant is absolutely massive is quite an understatement. Giant warehouses and manufacturing floors have been stripped of their equipment. Large green garage doors line the long outer wall of the shipping department. Asbestos tiles float freely in the flooded office spaces. Rows of orange and grey lockers sit empty and ajar in the employee areas. A yellow railing rises above the metal staircase to the second floor, where a long hallway follows the entire length of the roof on the longest portion of the building. Flooding, peeling paint, vandals and mould are all contributing to the decay in different areas of the plant. I could go on and on endlessly, but from here, I'll just let the pictures speak for themselves.

And that, my friends, is the Alcan Aluminum Kingston Works South Plant as Ninja IX and I saw it last April. Thank you for taking the time to check it out.

If you know of an Ontario location you think that we should visit, by all means send details to jerm9ine@gmail.com

click here to check out all of jerm & ninja IX's ABANDONMENT ISSUES

Abandonment Issues: Frankford Fire House

2012-01-23T11:06:00.001-05:00

Snow covers the ground, and atop it, a thin layer of ice. Our feet crunch through it with every step toward the house. Crunch crunch crunch. A dead mourning dove frozen into the ice and snow greets us, face down. The house itself, shedding it's aluminum siding like a snake sheds skin.

Mourning the mourning dove

The old wooden door creeks open slowly with a nails on chalkboard type screech. The Frankford Road House, east of Frankford, Ontario, instantly reveals its history, and tells us its story. Well, the end of it at least. Fire ravaged this home. Two gorgeous pillars still stand, bisecting the large main rooms, but they are charred black. A rotary phone melted to the wall, drooping. Wooden furniture showing no visible signs of fire or smoke damage line the front wall, blocking the door and windows. The walls of the kitchen are pitch black, as are most of the cupboards. In the bathroom, the toilet is blacker than night, but the walls are just slightly blackened. On the bathroom counter rests a small pair of scissors. The smoke damage is glaringly obvious as I pick up the scissors and the impression of them remains on the counter. Back in the main room, the bottom of the staircase is charred, but at the top of the stairs, the banister is in remarkable condition. A long yellow upholstered couch with wooden arms stands prominently here, its cushions strewn about and torn. It's sibling, the chair, was covering a large hole in the floor downstairs. The three bedrooms are all in different states. The first, piled a few feet high with chairs and drawers and bed frames and wooden boards and so on. The second, empty and peeling, wallpaper hanging from the ceiling like stalactites in a limestone cave. The third, empty but for the snow drifts lining the walls, and the door, which is unhinged and leaning against the far wall. Holes in the roof shine rays of light down through the attic and onto the second floor, and a tiny dusting of snow glimmers.

Farm hill knob

Walk into the light

Fire!

The big yellow chair

Burnt

Cooked

H2uhOh!

I don't give a shit

Showered

Scissor sisters

Burnt out

Off the hook

Fire and ice

Turn of the century

Pipe dreams

Ray of light

Untitled for no apparent reason

You light up my life

Lofty expectations

Got wood?

Walk this way

Stalactites

Adrift

Portal

Field of dreams

Love and light

It was all yellow

Would you like some cheese with that twine?

The doors

The ins and outs

Thanks for stopping by and visiting. Goodbye for now.

click here to check out all of jerm & ninja IX's ABANDONMENT ISSUES

Abandonment Issues: Elmvale Stone House

2012-01-21T14:36:00.002-05:00

I would opine that a family was started here, a young Johnathon or Jane may have taken their first steps right where I stood to photograph their baby toys. What became of Jonathon and Jane, or whatever their names were, may never be known. 2004 stands out as a probable abandonment date.

Rooftop garden

Nest egg

To whom it may concern

No child left behind

Family memories

What makes a house a home?

Powerless

Kitchen etiquette

June 2004

BABY NAMES FOR THE '90s

Cornered

Jacket off

Pants down

Untitled

Bedtime stories

The shit room

And then a quick peek in the shed out back...

The shed

MAXIM January 2004

Until next time, signing off,

jerm IX, coming soon to an abandonment near you.

click here to check out all of jerm & ninja IX's ABANDONMENT ISSUES

Abandonment Issues: Devil's Valley House

2012-01-19T09:06:00.002-05:00

"Pull over, pull over!" I blurted suddenly upon spotting the Devil's Valley House, to which L'Ali pulled to the side of the dirt road and looked over her shoulder, responding with an "Ooooh" or an "Aahhh", I can't recall which. We had only pulled down this road because I had faltered on my GPS duties and missed the intended right turn. This was after getting caught at the Down Family Farmhouse, and before getting caught at the Havelock Horse House.

A solitary set of footprints in the patches of snow led me deep onto the property, but I did not follow them into the woods. I ventured as far into the collapsed house as physically possible, without falling into the depths of the basement with the entire house on top of me.

L'Ali, Squalie, Ryanstar and I wandered about the property for a few more minutes after I exited the house, all four of us snapping images.

Enter at your own risk

Going to hell

Jenga

I stand alone

Exit through the gift shop

The wall

Devil's Valley House

Devil's Valley Chicken Coup

Devil's Valley Shed

Pimpmobile

Off to the races

I had a berry good time here

Cheers to L'Ali, Squalie and Ryanstar. It was a fun day, despite the cold, and the angry farmers.

click here to check out all of jerm & ninja IX's ABANDONMENT ISSUES

Abandonment Issues: Homestead Inn

2012-01-07T18:38:00.000-05:00

On a chilly day in early November, 2011, I spent the first half of my 34th birthday alone, wandering aimlessly around Niagara Falls, searching for abandoned buildings to explore. After several hits and misses, I began the long walk back to my hotel. I was rapping and singing aloud to the random assortment of music blaring through my headphones, as I walked past the seemingly endless arrays of Bed and Breakfasts along the Niagara gorge on River Street.

On the edge of the tourist district, less than a half a kilometer from the Rainbow Bridge to the land of the greed and the home of the slaves, I came upon a Bed & Breakfast that differed from the rest. Grass was growing out of hundreds of cracks in the driveway. The front steps were completely overgrown with dense shrubbery and trees, with leaves of red, yellow and brown still clinging on for dear life. A closer inspection revealed a NO TRESPASSING sign that had fallen and rested between the doors. To me, a sign of this sort is an invitation, confirming that the location is indeed vacant. The sign out front read 'HOMESTEAD INN - ROOMS FOR TOURISTS'. I'm a tourist, I thought to myself.

Out back, a tall wooden fence was already behind me, and I was out of view of any neighbours and passersby. This was after noting that the houses on each side of the Inn also appeared abandoned, but had proved inaccessible. Dirty stagnant rainwater and maple leaves formed a murky pond in the deep end of the pool, and some vines were growing down into it.

I entered into pitch blackness, as boards covered all of the windows on the ground floor. My flashlight illuminated the way and a story immediately began to unfold. A story that likely involved local youth. A story of utter destruction and vandalism. Holes had been smashed in walls, pillars and banisters completely dismantled with brute force. Bedroom and bathroom doors had been torn from hinges and thrown about violently. Toilets, mirrors and glass from a set of stunning double doors were shattered into millions of pieces, and cast iron electrical heaters had been simply knocked over, likely too heavy for young vandals to lift.

Even in this destroyed state, the Homestead Inn proved quite fascinating, especially from an architectural viewpoint. Some of the rooms were still numbered and each one had a different colour scheme. There seemed to be washrooms everywhere, and on the third floor was a second kitchen, and children's play rooms, complete with creepy clown wallpaper trim.

Soon after exiting the Inn, in fact right on the other side of the fence out back, I was approached by a local man that seemed down on his luck, to put it nicely. He asked me for spare change for a phone call. I'm not stupid, I told him. He then said it was for food. I smirked and turned my back to him, and began framing my first rear exterior photo, keeping him in my peripheral view. He added a desperate sounding please, outstretching his arms. I turned back to him and asked politely but firmly why he needed the money, looking him straight in his bloodshot eyes. He didn't say a word, almost like he couldn't bare to muster another lie, knowing that I didn't buy it. I recognized in his face, the guilt that accompanies drug addiction, as it hasn't always been a stranger to my own face, and the faces of my loved ones. I gave him a twenty dollar bill and a cigar, and told him that I appreciated his honesty, even if it did come in the form of silence. I added that I hope he finds the strength to get help.

Within a matter of weeks, I had hit bottom and gotten rigorously honest with myself, and sought out help for my own addictions. As of this moment, sitting here typing this post, I have been sober for 43 days. If jerm IX can do it, anyone can do it. I hope the best for that man, and for anyone else struggling with addiction.

With the closure of the Homestead Inn, there is still no lack of B&Bs in Niagara Falls for young lovers, newlyweds and married couples alike to spend a romantic getaway. So after visiting the Homestead Inn for yourself, if you so chose, you could stay at any of the following Bed & Breakfasts in Niagara Falls.

Abagales Victorian Suites B&B

Victorian Charm B&B

Kilpatrick Manor

Trillium B&B

Villa Alexandria

Paradise Point B&B

Park Place B&B

Absolute Elegance B&B

Little Paradise B&B

Two Rivers B&B

Gretna Green Tourist Home

Keefer Mansion Inn

Ambiance By The Falls B&B

Blue Gables B&B

Rainbow B&B

AA B&B

Mcgrail Guesthouse B&B

Birdsong Chalet

Always Inn

Nataya B&B

Blue Gables B&B

Angels Hideaway

Niagara's Emerald Falls B&B

Homestead Inn

click here to check out all of jerm & ninja IX's ABANDONMENT ISSUES

Abandonment Issues: Trifecta

2012-01-06T15:10:00.000-05:00

The Trifecta: A three way highway intersection with an abandonment on every corner.

On a pair of days in June of 2011, we happened upon the abandonments that make up the Trifecta, in spurts. On the way north, we spotted the collapsing Marine Services / Poultry Farm building, and explored it. Within minutes though, the sky had opened up and heavy rainfall chased us back to the car. We pulled out and turned the corner, only to notice the large GOLF sign on a small structure in an overgrown field that was once a driving range, on the opposite side of the road. We immediately concluded that we would stop there on the way back, the following day. As we turned the corner though, only a half second earlier, I was sure I saw what was a possible abandoned house, deep in the woods, beyond a mass of thick foliage. I didn't say a word about it to Ninja, figured it would be a nice surprise on the way home, if I actually did see what I thought I had.

The next day, upon returning to said intersection in Lakefield, Ontario, my suspicion was confirmed, and we explored both the driving range, and the beautiful old home. The trifecta was completed.

1. Trifecta House

The Trifecta House, while void of any personal possessions belonging to previous inhabitants, definitely lived up to the hype I had built up in my mind. Set far back from the road, it is next to impossible to see. I'm not sure how I even spotted it the day before. The term overgrown drastically understates the condition of the property. Our feet had to fight through tight vines and a carpet of lily plants and sumacs, approaching from the rear of the house. The NO TRESPASSING signs were merely a suggestion, obviously. Interesting features included gorgeous architecture, hardwood flooring, peeling paint and wallpaper, and the children's bedrooms with cartoon wallpaper and a secret entryway through the closet. Also quite fascinating, was the juxtaposition between rooms that were in a state of decay, next to rooms that appeared to be in pristine condition.

You can't handle the truth

NO TRESPASSING

Happily never after

If my mother wasn't so religious, I wouldn't be in this mess

Violins never solved anything

Atention to detale

Angelic

GNISSAPSERT ON

GO TRESPASSING

Say Yo To Thugs

I feel apathetic...Oh well

I don't give a shit

Rome wasn't built in a day, neither was the World Trade, but destruction is a coming of age

Bugs Bunny & Friends

Window pains

I take it apart, play with the parts, never assemble again

Merrie Melodies

Keepin' it reel

An ode to couch surfers

One foot in front of the other

Can't see the forest for the trees

When one door closes, a window is completely removed

Trifecta House

2. Trifecta Golf

The Lakefield Golf Driving Range, once active daily with golfers practicing their swing and competing for distance, was merely an overgrown field. Two foot tall blades of grass swayed to and fro as far as the eye could see. There was no ball boy whizzing around in a protective cart collecting balls, and no shouts of "Four!" bellowing through the air. The silence was remarkably deafening. I recall taking out some anger on a few buckets of balls here in the late nineties with an old friend, that I have since lost touch with. On this day though, I didn't have to pay for a bucket of balls. To my immense pleasure, I found a club and a few balls in the grass. I can assure you that it is infinitely harder to get any distance on your shot under these circumstances.

250 ft

On the green

Tiger's wood

Capitalisn't

The Toronto Sun - Wednesday, July 26, 2006

Hole in one

Trifecta Golf Driving Range

3. Trifecta Marine Services / Poultry Farm

This place begs one to ask not what came first, the chicken or the egg, but rather what came first, the poultry farm or the marine services?

As of this moment, I don't have a valid answer for either of those questions. The wooden structure with aluminum siding that once housed Consignment Sales & Marine Services, as well as The Kawartha Lakes Poultry Farm, is in a state of collapse. Nature is slowly but surely reclaiming its rightful ownership of the space. Trees, grass, weeds and mosses are all thriving inside, thanks greatly to the partially collapsed roof. Remnants remain from both of the businesses that once inhabited the building, including signs, egg trays, and a few boats.

I can't find the right words

Kawartha Lakes Poultry Farms

I never finish what I star

Ev e ryth in g f a ll s a p a rt

Anatomically Corrected

Shut your mouth

Hoser

Don't count your eggs before they hatch

Consignment Sales & Marine Services

I'm on a boat

No lifeguard on duty

Thank you for taking the time to check out the Trifecta intersection with us. I hope that you enjoyed your visit, we definitely enjoyed having you tag along. In between these two Trifecta visits, we stopped in again at the Apsley Fire House, (among several other houses) where we discovered that many of the possessions present during my first visit, had been packed up and moved out. Hope to see you again at the next spot.

And remember friends, life is what you make it.

click here to check out all of jerm & ninja IX's ABANDONMENT ISSUES

Abandonment Issues: St. Joseph's Hospital (Parry Sound)

2012-01-04T16:11:00.001-05:00

In 1995, St. Joseph's Hospital, which provided chronic care, merged with The Parry Sound District Hospital, which provided acute care.

“Parry Sound was the first community directed to build a new hospital by the province’s Health Services Restructuring Commission,” says Norman Maciver, chief executive officer of The West Parry Sound Health Centre. The new West Parry Sound Health Centre opened in 2005, at which time St. Joseph's hospital was closed and has sat vacant ever since.

St. Joseph's Hospital was originally a three story wooden house built in the 1890s. As of this moment, I have yet to ascertain the date that it opened as a hospital. The 4 storey South Wing was added in 1938 and the 2 storey East Wing was added in 1951. Both additions were made of concrete and steel.

On a beautiful September morning in 2011, Ninja and I awoke at our campsite, fried up a quick breakfast and began our pilgrimage to the old hospital. Thankfully, we found a way in, where we stumbled into pitch blackness, unfortunately though, we had forgotten our flashlights at the campsite.

After a quick drive to the hardware store, we were finally ready to explore the second St. Joseph's Hospital of the year, the other of course, in Peterborough. The entire first floor was tightly boarded up, and our entry point led us into pitch blackness yet again, this time though, our flashlights lit the way...straight into the morgue.

This hospital had several features that excited us from an urban exploration and photography perspective: Decay, peeling paint, leftover equipment, signs, colourful wallpaper and curtains, and interesting lighting.

In my last post, we delved deep into the lives of the Down family, and became entrenched. We connected emotionally with the love, the trials and tribulations, and the overall story of who they were, as it was told to us by the belongings that they left behind many decades ago.

While exploring this hospital, albeit void of these same personal items, we felt a similar connection to the people that once passed through and occupied these rooms. We tried to picture it up and running, bustling with energy and activity. We envisioned doctors and nurses walking the halls, family members visiting at bedsides, and patients re-learning to walk on the parallel bars in the rehabilitation unit. We were constantly cognizant of the lives that would inevitably have been lost here, but also the success stories and hope that would have been present.

With no further adieu, to the theme of chronic illnesses, I hope you enjoy our photos of the former St. Joseph's Hospital in Parry Sound.

Huntington's Disease

Blindness

Parkinson's Disease

Systematic Lupus Erythematosus

Asthma

Chronic Renal Failure

Sickle Cell Anemia

Schizophrenia

Cerebrovascular Disease

Haemophilia

Chronic Hepatitis

Occupational Therapy

Palliative Care

Castile Soap - Solutions - Dressing Basket - Fleets - Enema Cans - IV Basket

Transfer Belt

The Hospital Laundry

X-RAY Darkroom

Profexray

Profexray

Hospital Housekeeping

The Chapel

The Morgue

St. Joseph's Hospital (Parry Sound)

Physiotherapy Equipment

Physiotherapy Equipment

Parallel Bars

Learning To Walk (Parallel Bars)

Epilepsy

Diabetes Mellitus Type 1

Diabetes Mellitus Type 2

Diabetes Insipudus

Cardiomyopathy

Rheumatoid Arthritis

Osteoarthritis

Cystic Fibrosis

Cancer

Fibromyalgia

HIV / AIDS

Chronic Encephalitis

Glaucoma

Multiple Sclerosis

Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disorder

Addison's Disease

Ulcerative Colitis

Chronic Graft-Versus-Host Disease

Acquired Brain Injury

Coronary Artery Disease

Dysrhythmia

Crohn's Disease

Cardiac Failure

Hyperlipidaemia

Hypertension

Hyperthyroidism

Alzheimer's Disease

Osteoporosis

Chronic Renal Disease

Degenerative Disc Disease

Chronic Fatigue Syndrome

St. Joseph's Hospital (Parry Sound)

click here to check out all of jerm & ninja IX's ABANDONMENT ISSUES

Abandonment Issues: Down Family Farmhouse

2012-01-03T15:49:00.000-05:00

The newly engaged, newly sober couple close the doors on their brand new car and walk toward a red brick farmhouse on the outskirts of Wooler, Ontario. I find myself watching this, as much as I am physically participating in it. Large tractor tracks in the snow indicate that the barn on the property is still in use, but the house itself is clearly vacant. The cows in the field directly behind the house validate this theory. The property was likely purchased in an estate sale by a neighbouring farmer after the occupants passed away, I presume aloud. I'm watching myself from a third person perspective as I untie the wire attached to the door handle and yank it open, it is tight from the constant stress of freezing and thaw cycles and endless years of disuse.

Immediately, we realize that this is not just another abandoned house, there is something special about it. A beautiful grand piano stands before us at the back end of the family room, beyond the entrance from the addition in which we stand. The addition, at the rear of the home, would have been added after the advent of modern day plumbing, and has not withstood the test of time and weather as well as the original structure. A quick walk through the entire home is accompanied by excitement and oohs and awws, and as soon as we are sure that we are alone, the exploration truly begins.

We spend hours rifling through old photographs and letters, reading them aloud, as the other snaps photographs and rummages though drawers and piles of artwork signed Fred Down, who all signs point to being the son of John Arthur Down and his wife Elizabeth, commonly referred to as Bessie. Many of the letters are correspondents between the Down family members and the family and friends left behind in Scotland after immigrating to Canada in the early 1900s. All of the mail is addressed to Hilton, Ontario, southwest of the farm, which must have been where the post office was located at the time that the family inhabited the home, we assume. My fiance Ninja exclaims "Oh my god! Look!" She lifts from a dresser drawer and passes me the couples marriage certificate, dated 1918, and after only getting engaged a few days earlier, after almost 16 years together, this prompts us to embrace.

Upstairs, the bedrooms are packed with dated possessions of yesteryear. Endless photos and letters rest atop antique dressers. A tattered yellow and green wool Wooler hockey jersey hangs from an antique bed frame, next to a fox stole. In the adjacent room, a wood framed box spring bearing the marking B.E. BRINTNELL -BRIGHTON- leans against a table covered in an assortment of random objects including an old guitar, dust covered books, magazines and china. I pick up and strum the 3 remaining chords on the guitar, to which, one of the chords snaps. I set the guitar down next to an old chest, a steam trunk if I'm not mistaken. I turn the trunk and open it, to which, again, it breaks, and a portion of the interior ceiling of the inner cavity collapses in on itself. It's not that I'm not being careful, because I am, but 5 or 6 decades of disuse have rendered these objects incredibly fragile. A framed Down family crest on red velvet catches my attention on the floor, amongst random papers and magazines from the 1930s. A bookshelf contains many books from the 1800s, all of which are covered in a thick layer of dust. Ninja removes a small green silk wrapped jewelery box from another dresser drawer and opens it to reveal the red velvet interior. It contains a few aged negatives, one of which I hold up to the frosted window and a woman in a dress smiles at us from many many decades ago. We continue to remove letters from envelopes dated between the 1930s and 60s and read them to each other. Bank notes and life assurance policy documentation found in another dresser date as far back as the early 1920s. Black and white photographs provide a visual idea of who these people were, and how they lived. Postcards from Scotland indicate that they were very loved by the family that they left behind.

In the back of the house, upstairs, I step down into the addition and into the washroom. White wooden lattice wraps around the chimney in a semi-circle. "I love these old bathtubs" Ninja says, startling me to the point that I jump, as I'm not aware that she followed me in here. We laugh.

Fred's pencil sketches and art supplies are scattered about the home. Wooden cases containing brushes and bottles of turpentine and linseed oil sit atop dressers, in the bathtub, and atop the Stevenson & Co. Square Grand Piano, made in Kingston, down in the family room. I tap my fingers along the dirty keys of the piano and 3 or 4 of the keys still hum a note, others have gone silent. To my right, a large leather bound Bible sits on a rocking chair, and to the right of that, cold air pushes in through the fireplace.

Back in the addition on the ground floor, the kitchen floor is partially collapsed and is covered with a carpet of hay. A sink is toppling over, protruding from the floor like a flower reaching for sunlight, and the the stove and counters are covered in a thick layer of filth.

Given the fact that the home seems to not have been occupied since the 1960s, it is in remarkable condition. There is no moisture inside the home, no peeling paint, no broken windows, and very little mould. This has been a very special afternoon indeed.

After several hours of delving through the lives of the Down family on New Years Eve day, 2011, our fingers and toes are frozen, and the time has come for us to leave. I walk back to the piano and tap a few more keys, but no sound emerges. Again, i tap tap tap, until finally, the final note sounds and the key sticks, resonating and hanging in the air as we exit. I tie up the door as it was when we approached, and we walk away, with that final note still singing, getting quieter and softer with each step we take back to the road.

I have tried my best to transcribe the portions of letters that I decided to post photos of, and left blanks where I was unable to decipher the text. I hope that you enjoy our photos of the Down Family Farmhouse.

Certificate of Marriage - March 27, 1918

"I CERTIFY that I solemnized the marriage of
Bridegroom John Arthur Down
Bride Elizabeth Clemens
at Brighton Township County of Northumberland
on the 27 day of March 1918"

J. Arthur Down, Esq., Mar 6, 1934

A portion of a letter to Bessie - Undated

"...the wee chap must be great company to you all at the farm. How I wish I could see him, but alas what's the use of wishing for what cannot be. at present at anyrate, some day I hope. Annie Gow is getting on as. She has done well in Ritchie's earning about 23/- a week, not bad for this country. Mrs. Moir sent you a photo in splendid condition. She is serysly charmed with it. Isn't it funny I met Miss Imrie last Saturday. It was the first time I have spoken to her since you left for Canada. They are all well. I suppose you know Bella got married about four years ago. She has two children. She wished to be remembered to ____ Jeau and yourself. They had a visit from Duncan Campbell. He is a lieutenant in the army training at Richmond in England and was home on holiday. They have moved from Nithsdale Rd. some time ago. They have moved to a mill out Giffnock way. Nan and I visited the McNichols a week past last Tuesday. Mrs. McNichol was at ______ with Marion. The latter has been staying at Oakney (away North) all winter to be near her husband. Mr Cool's gave the yacht he was captain of to the admiralty at the outbreak of war. He joined also so was kept on being a sul. Lieutenand, being promoted to a Lieutenant. His ship has been transferred to Southport in England, so Marion expects to be going there shortly. Jane says she is quite happy, likes living in lodgings fine. You were asking how McNichols money was panning out, well Bessie I am sorry I can't enlighten..."

Down Family Crest

Family portrait

Dear Mum Dad & Nes - March 16, 1947

"Dear Mum Dad & Nes.

I was just going to start this when you rang. Gedeon hasn't a cold, just his voice sometimes huskier. Miss Felgmann was out this afternoon playing at the church. Gedeon was supposed to go to church supper but didn't. He has a pain in right side at times, so didn't go. Its the first he has complained of it to me. He won't go to a doctor says 'nothing lasts..."

Down master bedroom

Wooler jersey and fox stole

The dresser is covered with old letters and photographs

Shoeshine kit

Tasseled pink

Fred Down's art supply box

Winsor & Newton Limited Un-Thickened Linseed Oil

Canada Life Assurance Company - January 1932

Field of dreams

Page 3 of 4

"...at London University and when John finishes his N.S. in the navy he also goes to London to train as an architect. It is a long process and will be a big drain financially on Anne. She is a lot thinner since Jimmy died and worries a lot about the business. Just this month they have gone on a four day week and orders are very scarce. People are very cautious and taking few risks these days and I can't say I blame them, for the outlook is very uncertain. Now _____ has added to the confusion and who can say what will come out of that mess? The French are a strange nation as we saw in the last war. I hope you and all your circle ____ and are looking forward to a good summer ____ the weather has been very changeable and..."

Page 4 of 4

"...there is still ground frost in the mornings. We are too near the sea to get it badly but it checks growth all the same. I had a letter from Neg at Christmas. She seems to keep wonderfully fit and to enjoy life. Beltines children will be getting bigger now and they will keep her lively, as I expect your grandchildren keep you busy. We have a new baby in our family. Alex's son John who is a lawyer in Stonehaven has been married for a number of years but had no children. His wife was very disappointed and they decided to adopt a child and after waiting for two years they have now got a boy. He seems a very good baby and strong and healthy and they sure very happy about it. His wife was a nurse before her marriage and is a very clever capable girl. Now I will stop and hope I haven't bored you. I am always glad to hear news of you so write sometimes. Love and all good wishes. Mary"

Back in the day

Postcard from Glasgow, Scotland

Thuja Occidentalis (Homeopathic treatment for warts)
Prepared by A.L. Thompson - Chemist

Wire-O Bound Light Weight Sketch Book - F. Down

Wire-O Bound Light Weight Sketch Book - F. Down - Page 1

Record Of Merit - January 31, 1922

Holstein-Friesen Association of Canada
This Certifies that the Cow named Patty Pontiac Pietertje
No. 78302 H.A.H.B. owned by J. Arthur Downs
of Hilton, Ont. is entered in the Record of Merit of said Association on the following records:
Ager 2 y 6 m 14 d; milk 327.1 lbs., butter fat 11.87 lbs.; equivalent to 14.85 lbs. of butter produced in 7 consecutive days.
Dated January 31, 1922.

The United Church of Canada Communicant's Card

Canadian Bank of Commerce - November 23, 1959

Mr. Arthur Down - 1966

Province of Ontario Farmer's Gasoline Tax Exemption Book 1944

Fox stole

Hilton - Jan 26, 1950

"Dear Fred,

We got home ____ in safety yesterday, and we enjoyed the mildness The roads were getting quite watery.

I hope you arrived in Toronto and enjoyed your morning there.

Next morning we watched the clock 7:30 when you commence your long journey. Now it is 8 O'clock and you may be speeding on to Chicago, where you are due to arrive at 11:55 pm.

Today we too drove down to Trenton to buy a dress. The only one suitable, was black & white silk, quite nice and suitable. So _ _____they grey ones were all around $25. Too much for us.

Going to Trenton the railway subway was a river. The ever____ ovengl _____. We got enough in allright, but came home around St. James Hotel.

We have almost no snow here now. And freezing a little tonight. ____ seems dumpish..."

Down bathroom addition

Down bathroom addition

Bookshelf

Negative

Inverted negative

Canadian Bank of Commerce - 1940s and 50s

Rawleigh's Pepper

B.E. BRINTNELL -BRIGHTON-

Picking up an old guitar, strumming its surviving strings, only to have one snap. Approaching an old steam trunk and opening it, only to have it cave in on itself and collapse its interior ceiling.

Open steam trunk

Cream and sugar

No. 128 - Design

Design is influenced by,

A. Purpose
Function is fitness to purpose

B. Materials out of which design is made

C. Tools

Principle underlying design.

A Contrast, to avoid monotony
Varity, not repetition.

B Harmony and purportion.

C Balance.

D Unity.

The ultimate aim in all design is structural unity.

F. Down - No. 128

F. Down - No. 128

F. Down - No. 128

F. Down - No. 128

Going down on the Down Farmhouse

Ultra Power Battery Electric Radio

PEARL Manufactured by Canadian Woodenware Co.

Sinking

Down kitchen addition

General Electric Oven

The Down Family Farmhouse Family Room

Stevenson & Co. Square Grand Piano

Piano stool

The world's ugliest doll

Sister act

A rocking chair and a bible

The Holy Bible

The Toronto Star Insight Section - April 17, 1976

Family portrait

Stevenson & Co. Square Grand Piano

Hello, goodbye.

Fellow explorer and friend Intrinsic did some genealogy research and shared the following information and image:

Fred Down died in 2008. His parents...

Thank you for taking the time to check out this magnificent old home with us, I hope that you enjoyed our visit together. See you again at the next spot.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

UPDATE -

A little over a week after our first visit, I returned to this farm with three other eager urban explorers. Less than five minutes after our arrival, the farmer, a descendant of the deceased Down family members, pulled up in a tractor with a bail of hay. He was less than happy with our presence inside the home. With that said, out of respect, I will never share any specific location information, nor will I ever return to the property. I had only taken the following two photographs in this quick time frame before his arrival.

Fred Down's first car

Down Family Photograph of Down Family Farmhouse

click here to check out all of jerm & ninja IX's ABANDONMENT ISSUES

Abandonment Issues: Rideau Correctional & Treatment Centre

2011-12-15T13:26:00.000-05:00

Opened in 1947, The Rideau Correctional Centre in Merrickville, Ontario originally served as a minimum security facility where inmates learned farming skills while serving out their sentences. The agricultural component was phased out over the years, in favour of treatment programs. In the latter years of the jails operations, it housed mainly sex offenders and drug addicts in the 354 beds, and offered various treatment programs in an attempt to combat recidivism. These treatment programs included anger management, substance abuse, and relapse prevention.

The Rideau Correctional & Treatment Centre closed in 2004 as part of the Ontario governments Infrastructure Renewal Program, and the inmate population was transferred to the new super jail in Lindsay. The program also brought about the closure of almost twenty other provincial jails, including the Millbrook Correctional Centre, which I also explored recently.

Our exploration begins with a long walk across the farmer's field, which was once maintained by the inmate population. We continue through dense vegetation and thick brush under the hot summer sun. Ninja and I, clothing covered in thistles and thorns, eventually make our way down a steep embankment, and then back up the other side of the crevice, pushing aside grasses and weeds that are taller than ourselves. We are overjoyed to come across what inmates here would surely have loved to encounter: A hole in the fence.

And so here we are, breaking into prison.

The basketball courts, the red brick building exteriors and the perimeter fence towering overhead instantly pay a handsome reward for the long treacherous walk, but as is our modus operandi, we immediately seek the safety of shelter inside the closest building, so as not to be seen. A helicopter flies overhead just after we enter what turns out to be the minimum security building.

We explore each and every accessible building in complete silence, unaware if there is security present on site. We have acquired proficient skills at team stealth and communicating with hand gestures and whispered code words. We take our time in each building, photographing and soaking in the energy, but we scurry hurriedly like mice between the buildings. Significant damage has occurred in the seven years since the jails closure, by the hands of man and mother nature alike. In some areas, the black mould is absolutely overwhelming, especially in some of the cell blocks.

When we come across the solitary confinement cells, I enter a cell and lay down on the cold blue steel bed frame, and Ninja closes the door behind me, enclosing me in darkness. A sense of utter loneliness and claustrophobia sets in and after about 3 minutes I hop to my feet and exit the cell. Inmates would have spent 23 hours per day in these cells while serving time in solitary confinement. We make our way outside to the tiny rec yard where solitary inmates would have spent only one hour of each day, before returning to their cells, which would have been as bare as they are on this day, with the possible exception of a mattress and some bedding.

In the long hallways of the office buildings, that were likely used for therapy sessions, rooms repeat themselves endlessly. The basement of one such building contains several large open rooms, used for group therapy sessions, I assume. We quickly wander through the cafeteria, and the gymnasium, where basketball hoops still hang from the walls surrounded by orange stencils of athletes that conjure up visions of artwork by my friend Pahnl. The Admitting & Discharge area fascinates us, as this was the first and last room that inmates would see during their stay at Rideau Correctional. We discuss this admission process at length and walk ourselves through it, then we sit down in the holding cell together and share a brief hug and kiss. Our discussion carries itself forward quietly, touching on the irony of the situation: The sense of freedom that we feel having this entire jail to ourselves, enclosed in this holding cell.

After scouring every inch of every accessible building, we conclude that we are indeed alone, and we make our way back through each and every cell block before calmly walking the interior of the perimeter fence to get our exterior photos.

And so here we are, breaking out of prison.

Through the hole in the fence, down and back up the embankment, through the brush, across the farmer's field, and into our getaway car.

We hope you enjoyed your time served at Rideau Correctional & Treatment Centre with us, and hereby release you from our custody due to good behavior. Hopefully you will be recidivists and return to our blog site, but not to our prison cells.

click here to check out all of jerm & ninja IX's ABANDONMENT ISSUES

Abandonment Issues: Woodview Public School

2011-12-14T18:31:00.000-05:00

Woodview Public School was built in 1956. The 6,653 square foot, single storey Masonry structure rests on approximately 9.91 acres in Otonabee South Monaghan Township, just beyond the eastern city limits of Peterborough, Ontario. It contains only 5 classrooms.

It was in these classrooms that my mother and father first met. They are both present in the lead photo above.

In 1990, the school was closed and used as a storage facility for several years.

My mother reminisced aloud about childhood memories as we wandered the property together earlier this year, along with my older brother. She shared stories of pain and pleasure, laughter, lovelessness and fear. She told me things about my estranged father and his family that I never knew, and pointed out the dumpy white house they rented across the street from the school. We walked through the woods, back to the home that she lived in with her stern Dutch immigrant parents and their ever-growing family. Her father, the butcher: just a mere mention of him still brings a look of fear and discomfort to her face, and her body language even more so. Even now, 5 years after his passing, her discomfort is palpable. In front of this old house just north of the school, she speaks solemnly and quietly about her mother: A woman that was incapable of giving motherly love, as she herself was abandoned by her father after her mother passed away giving birth to her. "Your grandmother grew up in foster homes back in Holland, she never learned how to love because she never learned how to be loved" she added. Such a sad story. We saunter back for another lap of the school, where conversation drifts back to my father, whom I haven't spoken to in over 16 years. He chose alcohol and drugs over his wife and children, and their marriage was brief and tumultuous to say the least.

She told me that she still had a class picture including her and my father from their grade 8 graduation year, her diploma and her report cards all still stored at home. And since the interior was not accessible on this day, we planned to head back to her house and check them out. That was, after we explored two abandoned houses together on the other side of Burnham woods, just a few minutes west. One of these homes she used to play in as a little girl, she told us. "Another Dutch family, a really nice young girl." But alas, the story of those two houses is for another day.

Now I had stopped in at Woodview at least a dozen times over the course of the year, hoping for an open entry point, and was continually shut down. But several months after our visit with our mother, my brother and I made a return trip and were pleased to find an accessible entry point. Unfortunately, the desks and chairs and virtually everything else had been removed, but nevertheless it was worth the wait, even if just to show these photographs to our mother.

Upon noticing a motion detector acknowledge our presence in the Principals Office, and an active alarm on a main door, we made quick work of photographing the tiny building and made our way back to those two abandoned houses down the street.

Here are my mother's grade 8 report card and diploma from Woodview Public School...

Thanks for taking the time to explore this old school with my family and I, this building holds a very dear and special place in my mother's heart, and if not for my parents meeting here, I'd never have been born and lived to tell this story.

click here to check out all of jerm & ninja IX's ABANDONMENT ISSUES

Abandonment Issues: R.L. Hearn Thermal Generating Station

2011-11-20T17:39:00.001-05:00

The R.L. Hearn Thermal Generating Station opened in 1951, providing power to the city of Toronto and beyond. On March 22, 1961, the plant hit full steam so to speak. At full capacity of 1 200 MW, the boilers burned approximately 400 tonnes of coal per hour, and 36 million gallons of Lake Ontario water were also needed hourly to cool the turbines and other equipment. At its peak in the 1960s, the plant employed over 600 people. Hearn was a heavy polluter and contributed to Toronto's smog problem, which continues to be an environmental and health issue to this day. In 1971, the entire plant was converted to burn natural gas, but remained to burn coal in 4 of the 8 units. In 1978-79, units 1-5 were mothballed, and in 1983, due to air pollution and an abundant source of energy across the province, power production ceased. 10 employees remained at Hearn until 1995, manning the electrical control room, operating some of the generators as synchronous condensers to improve Toronto's power quality.
In 2002, the boilers and other equipment were removed in anticipation of a new lease with Studios of America, who planned to build a massive film studio on site, but the deal fell through. However, Studios of America still has a lease to this day with Ontario Power, with a duration between 20 and 32 years, depending on which party you ask. Many films and television shows have been filmed at Hearn in recent years, and it has become a playground for urban explorers and photographers.

As alluring as Hearn may be, it also presents a plethora of dangers. On June 15, 2008, a fellow urban explorer was trespassing on site, when he fell three stories into a coal chute where he was trapped for three hours, pinned under a steel plate. Unfortunately, he succumbed to his injuries and died in hospital two days later.

This post is dedicated to the memory of that explorer, and his loved ones.
R.I.P. Ryan Nyenhuis.

Our first pilgrimage to Hearn in February of 2011 was a scouting mission that went all wrong. Face to face with security is a bad way to start a scout. It left a sour taste in both of our mouths but taught us many valuable lessons that have helped us greatly in all of our explorations this year.

And here we stand, finally inside the belly of the beast, tense in the present tense. jerm and Ninja IX, with our tour guide, a fellow explorer named Skootles. Our introductions are brief and incomplete when out of nowhere Skootles dodges behind a pillar, kicking up dust, and we do likewise instinctively. A man is standing across the building, glaring in our direction. We assume he is the security guard that patrols the property 24/7, and we become mannequins. We peek and creep around corners, hoping to avoid him as he gets closer and closer. We take a wrong turn and pin ourselves in a corner. We whisper and plot, gesturing with our hands. He saw me peek out just now, I know he did. We locked eyes. To our surprise, he passes us by and we quickly venture deeper into Hearn.

Filming had just wrapped for the new Resident Evil Retribution movie, and a small crew of workers is dismantling the set. We make it to one of the control rooms, which is still covered in faux snow and Commie propaganda from the movie set. Then we silently and stealthily traverse the staircases and catwalks. My crippling fear of heights overwhelms me, but with the encouragement and support from Ninja and Skootles, I keep putting one foot in front of the other, hanging on for dear life, gripping the dust covered handrails with white knuckles and sweaty palms. Endless stories above the crew on ground level, we continue to ascend the metal staircases. I have the shakes. My dirty palms are sweating profusely and my heart is pounding out of my chest. The crew remains oblivious to our presence high above, although we remain vigilantly aware of their movements. Stepping out onto the sub roofs, the cold air chills my sweaty face and hands. After walking most of the catwalks and stopping in all of the control rooms, we plan our final ascension to the roof. The importance of support from fellow explorers cannot be overstated, as considerations are made to accommodate my fear of heights, and we retrace our steps to our entry point, where a concrete staircase leads us to the roof. A strong wind blows my long hair into my face, as we enjoy snacks, conversation and the views of the beautiful skyline of downtown Toronto, and Lake Ontario.

turbine hall of fame

turbine hollow

pillars of the community

lurking in the shadows

age against the machine

everything but the kitchen sink

dust collector 1-8

proportional band

out of order

the peelers

T.

subrooftopping

office space

kilograms per second

out of control room

pushing buttons

up up and away

fear factory

fear of heights

here we go again

i do my little thing on the catwalk

red tape

Please hang up and try your call again. This is a recording.

cracked pipe

heaven spot

don't look down

control room

360

wheel of fortune

dialed in

inter-office memo Oct 8/76

prop-aganda

Resident Evil Redemption prop

lever me alone

A2 A1

The view of downtown Toronto from the roof of Hearn

smoke stack clouds

the ghosts of ninja IX & skootles

on the road again

Thank you for taking the time to explore Hearn with us, and a special thanks to skootles for the guided tour.

click here to check out all of jerm & ninja IX's ABANDONMENT ISSUES

Abandonment Issues: Marilyn Bebee & Michael Howreluk House

2011-11-16T13:50:00.001-05:00

In a matter of minutes after spotting the wet footprint in the illuminated basement, and running from the light in the Angel with a Crown of Thorns House, we come across yet another abandoned house.

We are greeted by a partially collapsing porch, somehow still holding the weight of a giant rusted freezer and other appliances. As soon as I step up though, a soggy warped board snaps under my 190 pound frame. I catch myself with a little footwork and dance backwards into Ninja's arms, avoiding possible injury. We step back again. A symphony of crackling maple leaves accompanies our every step like a crispy Premier Gang Starr beat. Crackle crackle thump, crackle crackle thump. I photograph the front of the house, which is oddly void of windows.

Around back, we hope for any easier point of entry, which we encounter. Only to quickly discover that the kitchen floor has collapsed and further entry from this point is too hazardous.

Dinner is served

Eve r y thi n g F a l l s Apa r t

Another brick in the floor

Back out front, a pick-up truck flies by, and a man with a beard longer than mine waves at us as we step over the threshold, waving back at him. Cold war era appliances and empty 80s cola war cans first steal my attention.

Cola War Cans

Stove top nose drop

TIME OFF HOURS COOK

Ye olde hand crank

An envelope on the floor draws my fingers toward it as if magnetically, seeking out the needle in the chaos of clutter. It is addressed to Michael Howreluk. A shiver rises up my spine as i remove and unfold the page, which is dated February 16, 1982.

"...Who is Michael Howreluk?"

"I don't know but in 1982 he owed $646.70 to Texaco Canada..."

Several dated personal possessions are strewn about the floor of the entire house, everything from children's toys to women's shoes. Life seemingly stopped here in the 1980s. A teenage boy's Bauer hockey skate rests in peace atop a torn apart 30 cent copy of Mechanix Illustrated, dated September 1967. In a play room upstairs, a train set is dismantled and off track amongst boxes for race tracks and a Slavia 630 Standard air rifle. I spot and race toward an Etch A Sketch on the floor in the far corner, only to discover that it too seems to have died in the 80s. I continue to turn the poles that are missing their knobs, etching my invisible image, an abandoned house on the horizon, the place I am standing.

"...Howreluk, is that Czechoslovakian, this air rifle box says it is made in Czechoslovakia?"

"I'm not sure, but who the hell was Marilyn Bebee?"

Sinderella

This skate has been out almost as long as Crosby

Upstairs in the play room

Violence of the lambs

slavia 630 standard

TRAINS

Its in the bag

Unmastered bedroom

Medicine cabinet habit

Etch A Sketchy

Etch A Sketch 4S

"...Marilyn who?"

"This school workbook, all of the assignments are dated 1939, Bunker Hill School, and signed by a Marilyn Bebee."

Assignments in math and English penciled onto lined paper 72 years before I'm standing here flipping the pages. Line after line of cursive writing, with gradual improvement in size, shape and style over the course of the year. William Blake's 'The Lamb' is etched in the innocent penciled print of a young girl. On the opposite page a very young Marilyn Bebee's letter writing exercise reads as follows.

Bunker Hill School,
January 16, 1939

The Manager,
Avonlea Farm
Toronto, Ont.

Dear Sir;
We are learing about dairing in our Science lessons. We should like to visit your farm any day after school. Please let us know soon if we may come, and on what day.

Yours truly,

Marilyn

Marilyn Bebee's 1939 Bunker Hill School workbook

Year 1939 - Flowers, Roots and Vegetables.

William Blake's THE LAMB

This post is dedicated to Marilyn Bebee & Michael Howreluk, however it may find them, in life or in memory.

click here to check out all of jerm & ninja IX's ABANDONMENT ISSUES

Abandonment Issues: Standard Chemical Ruins

2011-11-06T22:13:00.000-05:00

Built in 1904 by Richard Donald, for whom the town of Donald, Ontario was named after, the plant manufactured charcoal, wood alcohol, acetate of lime and other by-products using local timber. In 1915, The Standard Chemical Company took over the plant, which was facing financial hardships. Standard Chemical ceased operations 31 years later, in 1946, when a large scale fire decimated an already dwindling supply of local maple trees. Several of the plants buildings were destroyed at this time, as well as the post office and houses that once lined the adjacent rail bed.

On this cloudy day in late August, 65 years after the closure of Standard Chemical, we briskly pass by the NO TRESPASSING signs and enter the old ruins. Just behind us, a large purple ball bounces down the road, passing us by like a fleeting moment in time.

The concrete structures are merely shells of there former selves, skeletal remains. The secondary growth deciduous coniferous forest of Donald is reclaiming the old ruins. Emerging plants are sprouting from cracks and crevices in the ceiling of the collapsing tunnels under my feet, and also cling to the ledges overhead. Several evergreens now call the ruins home, living on the brief flashes of sunlight that strobe through a few holes in the high ceiling above for only a few moments each day. Looking up, the state of collapse is suddenly alarming. Beneath my feet, I traverse massive piles of concrete that once made up the ceiling above. Large chunks of concrete also hang from rusted re-bar overhead. Its like some sort of god hit pause midway through a collapse, and at any moment that collapse could resume. And here I stand. The shell of this first building is several stories high, but there is no way up to be found. I leap side to side above the collapsing tunnels, all the way to the end of the structure, before venturing down into them. The concrete shell remnants of the upper floors tower overhead like god's private balconies.

As I enter the tunnels, I am all too well aware of the inherent dangers. The tunnel is in a severe state of collapse. Large wooden beams are crumbling under the weight of the concrete, and have crashed to the tunnel floor every few feet. Much of the tunnels ceiling is still somewhat intact, hanging precariously in a V shape just above my head. My fear is palpable, but against my better judgment, I carry on tentatively, and make it from end to end.

Before leaving this first building, we stop again at the beautiful piece of graffiti that first welcomed us inside. It is a fantastic free flowing floral filigree design that accentuates and pays tribute to the reclamation of nature that is already at work in the space.

The design fluently flows further out into the building, decorating one of the concrete chunks that hangs dangerously from the ruins above. In my humble opinion, this particular graffiti is not the result of an act of vandalism, it is a gift. It is something raw and pure, a connection between man and his environment, leaving a visual dialogue that tells a story of understanding and acceptance of the forces at work. It is a gift from an artist, to the space itself, and to the people like me that venture into these forgotten spaces.

Outside again, the purple ball makes another appearance. It seemingly followed us onto the property, ignoring the NO TRESPASSING signs with the same utter disregard as us. This time, I kick it, and it flies through the air, into the thick brush. Ninja exclaims, "He shoots, he scores."

This next building welcomes us in the same manner as the last, the floral filigree graffiti seemingly sprouting from a wooden door and growing like vines across the wall. A rotting red canoe carcass and a red leather chair have been incorporated into the mural, further mimicking the role of nature in the space, and telling a story that is very much capturing the here and now of the Standard Chemical Ruins.

A tall slender staircase with no railings rises above the mural, and from atop it, I snap photos outside, back at that first building, and then down into the shell of this second building.

Deeper into this building, I cannot reach the top portion of a concrete staircase that hangs from the second floor, so I climb up the hard way. Seconds later, my wife Ninja's voice echoes from below, "Staircase...staircase...staircase."

There are at least 4 or 5 floors above me here, a single fern clings to the raw concrete several stories up. Circular patterns of varying sizes are everywhere, voids in the bare concrete. The circles get smaller in each floor above, until the top floor, where the circles are as small as a hole on the green of the abandoned White's Mini Golf in Wasaga Beach. Massive iron furnaces once stood here, several stories high. The process of removing these furnaces in 1946 and selling them for scrap would explain the removal of the outer walls, I ponder aloud. "Pardon...pardon...pardon?" echoes from below, traveling through the circles. Ninja finally ascends the staircase and joins me, sitting on the edge of the giant circle, our legs dangling.

After wandering deeper onto the property and crossing the river, past the tiny waterfall, we find an occupied residence and quickly retrace our steps back off of the property. We circle the building across the road, which first caught our attention, and clearly belongs to the old Standard Chemical Ruins, but it is sealed tight. This building has clearly seen very recent renovations.

Adjacent to this building, on the other side of the old Victoria Railway, which is now a 90 kilometre cyclists trail from Lindsay to Haliburton, rests The Little Tart, the best bakery we've ever found within a 20 second walk from an abandonment. With delicious lemon squares and butter tarts in our hands and mouths, we conversed with the baker, and he shared with us the history that I have just shared with you. He also added that the sealed building under renovations has been saved by dedicated locals and is currently being restored as a centre for small contractors and green building suppliers to market their services. A great effort has been made to save this building, and the history that it represents, he tells us. An iphone internet search corroborates his claims, as we exit The Little Tart, only to be passed by once again by the bouncing purple ball.

This exploration was prefaced by the discovery of the long abandoned Gelert Anglican Church to the south, and followed up with the exploration of the Haliburton School of The Arts to the north.

click here to check out all of jerm & ninja IX's ABANDONMENT ISSUES

Abandonment Issues: Angel with a Crown of Thorns House

2011-11-02T11:43:00.000-04:00

"An angel with a crown of thorns...", my wife Ninja says softly, pointing in through a bedroom window. Oblivious to the obvious, with my hands arched tightly between my forehead and cheeks, and the window, I respond in a raspy whisper, "A devil on both shoulders."

This was after we spotted a white house with a small hole in the roof, on the side of yet another dirt road, in the vast expanse of rural Ontario. After we parked and hiked, and the grass and poison ivy in the overgrown driveway tickled the a1one tattoos on my exposed calves. After finding the fire pit, the citronella torch, and the shed. After stealthily scoping the circumference and verbally announcing our presence. And just before we declared the location abandoned and made our way inside.

An angel with a crown of thorns, a devil on both shoulders. A tricycle, a treasure chest, and my own image reflecting back at me. Antiquated appliances and a fully furnished living room. Mould and moss and mud and muck, natural decay at its finest. Wine glasses atop the kitchen counter prompt me to reach for my flask, and I sip of the devil's brew. I can't so much turn water into wine as I can turn massive quantities of alcohol into piss and regrets. The kitchen counters stagnate in a state of constant collapse. Another glance back at the wine glasses prompts me to consider that maybe someone was in the middle of doing the dishes, and then suddenly vanished, or passed away. The laundry piled on the living room chair prompts a similar thought process. Chores, vanishing, death. Looters, could also be responsible for this, emptying drawers and cabinets in search of valuables, I think to myself. The TV is gone, the treasure chest is empty. Maybe the clothes were in the treasure chest? An old record player on the entertainment unit is covered in a thin layer of dust. A rotary phone hangs from the wall above a wooden rocking chair and crumbled chunks of drywall. Beyond that is a bedroom, which is in remarkably pristine condition in contrast to the rest of the house. It is on the window sill in this room that I see it, in all its glory. A bright halo of light pounds through the window above the angel with a crown of thorns.

On the second floor, random objects are strewn about, including several lampshades, which provides somewhat of a foreshadowing for what I would encounter in the basement.

The Angel with a Crown of Thorns House.

The branches of a family tree.

The front door is locked, or blocked.

The family that prays together, fades together.

The tricycle of terror.

The TV is gone, the chest and cabinets emptied. The chair in the centre of the room is piled with laundry, as if someone was about to fold it before vanishing into thin air.

Sometimes, there are no words.

A self portrait is snapped as I catch myself passing by in a mirror.

This old empty wooden chest was a treasure in itself.

The needle never drops, the music never starts.

A child's room, at the front of the house, furniture askew.

The mould is overwhelming in the kitchen. I step outside for a moment.

The kitchen has rotted around the dishes, which are only half done. It appears that someone just walked off halfway through doing the dishes, and never came back.

Dishes in progress, paper towels still on the rack.

It is always interesting to come across appliances from generations past.

The great cabinet collapse.

The dishwasher is out of order. Large knives are partially buried in the muck atop it.

The rocking chair and the rotary phone. I stood here for a few moments, pondering all of the conversations that may have taken place right in this spot, and all of the emotions that would have been felt here.

This bedroom is in remarkable condition considering the mould and decay that has devoured the rest of the house. It is this room, that is watched over by the Angel with a Crown of Thorns.

"What was that???"

The second floor is littered with a random assortment of objects, primarily lampshades. A foreshadowing of what I would encounter in the basement.

The air is thick with mould, I can feel it in my infected ears.

Autumn leaves fall onto the warped floorboards of a second floor bedroom.

The basement stairs catch my attention as I saunter back through the house, and I stop in my muddy tracks. A real what the fuck moment.

"Hello?! Is someone down there?" How the fuck are these lights possibly still on?

A very uneasy feeling comes over me as I snap this image. How could these lights still be on? Why is everything so clean and organized? Why is there a wet footprint in the corner?

Dexter and kill rooms and Gacy and pig farmer Picton and feet washing up on the shores of BC and similar thoughts chase me up the stairs and out of the light, and out of the house, and down the road, where we stumble upon yet another abandoned house, and to the south, another.

Those stories will surely be told in time, but now, we must pack our bags and hit the road yet again. A surprise trip planned by Ninja for my birthday is about to unfold, and knowing us, anything and everything is about to happen.

Running from the light, with no protection from the angels, and a devil on both shoulders, I bid you adieu.

click here to check out all of jerm & ninja IX's ABANDONMENT ISSUES

Abandonment Issues: Bobcaygeon House of Hoarders

2011-10-18T20:34:00.000-04:00

This isn't just a story about a man exploring an abandoned house, this is a story about living with the loss of loved ones. This is a story about consumption and compulsion and coping mechanisms.

This is a love story.

Immediately upon cracking open the door, I am overwhelmed. A repulsive stench is thick in the hot air and more powerful than anything my olfactory system has ever encountered. My eyes instantly begin to tear up, and after snapping the following photo, I cough into my elbow, and retreat.

I stand outside under a drooping willow tree, trying not to think about the pungent odor, but rather what I saw inside. A thick carpet of everything imaginable is a lopsided and unstable foundation to giant mountains of everything else. Intrigued, and already reeking of the pukey must, I take a few deep breaths, and re-open the door.

Much like the Rockies form a wall between Calgary and the West, the mountains of stuff, things and crap carve a maze throughout the first floor of this large farmhouse, blocking access to the rooms in the front of the house. The tiny over-stocked kitchen is covered in a thick brown film of bacteria, and I turn away. The dining room table is buried amongst scattered debris, mostly garbage. Newspapers, magazines, bills, flyers and hundreds of empty food containers, in every direction, as far as the eye can see. A string clothesline sags across the dining room from wall to wall above the table, and from it hang more plastic bags containing even more plastic containers and bags. I follow the maze out of the kitchen and into the living room, growing fairly accustom to, but still repulsed by the intense stench. With every step my feet sink into the unknown depths of the stuff and things that have chipped off and fallen from the adjacent mountains over time. Traversing this valley is not easy, and care must be taken with each step to get a stable foothold.

In the living room, with garbage mountain behind me, the story begins to unfold. As seen in the lead photo, mountains of clothing reach glorious heights and are peppered with random books and other objects like pockets of snowfall accumulation. Antique chests and bureaus are all but hidden under and behind these massive mountains of dated clothing.

A photograph on the wall steals my attention, and i climb partway up the mountain for a better view. Under a big red bow, the photograph depicts a husband and wife, looking right into the camera. My camera. Surrounding the framed image are wedding photographs and dozens of ribbons bearing the occupants names, awarded for agricultural achievements in the local community. The entire wall is covered in spiderwebs, which have trapped nothing but dust.

The couple continue to stare at me, standing in their living room, staring back at them. A plaque to the left of the photograph contains a poem entitled 'Lifes Clock'. The energy in the room in this moment inspires me to read it aloud...

"The clock of life is wound but once,
And no man has the power,
To tell just when the hands will stop,
At late or early hour-

To lose one's wealth is sad indeed,
To lose one's health is more;
To lose one's soul is such a loss,
As no man can restore.

The present only is our own,
Live, love, toil with a will,
Place no faith in tomorrow-for
The clock may then be still."

Again, tears begin to roll down my cheek, partly due to the hot nasty stench in the air, but more so attributed to the dots I am beginning to connect, and the story that is unraveling.

With the five foot tall clothing mountain ridge bisecting the room, the maze leads me to a staircase, and i quickly hop up the stairs, two at a time. Corey Hart and a young Mats Sundin are smiling in the corner. Here, even more ribbons hang on the wall, pierced with rusty thumbtacks. These ribbons are for equestrian accomplishments, and bear the name of the couple's daughter. Obviously, I draw a connection to the Havelock Horse House. A buff topless dude on a poster is the only other obvious sign that this once was a girl's room. There is remarkably less stuff accumulated in this area, that is until I round the corner.

The maze continues to lead me through room after room, all of them packed with everything in the world and topped with layers of clothing. Using my hands, the tight hallways finally provide some stability on the shifting landscape beneath my feet.

The posters on the walls in one of the rooms depict KISS, motorcycles and scantily clad women, this was a boys room. Both of these kids rooms appear to have been left virtually as is, after the children left home in the early to mid nineties. The boys room however, eventually succumbed to the force of the shifting mountains, and was eventually buried under the weight of it all. As were all of the other rooms and hallways in the house. It became obvious that given more of that precious time, that last room, that girls room atop the stairs, would have also been filled up and buried.

Several fully furnished and decorated bedrooms filled with all of the makings of home, and then buried in more of them.

Finally, a skinny staircase leads me back downstairs and into the pitch blackness of the foyer, where my camera flashes and illuminates a deer head mounted on the wall above me, startling me almost to death. A massive wooden shelf is blocking the front door, stuffed with books and board games, under the watchful eye of the deer.

A few shaky steps forward, I open the door and find myself on the other side of the great divide of Mt. Clothing. One of these front rooms appeared to be a study at one point in time, still filled with decorations and trinkets, buried under the pain of losing a loved one.

Lifes Clock is indeed still.

In a corner, i reach down and spin an old globe, kicking a cloud of dust into the atmosphere around the world, and then I retrace my steps up and around and down, slowly traversing the unstable ground of the valley floor.

At the door, I stop one last time to look around, hold a deep breath, and snap these final images of the filthy kitchen.

Back outside, the air never tasted fresher.

With the loss of a spouse, a lifelong partner, best friend and soul mate, we are left with nothing but time. Memories are not enough to hold onto, and eventually we lose those as well. My interpretation of the story told by this home, is that the surviving spouse couldn't let go of anything, knowing all too well that it can never come back. True love is a magical and beautiful thing, to that I can attest, but the loneliness that love leaves behind is my greatest fear.

Unfortunately, this is how love stories end.

click here to check out all of jerm & ninja IX's ABANDONMENT ISSUES

Abandonment Issues: Knox United Church

2011-10-14T12:37:00.003-04:00

Knox Church was constructed on Wolfe Street, between Park and Rubidge, in Peterborough, Ontario, in 1910. Within a few years, the body of the large church was added and this portion of the building became known as Keith Hall, a multi-purpose community centre.

In 2011, one hundred and one years after the church opened, the congregation at Knox United Church had dwindled and shrunk to an unsustainable low, from over four hundred to a mere forty, and the church was shut down by the United Church of Canada.

A potential deal quickly emerged to sell the property to a local community drop-in centre, but the neighborhood went into an uproar about the unsavory characters that would attract, and coincidentally, the deal fell through. The United Church is still hoping to attract a buyer, and as I found out, is currently renting space to several community groups, a catering company and other interested parties. Although it is far from being abandoned, it has lost its intended function, and its future is unknown. With the church actively seeking a buyer, it seemed important to document this magnificent structure in its current state before it is purchased and renovated into god knows what.

Most of the stained glass had been covered with thick plastic on the outside, I noticed, after ringing the doorbell. The gentleman that I had spoken with previously answered the door, with a smile, a handshake and a warmth that stayed with us for almost two hours. He answered all of our questions, discussed our own religious inexperience with no judgment, and best of all, allowed us to meander throughout the church extensively, with his company. He even allowed me to climb up into the old tower that no one had been into for decades, and climb around in the ultra-tight inner workings behind the organ, which was truly awesome. Unfortunately, it was so tight, I regretfully didn't bring the camera into the organ. He allowed us to poke around in back rooms, including the choir rehearsal room, which was now filled with Christmas storage and church memorabilia. He showed us artifacts and memorabilia donated to the church over the century that it served the community, and told us about his efforts to contact the kin of such donors, that have long since left the flock, to return these items. He took us into the locked minister's study and basement, and showed us every marriage certificate in the churches history. As we perused a plethora of historic photographs, he offered an elegant and timely narrative. He even chuckled when I jokingly referred to his beloved church as The Church of Hard Knox.

Upon exiting, we thanked him for his time and graciousness and offered one last series of questions that only time will ever answer.

Have the sheep lost their way, or has the Shepard? Is the flock finally free, or are they doomed?

Welcome to Knox United Church

MISSING: Congregation

the last sermon

the view from here

organic

walking down the aisle

thy will be done

my grace is sufficient for thee

when the music stops

stairway to heaven

ascending

nailed to a cross

ladder to heaven

Goliath

Knox Marriage Register July 1907 - Jan 1920

lead us not into temptation

God grant me the serenity...

Scotch Banquet at Knox (Keith) Hall September 22nd, 1911

Keith Hall August 12, 2010

front and centre

HOLY BIBLE Revised Standard Edition

Ministers Study

no one's arc

burning in hell for eternity

the best seat in the house of god

upper level

Knox hockey team

Knox Church Athletic Assoc.

Fiftieth Anniversary 1910-1960

Are you last to leave the church?

click here to check out all of jerm & ninja IX's ABANDONMENT ISSUES

Abandonment Issues: Edgar

2011-10-12T13:51:00.000-04:00

The following arial photo was found online, it truly conveys the massive scope of Edgar.

In 1952, under threat of air attacks from the Soviets, RCAF Station Edgar was constructed on one of the highest points in Simcoe County, in Edgar, Ontario. The Radar Base was the southernmost base on the Pinetree Line, and was home to the 31st Aircraft Control & Warning Squadron (later renamed Radar Squadron). RCAF Edgar was a self-contained city, featuring 82 detached and semi-detached dwellings, a school, infirmary, church, vocational work shop building, recreation centre that included an indoor pool and bowling alley, food service building, two office buildings, an auto repair shop, a multi-resident group home, a fire hall, sports fields and three miles of road. In those early days, it also had it's own water treatment and distribution facility.

In 1964, March, only twelve years later, RCAF Station Edgar was deemed unnecessary, due to advancements that allowed other Pinetree Line bases to cover it's area of responsibility. By the end of that month, it was shut down and the RCAF flag was lowered, one last time. Later that year, Edgar was sold to the provincial government for $218,225.

In 1966, Adult Occupational Centre Edgar became home to people with mental and physical disabilities. People would live on site in the former barracks, in the the self-contained city. Treatment, recreational activities, church services, schooling and employment were all available to the residents. Supported employment was a key factor in the rehabilitation treatment offered at Edgar, designed to give a sense of purpose to the individual. Many Toronto businesses sent their products to Edgar for assembly and/or packaging. Recently, my father in law reminisced on his days in the warehouse at Bic pen in Toronto in his early twenties, when the van would come from Edgar to pick up shipments of pens that were to be sorted by colour and packaged into plastic sleeves. He recalled a young man that accompanied the driver, full of exuberance and excitement about his duties.

In 1999, as part of the governments de-institutionalization plan, Adult Occupational Centre Edgar was completely shut down.

Between 1999 and 2011, the only inhabitants of this twice bustling community were the security guards that patrolled the grounds 24/7, and the police and military units that occasionally used it for training purposes. Oh, and the urban explorers, of course.

Last month, when i got word that Edgar was to be demolished, it climbed up my list of must see spots and a camping trip was planned around this and other locations in the vicinity. I knew fragments of the information that I just shared with you as we trekked through the forest towards the unknown in early September, but the only thing i really knew was that security was tight here, and stealth must be used to effectively experience all that Edgar has to offer. For example, a prolific Barrie-based explorer that has made several trips to Edgar told me that "Security there are fucking Nazi's...". Honestly, that just makes it more fun.

A stealthy approach through the forest. Creeping quietly along the tree line, dashing through the wide open spaces, tip-toeing into the safety of cover. Ascending to a safer height and surveying the landscape, plotting a route. In that first building, yellow plastic bags full of asbestos lined the dark shell of a hallway, a scene that would repeat itself. Thumping bass was thundering up the hill at us, too close for comfort, covering up the other noises that would have let us know what we were up against. Between buildings, we felt exposed, we fluttered and hopped. Inside again, the bass was seemingly louder, which meant we were getting closer to the source. A subtle beeping noise faded in and out in the distance.

Again, we fluttered, and then we jogged, and then we ran. Building to building, we zipped to and fro like hummingbirds from foxglove to morning glory. Inside the food services and cafeteria building, something became glaringly obvious to us. The beeping was getting closer and closer, and was accompanied by several loud voices. We were now surrounded, not by security, but a full-scale demolition crew that was a quarter of the way through demolishing the entire complex. Dump trucks and backhoes were suddenly passing us by, we were surrounded on all sides, and so we waited. For several minutes, we were mannequins. We sneaked quietly throughout the building and photographed, careful not to step on the carpet of broken glass fragments that littered the floor. Watching the windows, waiting, and when our moment came, we took it.

Behind what must have been an office building, we hunkered down under a canopy of Sumac trees to catch our breath. The source of the bass was a pick-up truck parked near the garages in the southeast corner of the complex, blaring Black Eyed Pieces of Shitty Music, so we steered clear. We then descended the hill through a dense batch of Sumacs, exiting onto the main road inside from the front entrance, where we spotted a security guard beside his truck, chatting with members of the demo crew. Back into the cover of the Sumacs we went, west to the overgrown chapel, which was sealed tight. Beyond the chapel, the residential area once stood, but unfortunately, the majority of the homes had already been demolished. Concrete staircases rose from the ground above hollowed basements, amongst piles of salvageable metals. Cloud cover came and went repeatedly. Weaving back through the complex, it must have been luck. They were seemingly everywhere, yet we avoided them all with a grace that seemed natural. As soon as we'd get out of sight, they would round a corner. We dove into the thick roadside brush at all the right moments, playing possum to perfection.

Once off the property undetected, we meandered back through the forest at a slow jaunt, glowing with the satisfaction that comes with a successful mission. As we poked through the tree line onto the road and opened the doors to the car, two uniformed O.P.P. officers drove up in unmarked SUV's and slowed down, only to wave at us, and continue on their way.

By the end of September, 2011, all of the buildings at Edgar had been demolished. There are now plans in place for a private developer to build 82 homes on the site.

click here to check out all of jerm & ninja IX's ABANDONMENT ISSUES

Abandonment Issues: Millbrook Correctional Centre

2011-09-20T13:06:00.001-04:00

The Millbrook Correctional Centre first opened in 1957 and for decades, was Ontario's only maximum security facility. It housed provincially sentenced male inmates (a deuce less a day) that were found to be too difficult in other jails. As part of the Ontario governments Infrastructure Renewal Program, the prison was closed in 2003 and the inmate population was transferred to the new super jail in Lindsay. Several other provincial jails were also closed as part of this program, including the Rideau Correctional & Treatment Centre. The Millbrook prison on the hill sat vacant for years before being accessed and documented by hundreds of urban explorers and vandalized by local youth in 2009, at which time it was promptly resealed. Welded so tight, and with so many layers, that it seemed impossible that I would ever get to see it for myself.

Every couple of weeks though, we would return for a nice Sunday morning walk around the prison. We wanted it so bad. We checked everything, but nothing ever changed, it was all welded shut. The irony was never lost on us here either. Continually returning to this old prison, just dying to get inside.

Earlier this year, a gentleman that accessed the prison with his proficient mountain climbing skills shared images that told a tale of Police Emergency Response Training with military grade equipment and explosives within the prison walls, which only excited me more. A few weeks later, on one of our perimeter walks, the garage door was open and loud bangs were coming from inside, intrigued and on edge, I only made it a few steps in before common sense led to flight winning over fight.

Of course a quick discussion with said gentleman revealed that the Police ERT exercises took place a while back, then i remembered the dumpster. It was a demo crew cleaning up after the police training, we concluded. I could have bribed them, i thought. I would have payed Leafs ticket prices to get inside for a couple of hours. Nevertheless, just as we had done at the Insane Asylum, we continued to return every few weeks, hoping for a better result, expecting more of the same.

So there i was last week, laying in a hospital bed for the second time this year, when a newspaper article caught my eye on my iphone. (My chronic ear infections have have taken a drastic turn this year due to the ridiculous amount of dangerous moulds that I have exposed myself to for extended periods of time.) The article spoke of a man and woman from Whitby in their late thirties arrested by Police ERT and K9 Units breaking in to the old prison. I sat up so quickly that i got dizzy from the morphine. I made a few phone calls and pestered my doctor about a time frame for my hospitalization and recovery. Outlook not so good. It wasn't until the end of the week that i would be able to do a recon mission, and then I'd have to rush back to the hospital, and wait.

So there I was, in that same hospital bed again, knowing that i had a shot. Biding my time until morning. And as soon as i was released i poured a splash of ear drops into my ear, threw back a couple of prescribed morphine pills, and in the company of a good friend, finally explored the long awaited Millbrook Correctional Centre.

time is arbitrary

the downward spiral

breach of recon

a deuce less a day

remanded into custody

N block

time for reflection

time to forget

S block

time to fall apart

time to grow old and mouldy

cell extraction

shitter and shower

the inside outside world

the hole

N & S block bullpen

N & S block yard

serving time

recidivism

police brutality

two sides to every story

guard tower

irony

through the glass, we visit.

NOTICE

T-WING CONTROL

shattered dreams

slop

clean up your act

sewn together

gen pop

inmate number

time to waste

#SCRIBLES

ex-cons

cellular level

the sins of the father

life behind bars

like animals in zoos

please sign this form sir

without you

time warp

time to sleep with one eye open

time to feel remorse, or not.

the yard

time for a sentence

time to decay

time to burn for your sins

breach of probation

segregation

isolation

the art of doing time

another breach in the wall

Please have a seat, the physician will be with you shortly

prison dentist

prison doctor

cell mates

cell phone priveleges

shrapnel

escape route

the tower

a taste of freedom

Thanks for spending the time to follow me through the old prison on the hill, i hope you enjoyed our time together. i'm off to the next spot, maybe i'll see you there.

click here to check out all of jerm & ninja IX's ABANDONMENT ISSUES

Abandonment Issues: Haliburton School of The Arts

2011-09-04T19:15:00.001-04:00

The Haliburton School of The Arts, a campus of Sir Sandford Fleming College, was established in 1967, and continues to offer a wide variety of courses ranging from glass blowing to sustainable building design. At the turn of the millennium however, a new campus was constructed in Haliburton, and this old building along a curvy road on the northern shore of Head Lake was left to decay. Left to nature, vandals, and time.

On this day, over a decade after this sculpture was abandoned, it is truly a beautiful piece of art, through my eyes.

The two large classrooms are succumbing to the forces of nature. Moss and mould are merely abstract images painted by Mother Nature upon the floorboards and walls. The geometric patterns of hardwood flooring against the clean lines in the ceiling tiles in the offices are a stark contrast to the warped, soggy floorboards in the mouldy classrooms. Desks have been overturned, and chalkboards have been signed by fellow explorers, as is tradition. Computer monitors present in previous explorer's photographs, were found outside, demolished. A penciled sketch on white paper, taped to a white wall, depicts a room with a clock, a window, and a chair, and I can't help but wonder if that room exists, and if it too, is abandoned by now?

bored of education

sketchy

It is no secret that I am motivated by my fascination with the transformation of public and private space. It was this fascination that had me wandering the back alleys of Vancouver for endless hours almost every day, documenting the ever changing landscape decorated by graffiti and street artists, and eventually becoming one of the most active artists on the scene. The walls around me were being constantly transformed by my fellow citizens, but I didn't even see it. That is, until I opened my eyes. And then it was everywhere, these same city streets were not the same at all. Day by day, they were changing. Weeds were growing up the side of a fence, and a wooden wall had new markings and posters every day, until it burned to the ground. This transformation intrigued me, and my camera became as vital of a tool to capture these brief moments in time, as my pens and markers were. In fact, I haven't picked up a marker in months, I am constantly drawn to more and more of these desolate abandoned locations, to capture moments. Today, at this old abandoned art school, I can't help but notice this process of transformation at work. It is seemingly a much more fragile environment than are the city streets, secluded and open to the violent and unforgiving forces of both man and nature. The photographs taken on this day tell a very different story than the photos that have come before them, and surely a different story than the photos that will follow.

negative space

the art of decay

MC Escher

Abstract by Mother Nature

multi-media

forest indus t r e e

i finally went to art school

surreal

cubic

the rule of three

post modern

student loaner

CLEAN AS YOU GO

art school dropouts

brush it off

Class is dismissed.

click here to check out all of jerm & ninja IX's ABANDONMENT ISSUES

Abandonment Issues: Gelert Anglican Church

2011-08-29T12:50:00.001-04:00

The small town of Gelert, Ontario was settled in 1860, but boomed virtually overnight in 1878 with the arrival of the Victoria Railway. The town was once known as Little Ireland, Snowdonville, and Minden Station, before being renamed to Gelert in 1879. By the mid 1880's, Gelert's population was approximately 120 people, and the town was a shipping hub for cattle and lumber. Saw, shingle and carpet mills were operating in the area by this time. The community continued to grow through the 1890's, with the addition of a hotel, a shoemaker, carpenter and wagonmaker, and a second general store. In 1895, the Anglican Church was built.

Farming was not sustainable in this area, and dozens of farms were abandoned in the first decade of the 1900's, for greener pastures in Western Canada. At the same time, the lumber industry was brought to a screeching halt when fire destroyed a majority of the surrounding woodlands. By 1910, Gelert was no longer the thriving bustling community it once was.

The town was never fully abandoned and a small group of residents still call Gelert home. Today, only a few of the old structures still remain. One of them is the Gelert Anglican Church, which is so overgrown that it is barely even visible from the road.

A small portion of the roof has collapsed, giving Mother Nature a P.O.E. of her own. The floor, which has several holes in it, is leaning heavily to the centre of the tiny church. To my left, the stained glass window is glowing bright, even on this overcast day. The podium, or pulpit, or pedestal, or whatever its called, is just slightly askew, as is the choir leaders podium. There are no hymn books or bibles to be found. Spiderwebs cover almost everything. Raccoon droppings are present inside, as are cigarette butts and beer bottles. God clearly hasn't been here in a while.

enter at your own risk

walk the plank

Please have a seat, thy Lord shall be with thee soon.

the seventh day

in loving memory

it is well

the webs we weave

center stage

preaching to the choir

walk into the light

heavenly gate

preaching to the flock

I am by no means a religious man, but I thoroughly enjoy exploring churches. They seem to always have a certain energy about them. Thanks for stopping by the old church with me stranger, hope to see you again at the next spot.

click here to check out all of jerm & ninja IX's ABANDONMENT ISSUES

Abandonment Issues: Col. Walter E. VanSheenburgh Farm

2011-08-25T13:33:00.000-04:00

The Colonel, that is what we call this old abandoned farm in Havelock, Ontario. The TIME magazine from November 1968 that I found on a bedroom floor was addressed to Walter E. VanSheenburgh, other memorabilia indicated that he was a Colonel. License plates piled and strewn about the garage and barn and field were all dated between 1966 and 1968 as well, denoting a possible abandonment date. The front room of the house was wide open to the elements, and vines were sprawling across the floor at this time in late spring, glowing bright green. Walls stripped to inner slats, and most of the insulation had fallen. Over an hour passed as we explored and photographed and talked. The fridge was open and as I stopped to photograph it a second time, the floor started to crack under my feet. I instinctively jaunted forward, still looking through the lens and narrowly avoided the large hole in the kitchen floor. I laughed, lit a cigarette, and dropped another splash of sauce from my flask, before wandering out back to investigate the barn and walk down to the shores of Belmont Lake with my wife ninja IX. Romance ensued, if I can call it that. We continue to return and visit The Colonel on a regular basis.

outside in

blinded by the light

floral patterned wallpaper and decomposing curtains blowing in the breeze for lack of a better title

frozen in time

the itsy bitsy spider went up the explorers arm

Strawberry Shortcake umbrella

brush it off

pitfalls and hangers on

light it up

the doors

the deep dark depths

the case of the stairs

Never Before Revealed

TIME stood still - November 1968 issue

chair sledding anyone?

innocence is a myth perpetuated by ignorance

the house recognizes the chair

bottle dreams

Peterborough Bedding & Upholstery

the cracking floor and the hole that i almost fell through and the kitchen that contains it

there were hundreds of license plates scattered about the property, all between 1966-68

3 feet high and rising

Thanks for taking the time to explore The Colonel with us. If you are in the area, or want to see what else is in the area, check out the Havelock Horse House, directly to the south, and the Victoria Methodist Church just around the bend. Until next time my friends.

click here to check out all of jerm & ninja IX's ABANDONMENT ISSUES

Abandonment Issues: Welcome Inn & Restaurant

2011-08-22T12:29:00.001-04:00

Welcome to the Welcome Inn and Restaurant, just south of the tiny community of Welcome, Ontario.

On the road again, the car packed full of camping gear and a distant destination in sight. We take the back roads, mapping our journey with new routes every time we criss and cross the province. Very early in the morning, we stop for yet another circumference walk of the long welded shut Milbrook Penitentiary, and then head south. We explore the Carmel Line House, and then just north of highway 401, we drive up on these raggedy looking buildings. We pull right into the driveway, where two men are standing, looking at us, beside a house that is clearly occupied.

Stealth was not an option, and so we used the highly effective method of talking our way in. A genuine interest in someone's property, paired with manners and respect, is often as good as getting a key cut.

The property owner is not only a great host to us, he is also a wealth of information. After extensive warnings, including that of coyote and fishers, he allows us to explore the Inn ourselves, before joining us for a venture into the restaurant.

It was built in the 50's, and closed eight years ago, he tells us. He bought it a few years back from "a millionaire Asian Port Hope couple" for $500,000, and hopes to flip it for $2.5 million, as is. He has already turned down an offer for over a million dollars, he says. His son and his dogs live on site to protect the buildings from vandals, and to avoid being forced to fence the entire property up, which would be way too costly.

The owners name is David and he brought this bike with him from Newfoundland in the 60's, when he was 15 years old. He was proud to say that only the seat has been replaced.

Free to explore at will, a certain weight is lifted. We took our time poking around inside each room and we wandered the overgrown parking lots and field. Check out these photos, I'll meet you back at the restaurant when you're done.

Welcome

no room key

fuckfest

window pains

the carpet DOES NOT match the drapes

PAPER TOWELS Fragile

room service

welcome in

poppin' chairy

shagadelic

disco fever

complimentary breakfast

WE RULE!

phoney

suite dreams

shag swag

over the edge

fully furnished

parking at the rear

We walk back around to the front of the Inn and David steps outside to greet us, with a limp. He walks us to the front door of the restaurant, and tells us that not only does the overgrown pay phone still work, people still use it and Bell still collects from it. He doesn't want anyone in the restaurant without him present, he says, due to the holes in the floor. He tells us that a man he hired to protect the place was a bigger crook than the thieves that had previously salvaged and looted. This is where my wife ninja takes over. She keeps him near the front door conversing about everything from the building itself to his life story. As I traverse piles of mattresses and large holes in the floor with the camera and snap shots, I can hear him telling her about his life as an addictions counselor with the Salvation Army on Queen Street in Toronto for over 20 years, and about the six kids he raised. He tells her about his disabled wife and the health challenges that he has faced, including almost losing his leg. He wears a cross around his neck, but to him it symbolizes love and has nothing to do with organized religion, he says. Cheers to that, I think to myself in the depths of the kitchen, which is packed with furniture from the Inn. When ninja brings the conversation back around to the restaurant, he tells her that he stayed at the Inn and ate at the restaurant long before buying the property. "The fire would be crackling, people would be eating, it was a beautiful atmosphere" he said.

Welcome Inn Restaurant

please wait to be seated

coffee refill?

please have a seat at the bar

side salad

the owner

today's special

kitchen cleanliness

el dente

no substitutions

olden arches

tell lie vision

pour me another poor me

After exiting, we continue the conversation out front for a few minutes before thanking him for his time and graciousness, and then we are off to another campsite near yet another potential exploration site, and whatever else we might find.

Prince Edward County, here we come!

We hope you enjoyed your stay at The Welcome Inn & Restaurant. Thanks for stopping by, we hope to see you again.

click here to check out all of jerm & ninja IX's ABANDONMENT ISSUES

Abandonment Issues: Knob Hill Farms

2011-08-03T17:08:00.007-04:00

The alarm started blaring as soon as I opened the door. I yanked her in behind me and closed it, spinning her into my arms. It was like someone turned up the volume. The alarm now seemingly twice as loud and echoing, announcing our presence for blocks in every direction. Its a scare tactic, I re-assured her, 98 percent of people would be frightened off by it. Then i kissed her on the cheek and walked hand and hand with her into the wide open emptiness, as the alarm screamed a song of urgency and fear from the sky. It screamed at us, warning us of the danger that surely must follow. I continued to re-assure her, and to re-assure myself.

she calls out to me

she is virtually ignored

she wants me inside of her

Knob Hill Farms was a Toronto based supermarket chain that operated from 1951 to 2001. It was founded by Steve Stavro, who was also well known for his relationship with the Toronto Maple Leafs and Toronto Raptors. Mr. Stavro's groundbreaking concept of giant Food Terminals, such as this 226,000 square foot grocery superstore in Oshawa, Ontario, are seen as a predecessor to the modern box stores that litter the North American landscape.

Knob Hill Farms converted the abandoned Ontario Malleable Iron Company Limited's factory in Oshawa into what was described as the world's largest food store, and it officially open in 1983. Spurs for both Canadian Pacific and Canadian Nation Railway lines led directly to the store, which also housed a card shop, bakery, video rental store, pharmacy and dentist's office. The Ontario Malleable Iron Company used the building as an iron foundry after 1898, but the company began operations at the site way back in 1872.

After many re-assuring words and a couple dozen photographs, the alarm stopped. A sigh of relief exuded from inside her and a sense of calm returned. Her eyes smiled, as did her mouth.

she sounds the alarm

she keeps yelling

she introduces herself

she feels vacant, like when her father died.

she smiles

Again, the silence is broken by the screaming alarm. It tells us to get the fuck out of here with it's screeching high pitched rings. Its just a warning shot, its all bluff, I told her, looking her right in the eyes. A sense of urgency and panic is the natural response to ignoring it, I said. We have been programmed since childhood to react a certain way to sirens and alarms. We equate these sounds to danger and urgency and that is exactly what they are counting on. They expect us to run. It is likely a very successful and cheap alternative to hiring full time security, and I can guarantee you that the police would not be wasting resources on responding to this alarm, unless the security guard across the street or someone else called it in. The alarm stopped again, its final chime lingered in the air for seconds. We continued to pass the camera to and fro, as is our routine. I was proud of her. I told her that.

she listens

she looks back

she feels trapped

she opens up to me

she tells me that she doesn't want it to be like this

she shovels all the shit that life can throw at her

she works it

she is yelling again

she seems lonely in the staff room

she walks the linear path

she loves the dark

she is always playing mind games

she reflects on her inner beauty

she reminds me of these old commercials i used to watch

On and off, the alarm. A sense of calm and a sense of tension within her also turning on and off. Motion detectors in some areas could be avoided once we found them, but to explore the entire building, there is no way to avoid setting it off repeatedly. By the time we went upstairs, she had gained confidence. Likely a result of the fact that nothing had happened yet, nothing was happening.

A few large letters remain in the back room on the second floor, set aside in pairs. They once spelled Knob Hill Farms, I assumed, followed by the thought that the rest of the letters had likely been stolen. A pipe is cracked in this room and spraying water onto the old wooden floorboards. All signs indicate that this is a very new leak. We kissed again, we danced. The alarm wasn't an alarm anymore, it was a song. It was a private symphony for only us and the whole world to hear. It was the chorus of us creating our own adventure. There was nothing cookie cutter or big box or prescribed theme park fun about it. It was a freedom song, and it just kept playing on repeat.

she leads me

she winks

she blinks

she bats an eye

she opens herself up to me again and again

she gives freely of herself

she never whispers

she exudes beauty from within

she spells it out

she voices her opinion

she never stops crying

she reaches for a tissue

she cries a steady stream of tears

she wipes her eyes

she leads

she follows

she points out the chair in the corner on timeout

she is happy here

she screams yet again

she makes me promise that i will return to her, and i make that vow.

I remember shopping here as a child, I remember the cheesy commercials with the Christmas jingles. I'll never forget the song she sang and the dance we danced on this day.

She and her both, I love them.

This exploration was brought to you by research, which is a subsidiary of common sense.

click here to check out all of jerm & ninja IX's ABANDONMENT ISSUES

Abandonment Issues: The Hunting Lodge

2011-07-26T21:53:00.002-04:00

The hunting lodge is prepped and ready for visitors. Linens have been folded and placed into pillow cases, and are resting on the laundry machines. The fridge is propped open, the water pump is off, as is the power. All of the windows and doors are locked. There is remarkably little dust, everything seemingly in its place. The maps are drawn and the European porn is stacked high on an end table. A blonde woman reaches into her panties and pauses, for an endless amount of time. To her right, a brunette lady raises her exposed bare hind quarters and stares up at me seductively. I look up. I move on. Radio, flashlight, batteries, check, check, check. 3 kettles rest atop the stove. Spices, Sunlight, napkins, dish rack, towels, pots and pans, cutlery, dishes, garbage bags - the kitchen is fully equipped. The lodge is prepped and stocked so well, its as if a herd of hunters is about to come barreling through the door half in the bag, ready to start killing shit. And here I am, Houdini with a camera and an escalating heart rate. 9 chairs surround the table like a swarming posse. The lump in my throat broadens, the creeks, they give me the creeps, my stomach muscles tighten up.

From outside, the place appears long abandoned. Wooden slats had been painted red only on the front side of the house and the green roof has rusted into a camo pattern. The long grass provides adequate shade for seven hundred thousand or so mosquitoes, to my immense displeasure. I must look like one of the Wacky Waving Inflatable Arm-Flailing Tube Men swinging at the mosquitoes as they bleed me drier than a Rockwood Insane Asylum patient in the mid-1800's. The shed out back has partially collapsed and I am smack dab in the middle of Nowhere, Ontario. It must be abandoned, I argue with a few of the voices in my head.

Standing at the bottom of the stairs, alone, the sinking feeling just keeps sinking, feeling like I'm not alone. A rack full of aged clothing and a dated vacuum disappear behind me as i creep silently up the stairs. All of the doors are closed, and the brightest of white lights angelically glows from beneath them. I tiptoe from room to room, sneaking open each door until the floor is cleared, ready for anything. My back story is sound, the character I'm playing is a regular and I know him well. As I open each door, I ponder the possibilities of what I might come across - A sleeping woman, an old man, an aggressive dog, a dead body, a pack of 9 pissed off hunters? Once the floor is cleared, my camera takes lead and I follow it like a sheep to its Shepard, heart still racing. I find myself pondering the possibilities of way back when, only for a brief moment, before the fight or flight instinct pulls me back outside. Score another round to the mosquitoes, pesky fuckers.

How long has it been since they have used this Hunting Lodge? Who are they? And when, or even will they be back? I still don't have any answers, but I have a handful of photographs.

IX chairs

Porner (Porn Corner)

club MAYFAIR

THE ROOM

the pot calling the hash black

shottys and rifles

The Hunter Games

go the fuck to sleep

fashion weak

a bedtime story

boom beddy bye bye

lite brite

cabin fever

going down on a hunting lodge

With so much left unsaid, I have nothing else to say.

click here to check out all of jerm & ninja IX's ABANDONMENT ISSUES

Abandonment Issues: Apsley Fire House

2011-07-13T18:43:00.006-04:00

At 3:59 am on December 1st, 2010, Kemp's Shell service station went up in flames. The historic building had stood in the heart of Apsley for over a century and as the only gas station in town, it was a great loss to the small community. All 40 volunteer firefighters from the North Kawartha Fire Department were called in to fight the blaze, as well as back-up from Smith-Ennismore-Lakefield. The gas pumps are buried deep and contain a safety valve that shut off the gas in case of fire, but the real concern was the fact that the service station was full of propane tanks, according to the North Kawartha Fire Chief. Despite the extensive efforts, the building was lost. However, the firefighters managed to contain the fire to the service station and it was not able to spread to the neighboring homes and businesses. The adjacent house suffered severe damage from the heat, which melted the blue siding and the shingles atop the roof, and rendered the home uninhabitable. The Apsley Fire House is visible on the left in the following image. Both of these firefighter action shots were found online.

At 11:29 am on May 2nd, 2011, five months and one day after the fire ravaged the building, I approached the site. I was unaware of the history that I just shared with you as I walked up on a construction crew rebuilding the gas station and saw the abandoned house next door, in all its melted glory. I slipped into the Liquor Store and copped a fat bottle of rum, and through the window, I watched. It was obvious right from jump, I had only one option, walk up, spark a conversation and talk my way in. Back pack off, flashlight in pocket, long sleeves over tattoos, hair pulled back, camera around neck, smile on face.

I'm not gonna tell you what any of my white lie lines are to gain access to spots, but I wasted a good one here. They didn't give a shit, each man sending me to the next. "Oh, you'll have to talk to Tom, he's in the trailer." After finally identifying Tom, he said "I don't fucking care, ask Billy, he's out back." I didn't look for Billy, I accepted Tom's apathy as a yes. I exited the trailer, walked back toward the house and nodded to the first couple workers I'd approached as if I'd gotten that approval from Tom, and I walked inside.

a warm welcome

no place for a lady

the sauce

fire pokin' blues

turn the lights down low

reflecting on the end of time

slinky

raggedy man

roger the alien

an ode to procrastinating painters

melted walls and tilted floors

inside out

bottle dreams

Fuck Coke

sugar water

toy story2

toy story

officer down

Tung Lashor

the green party

everything but the kitchen sink

alcoholics synonymous

monkey's kiss

Prince Edward Island is upside down

triple letter score

high light

Apsley Fire House

At 11:39 am on June 12th, 2011, I returned with ninja IX to find that the contents of the house had for the most part, been packed up and moved out. Construction of the gas station was nearing completion, if memory serves, but it usually doesn't.

returning to an empty house

empty bottles

newfound emptiness

melty melty

Thanks for stopping by the Apsley Fire House, up next is yet another hospital. Until then...

click here to check out all of jerm & ninja IX's ABANDONMENT ISSUES

Abandonment Issues: Rockwood Insane Asylum

2011-07-11T14:47:00.013-04:00

The definition of insanity is doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting different results. And every few weeks as we walked the circumference of the insane asylum looking desperately for an entry point, to no avail, the irony was never lost on us.

During the 1850's, Kingston Penitentiary was deemed to be overrun with mentally ill and criminally insane prisoners. To remedy this, Rockwood Criminal Lunatic Asylum was to be built on the shores of Lake Ontario, just to the west of the Kingston Penitentiary. To save tax-payer dollars, it would be built by the prisoners themselves. Construction began in 1859 and although it was not completed until 1870, men began to occupy portions of the building as early as 1862. Female prisoners were admitted during this time period and lived in the old horse stables that remained from when the property was a private villa. In 1868, the female inmates were also moved inside. Once completed, the asylum housed 300 patients.

This was the criteria an inmate had to meet to be transferred to Rockwood.

1.Convicts in the penitentiary becoming insane while under sentence there.
2.Certain classes of lunatics committed to jail as lunatics dangerous to be at large.
3.Persons charged with some offence of which they had been acquitted on the ground that they were insane at the time such offence was committed.
4.Persons indicted for any offence, and upon arraignment thereof found, by a jury especially impanelled for the purpose, to be insane.

Patients wore distinctive canvas uniforms bearing the word LUNATIC. The medical goal in the mid 1800's was not to cure criminal lunatics, but rather to calm them. Chloral hydrate and alcohol were used to pacify patients, and they were also often bled. Dr. Litchfield, the only physician at the time, had a simple treatment plan that relied heavily upon "a pretty free use of alcohol by day and sedative by night." Treatment also involved restraints, blistering, leeching, enemas, and blood-letting.

It has been reported that during this period physicians may have performed some of the first neuro-surgical procedures on patients at Rockwood, using trephines to drill into patients skulls.

Criminal lunatics were not the sole inhabitants of the asylum, the staff lived on-site and unsound Kingston residents were also admitted. This population included patients up and down the spectrum of mental health disorders as we know them today, as well as lepers and promiscuous women.

After 1900, the psychiatric focus shifted from strictly therapeutic interventions to classification and treatment based on scientific evidence. By this time, many other changes had also taken place. The canvas LUNATIC uniforms were eliminated and the old tin cups and spoons were replaced with ceramic dishes and cutlery. The adjacent farm was purchased and the asylum began to grow its own food, providing broader menu choices for patients and staff. The asylum was painted with bright cheery colours, bedding was upgraded from straw sack mattress and pillow, and sitting rooms were outfitted with beautiful furniture and decorations. Patients were treated to outings into town, chartered yacht rides and a 14-piece asylum orchestra that was considered the best in town. Rockwood was also one of the first buildings in Canada to be outfitted with central heating. Most notably though, a full-service medical infirmary was built on site and a school was created to teach english to the female patients, many of whom were illiterate. The separation of classified patients was also a monumental shift, criminal lunatics were never again able to socialize with the growing population of patients being admitted from Kingston and surrounding communities.

In 1959, one hundred years after ground was broken, Rockwood patients were transferred to the new building built on the same property and the former asylum became known as The Penrose Building, which was a residence for people with mental disabilities. Penrose closed in 2000 and the historic building has sat empty ever since, surrounded by the splashing waves of Lake Ontario and the newer buildings that make up the mental health facility complex that is currently known as Providence Care.

The definition of insanity is doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting different results. After a half a dozen extensive circumference scopes of the abandoned asylum over the past several months all resulted in the same failure, this time would be different, we thought, and it was.

Speaking as someone with a history of mental health issues in my immediate family, and also as someone that has spent years working with people with autism and other developmental disorders, this was another unique and special exploration for me. I couldn't help but think about a young female client that I had out west, who spent most of her teenage years in a helmet in a white room. She was on her last shot at societal integration during our time together, sadly, she failed and was re-institutionalized. I wondered what had become of her, for what seemed like days but was a mere matter of seconds before my focus shifted to my brother. I get a sinking lost feeling like there is nothing that I can do when I think about my older brother. Like if I just had one more piece of the puzzle I could help him put himself back together. To stop cutting and to...this is getting too personal. His experiences locked in psych wards and modern day institutions such as this have impacted him greatly, to the point that he insisted that he accompany me on the Mental Health Services Facility explore. And he did, and when we found the psych ward he had visited by force in the past, a strange excitement came over him, followed by a sense of calm that I've never seen in him. He was very much in my mind in the asylum on this day. Not to say that the treatment he receives today is working overly well, but I'm grateful that we live in a day and age where he isn't restrained all day and lobotomized, or preyed on by criminal lunatics.

The lights are still on, a few of them anyway, buzzing overhead, full of thousands of fly carcasses. The plastic is peeling on many of the windows at this point, but the efforts made to protect the building from moisture have been remarkably effective. Hallway doors are already propped open with miscellaneous objects, preventing an explorer from getting ironically locked in the abandoned insane asylum. The screeching noise of metal on metal must have been caused by the wind, I thought, but there wasn't so much as a soft gentle breeze on this humid summer day. The echoing click-clack-thud sound was surely just a door closing slowly down the long corridor behind us, but I don't think it was. It sounded like someone tripping over something. I don't believe in all that paranormal ghost nonsense, but if I did, I would have sworn that we were not alone in that asylum. It could have been other explorers, or a security guard, or a squatter, or a routine fire inspection, or maybe somehow a raccoon found a little POE of its own, or who knows, maybe it is fucking haunted? We were in there for hours, and someone or something was in there with us, no question about it.

And that, ladies and gentlemen is the Rockwood Insane Asylum as i saw it in the summer of 2011.

click here to check out all of jerm & ninja IX's ABANDONMENT ISSUES

a1one in Montreal

2011-07-07T10:50:00.000-04:00

Since moving to Ontario from Vancouver last fall, the jermalism street art campaign has seen an extended hiatus. Honestly, I feel as though I said what I had to say on the walls of Vancouver, got it off my chest in the most therapeutic way imaginable. Publicly and anonymously, I passed the burden onto the viewer, to the people of Vancouver, and then I left it there. Street art literally saved my life, that's why i ink it to my skin. I do have a couple pots simmering on the stove, cooking up some fresh street art ideas, but to speak on a project before bringing it to fruition diminishes it substantially, as I've said before.

Since October, all of that same time and energy I put into owning Vancouver with words, has been spent searching out, exploring and documenting abandoned buildings in Ontario and Quebec. Hospitals, churches, schools, factories, hotels, houses, a massive greenhouse, a nazi P.O.W. camp and an insane asylum, just too name a few. Places that are long forgotten, silent and free of the hustle and bustle that once was. Sometimes left to vandals and thieves, or reclaimed by nature's wrath with water and mould. It is in these moments, in these places, that I am content. I am beyond passionate about this project, and ninja IX and I are happier than ever living life on the road, exploring. Please check out my ABANDONMENT ISSUES blog and read up on some of these amazing places.

That said, I had a hankering to put something up. With no inspiration flowing through me, i reached out yet again to my friend a1one in Tehran, Iran, and asked him to send me another package. a1one is the undisputed king of Middle East graffiti culture and has been a personal inspiration to me for years. His artwork is so very rich in culture and style, with his characters often beaming with bright colours and intricate line work based on ancient Middle Eastern pattern and motifs. His work has been political when it has needed to be and he has been one of the strongest voices emerging from Iran during the most recent uprising.

I should add that out of respect for the urban exploration community, I have vowed to change my ways and not get up inside abandoned buildings unless they are already established graffiti spots, so as not to cause any detriment to the site from an exploration perspective. I would ask other graffers and street artists to respect the clean abandoned spots as well, so that we may enjoy them. But with that said, I am not a judge or jury, just a friend with a request. This location under the freeway in the south of Montreal is a classic graf spot, and was the perfect place to add a splash of colour, ninja IX and I, a1one in Montreal.

This canvas was a gift that accompanied the package, it is a1one's depiction of a classic scene, ''jerm IX chugging a bottle of Jamaican Rum'. Framed by my father in law Daniel N, it hangs above our bed and glows in the dark.

This was not the first collaboration with a1one, and will surely not be the last either. I am constantly inspired by this man. Here are some of his pieces that I put up in Vancouver as well as the tattoos that he designed for me.

Up next, a1one in Toronto. Peace be with you brother.

Abandonment Issues: Sifto Salt

2011-07-06T18:58:00.002-04:00

The Sifto salt warehousing and baggage facility in Montreal was shut down by its parent company, IMC Global Inc. in November 1998. Rising costs, seasonal production, and years of unprofitable performance at the site were cited as key factors. The plant packaged edible salts, as well as road salts for both industry and individual consumers. 20 full-time and 20 part-time jobs were lost in the closure.

From what I've gathered online, after being explored and documented, the majority of the plant was destroyed in 2007.

The concrete shell of the main building is still standing to this day. The front offices and what was likely the salt bagging production and shipping area are all that remain, stripped to the bare grey concrete, and speckled with colourful graffiti. There are no signs left indicating that this was once a massive Sifto salt complex. No bags or boxes, nothing. I likely wouldn't have known where i was if not for a single picture that my brother Shwa picked up and passed to me.

Montreal is becoming a second home to us, with my brother Shwa living in Anjou, and this is just the beginning of our adventures here. Stay tuned.

click here to check out all of jerm & ninja IX's ABANDONMENT ISSUES