Bashed but not Bashful . . .

Just dropping in here to see if I still remember how to upload a photo on a blog. That is one aspect of blogland that pushed me toward the open arms of Ms Fessebook, uploading and formating photos here is simply tedious... but hey, no place is perfect. Still, some things get old after a while, and leave you feeling kind of rusty, worn down, even a bit bashed in. But in this old radiator grill's case, still beautiful, after all those years. Thanks to anyone who may still be stopping by here. And if you are on Facebook, do stop by Owen Phillips Photography France ...
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Rusty Old Cars . . .

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What is it about rusty old cars that appeals so strongly to many of us ? Is it a nostalgia thing ? Romantic echos of a bygone age ? Is it the unforgettable memories for those who lost their virginity in the back seats of behemoths like these ? Old cars, like old people, reach a point where they just aren't ever going to go any further. Not a mile more. Too many parts have failed. Rust too far gone to ever be cured by a quick treatment of rust remover and a fresh coat of paint to gloss things over. The end of the road. The end, period. And yet, their abandoned bodies call to us still, from the side yards of dilapidated old garages on backwater roads. Still something profoundly beautiful in their fading carcasses.
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Saw these aging beauties on a trip to Pennsylvania a couple of years ago. On automobile license plates in that state they used to print a slogan on the edges of the plates that said, in poor grammar, "You've got a friend in Pennsylvania". When I found these old darlings not far from the Susquehanna River, I couldn't have agreed with them more.
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Works of Art In the Strangest Places . . .

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As much as I love to wander in museums and wonder while pondering the profuse profundities of fine paintings and sculptures from over the centuries, I also love to wander out of doors and let chance play her mysterious role in revealing minor marvels and natural art, which spring into view unbidden and unexpected in surprising places. One just has to tune in to their frequency, and oscillate with them for a while. Here are just a few examples seen recently while out walking hither and thither. Hunting and gathering. Watching how time and weather transform most anything, from what it was, into something entirely other.
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Of Weathered Wood and 'bandoned Boats . . .

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What is it about peeling paint on the weather-beaten wood of ancient boats, many of whom will go down to the sea no more, left to their resting, rusting places in the mud of estuaries, which touches the heart just so ? Dreams of catching fish and crabs, hauling up the elusive lobster, landings in distant ports, pirates and pirogues, folk songs singing of cockles and mussels alive alive-oh, to be walking after Molly Malone, buying her fish to take home with a pint of ale for supper, smoking a pipe by the fire after. The memories of poems written or unwritten that permeate those planks, punctuated by a rusting nail, a corroded band of brass that bears the breath of salt mists and gossips of shrieking gulls, why does weathered wood conjure up such visions ? I shall not wax so prolific as a Melville or a Coleridge, with his rhymes of rime, I shall leave you to whatever rêveries these images may evoke.
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("Rêverie", what a lovely word... my French dictionary defines it thus : "Etat de l'esprit qui s'abandonne à des idées, des images vagues". A state of mind which abandons itself to ideas and vague images. But in French, "vague" as an adjective means vague or uncertain, imprecise, but as a noun, it means "a wave", as in waves on the ocean... so "images vagues" becomes images of waves...) I leave you to these images...
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Ah, after that little escape, that escapade on the vast seas of dreams, would you care to join me on board for a cup of fresh brewed coffee, ground from beans brought back in canvas bags from distant islands ? Do pull up a spot on the bench here, have a cuppa, and tell me where you've been off to.
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In Rust I Trust . . .

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People trust in all sorts of things, but I trust in rust. What other process of transformation is so faithful, so relentless, so persistent, so natural, so honest, so powerful, and so inescapable for the iron and steel creations of man ? Creations that should have lasted centuries had their creators' dreams prevailed. But such architects and mechanical engineers, along with the miners and smelters and forgers and casters and welders who work with such materials, sculptors all, are barely in their graves, or even still breathing this earth's sweet air, when their works are brutally attacked by a simple chemical reaction occurring in the presence of oxygen and H²O, whereby a marvellously colorful form of cancerous seed is planted, which once started is fairly well irreversible in most cases.
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Some humans as they age or when they haven't practiced an art for some time may say, "I'm a little bit rusty..." as in, "oh dear, I haven't spoken French in too long, I'm getting rusty". As for me, as time goes by, I've been looking more and more often at rusty subjects, and am fairly often thoroughly amazed and mesmerized by what dramatic arts are being played out on rusting surfaces. What I would give to have time lapse photos of a rusting car over a period of several decades. Like watching lichens growing on a rock, one must be very patient to appreciate the progression of rust. But few such theatre of life type shows are more spectacular. So yes, as I said : In Rust I Trust, for rust has never failed me.
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In case you might have been wondering, these colorfully oxydized surfaces were once part of a large shipping container which had washed up long ago, no doubt in a storm, on the coast of a small island off the shore of north Brittany. There is something about salt water which adds another dimension to the rusting process, as these images attest. I'd like to blow some of these pictures up and see what they look like framed under glass in one meter by one meter size, for example. Might look nice on a wall in your living room, no ? :-) Part of the container number is still legible in this next one, and in the last one the rib cage of the defunct creature is visible. 
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Life In A Gritty City . . .

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In the heart of the old Pennsylvania coal country, there stands a gritty town by the name of Mahanoy City. I must say at the outset that it is highly unlikely I would have ever visited Mahanoy City, were it not for the kind and generous counsel of TomB., who has been mentioned before in these pages, and will no doubt be mentioned again. It was exactly a year ago today that I went to Mahanoy City after Tom pointed the way by whispering that there was a large abandoned coal breaker factory there, a site which could be visited if one were to tip toe quietly and not make too much of a ruckus. And so I went, setting out early one Saturday morning, and it became clear very quickly that Mahanoy City was a place which one could sincerely say had . . . True Grit. If you click the link to visit TomB.'s page, please scroll down to his post on September 7th, where he published one of his photos from the Saint Nicholas coal breaker at Mahanoy City.
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It took me a little while to find the site, as in fact it is just outside Mahanoy City, but I caught a glimpse of it while going down a road out of town, and realized immediately that this must be the place.
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Years ago when the site was active this little red building must have been a sort gatehouse, keeping track of who came in and who left, carrying what. Today it just stands in red ruin.
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Heading into the larger buildings area, one very quickly finds oneself in the dark underbelly of the beast. The ground is still covered with the black dust and grit of Pennsylvania coal.
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Vandals had not yet stolen this handle, though rust is working on the job.
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A gaping hole in a wall, as though some structure had been ripped away by a frightfully angry dinosaur, leaving innards hanging out in the sun.
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A facade rising eleven floors up toward the sky, windows broken out on every level. Such is the fate of abandoned factories. Windows are easy targets for thrown stones. We live in a world where it is easier to simply walk away from a building, a factory, a living entity, leaving it to rust, rot, and ruin, rather than trying to invest in refurbishing it to prevent such scenes of total desolation. Note the structure which joins the main building high up at the upper right : the coal conveyor.
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Stepping back a bit to try to put it in perspective, the coal conveyor arrives about ten floors up from the ground level.
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Having walked a few hundred yards away from the main coal breaker building, the coal conveyor goes by high above this outlying shack.
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Even farther away, a small building still stands near the starting point of the coal conveyor, an ancient desk refuses to give in to gravity, standing, still standing.
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Here you get a better idea of the length and height of the coal conveyor, which carried raw coal ten floors up to fling it into the maw of the monstrous machines that would break it down into different sized grades.
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You may call me crazy, you may call me an idiot, you may wonder about my sanity, but the call of that conveyor tunnel was too strong for me to resist, I remember thinking : what better way to get up to the top floor of the factory ? I found a way in, and began the long, arduous climb up the entire length of that cramped shaft. It seemed to go on forever.
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From the conveyor shaft windows I could see people working at the still active coal mine on the hill across the way. I kept a low profile by the windows so as not to draw unwanted attention. The conveyor bed was still littered with crumbled bits of coal.
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Funny, from near the top there was a great view, and power generating wind turbines dotted the hills around, overlooking another abandoned coal building. The times they are a'changing.
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These gears give you some idea of the size of the motors required to drive such a conveyor belt, I can't imagine how many tons of coal it could carry at one time up to the top of the breaker, where it would work its way back down to ground level while undergoing considerable bashing and thrashing in all sorts of ungodly machines.
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The interior of the building was an incredible labyrinth of catwalks and stairs, platforms around the massive machinery required for the gritty work of breaking coal.
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Cryptic messages denoting some sense of past order, now meaningless, yet enchanting. Number eight, number eight, number eight. What dost thou mean, great yellow eight ?
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There were some machines it was obvious you would not want to fall into them while they were turning. They had a decidedly unfriendly air about them.
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The senseless sense of past order gone awry, the cone feeders are no longer needed, the sizing screens are no longer seen, the silence is overwhelming. I cannot imagine the awful din that must have reigned within those walls when the coal came thundering down the chutes into the brutal beating bars of the berserk breaking machines.
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The Agitator control. Turn the wheel and a gas is realeased causing all who breathe it to become extremely agitated, to the point where straight jackets may be required. I think someone left the valve open these past few years. A frightening thought.
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Bob Dylan wrote a song named, "Everything is Broken". The evidence was plain to see here.
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An office which had obviously seen better days. I guess the white marks all over the place were bird droppings. A final indignity, to finish its days covered deeper and deeper in bird excrement. Maybe someday someone will go and mine for guano there.
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I took one last look back as I drove off. Perhaps one day we shall return here, even if only virtually, these photos are just the tip of the iceberg (or should I say the tip of the slag heap) of what was taken there that day one year ago. Thanks again Tom for the tip that led to this trip !
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