Like bloodhounds picking up a scent, we humans follow death at its heels. By nature, we are attracted to the dead or dying. I don't know why we do it, but I'm guilty as well. In fact, I'd say that I'm guiltier than most. I'm a sucker for death. It's often described as a morbid fascination, but I'm not sure I agree. Death is 50% of life, isn't it? What's macabre about something so innately human?
It's no secret anthropologists go gaga over the dead. Graves, mummies, tombs - the ones that get all the attention - are only the surface. There's ritual, symbology, kinship, landscape, temporality, and on and on until you've either exhausted your academic vocabulary or completely dissected (pun intended) human social behavior.
Death goes beyond what's living though. Or at least, organically. Buildings, timelines, ideas - they die as well.
Right now, I want to talk about buildings.
I grew upthinking knowing that I was going to become an archaeologist. I surrounded myself with books on ancient civilizations, watched documentaries on excavations, and pored over volumes and volumes of National Geographic magazines. Mind you, I don't think I was processing the words to well. It was the visuals that enraptured me. Antiquated ruins, standing like behemoths over the shallow landscapes, showed off a certain side of life that is often covered up. Battered temples, crumbling castles, and rotting edifices took center stage. No, it wasn't about the largest buildings on Earth or the most luxurious houses, but quite the opposite. It was the failures of humanity. The derelict and destroyed, forgotten and abandoned. Where the arrogance of people prevailed and the fruits of their labors put to shame. What was once the epitome of progress now stood naked, its memory fragmented.
It is death envisioned.
This past semester, I was enrolled in an environmental studies class, merging the idea of historic preservation with environmental conservation. Once a week, we would convene in a classroom to prepare for our field trip the following day, going over the site's history, importance, and overall contribution to the environment of the Hudson Valley. The class was taught by a professor of archaeology, one that I had had many times before, so I knew what to expect.
One week, we went to Denning's Point, in Beacon, NY. Once an old brick factory and depot, it now stood abandoned. For the first hour or so, we talked with some folks who were running an educational organization there - the Center for Environmental Innovation & Education. Then, we were told to go on a hike, to wander the surrounding trails and paths for another couple of hours. Basically, do whatever we want.
Naturally, our first stop was to get to the shore of the Hudson river. 28˚C it was that day (in Farenheit-nope, you can google it yourself), and what better way to start a hike than to walk for five minutes and relax? A hard earned treat, we convinced ourselves.
We then split off into our self-formed groups, as it tends to happen. The long legged individuals go together, the I-love-hiking-but-I'm-especially-tired-today-even-though-we-all-know-you-never-actually-go-hiking group went their way, and the ones who missed the memo and showed up in flip-flops traipsed along, presumably to find another small beach.
Us long legged folks walked for a bit, chatting, teasing, and having a good time in general. But this isn't interesting. Nobody wants to read about someone else's conversation, and especially when it is as uneventful as the one I'm about to explain. Here's exactly, word-for-word what we discussed:
I'm kidding. It's too exciting to type in full. You'll have to ask me in person.
But a few minutes into the hike, and out from the undergrowth emerges this structure. And it's big. Like, "How does this get hidden in this tiny wooded area?", big. To my pleasure, it's absolutely gutted. The walls are broken, floors have fallen through, and it's plastered with graffiti. I'm drooling.
Without hesitation, each of us found a point of entry and slipped in. I found a broken window just at ground level, and not known for being the widest human being on earth, managed to slither in without a hitch, aside from a nice dusting of cobwebs. I was quite proud of myself for cleverly finding that little spot, until a friend sauntered through a wide open doorway that some previous urban explorers had nicely cleaned up. Hmph. Mine was more thrilling anyway.
I don't want to give away everything we saw, but we spent nearly an hour exploring this building. All of us were enraptured by it. Swallowed by creepers and rogue branches, bruised by age and weather, and "vandalized" by some teenagers, it was a thing of beauty.
Vandalized. Yes, technically, it was vandalized. Broken glass, paint, graffiti... it's illegal, isn't it? But what would this building be without it? Just another stupid, neglected, useless old building that has no purpose. Too much money to maintain, too much to destroy. In other words, dead.
The layers and layers of spray paint proved something to us. This building, on its last legs, tilting, buckling, was far from dead. Death is characterized by what's forgotten. The old brick factory, with all its missing machines, rusty pipes, and broken windows, is no longer a brick factory. Today, it is more alive than ever. If a building, hidden in the woods, away from civilization, lacking any electricity or WiFi can attract the attention of so many children and adults alike, how on Earth can we call it dead?
It wasn't just alive - it was creating memories. Ripping and sewing together time. Repurposing the past for the future.
The only things that are truly dead are the ones that have no memory. The names, places, and things that once buried, never resurfaced. Those that aren't even in our current scope of reality. Dead buildings, however... they don't exist. No building can truly die until it is forgotten. Think about it - every house you ever lived in, every school you walked into, every bathroom you pissed in - is alive somewhere. And it's not dying any time soon.
It's no secret anthropologists go gaga over the dead. Graves, mummies, tombs - the ones that get all the attention - are only the surface. There's ritual, symbology, kinship, landscape, temporality, and on and on until you've either exhausted your academic vocabulary or completely dissected (pun intended) human social behavior.
Death goes beyond what's living though. Or at least, organically. Buildings, timelines, ideas - they die as well.
Right now, I want to talk about buildings.
I grew up
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| The ruins of St. Andrews Castle, Scotland |
This past semester, I was enrolled in an environmental studies class, merging the idea of historic preservation with environmental conservation. Once a week, we would convene in a classroom to prepare for our field trip the following day, going over the site's history, importance, and overall contribution to the environment of the Hudson Valley. The class was taught by a professor of archaeology, one that I had had many times before, so I knew what to expect.
One week, we went to Denning's Point, in Beacon, NY. Once an old brick factory and depot, it now stood abandoned. For the first hour or so, we talked with some folks who were running an educational organization there - the Center for Environmental Innovation & Education. Then, we were told to go on a hike, to wander the surrounding trails and paths for another couple of hours. Basically, do whatever we want.
Naturally, our first stop was to get to the shore of the Hudson river. 28˚C it was that day (in Farenheit-nope, you can google it yourself), and what better way to start a hike than to walk for five minutes and relax? A hard earned treat, we convinced ourselves.
 |
| The banks of the Hudson River |
Us long legged folks walked for a bit, chatting, teasing, and having a good time in general. But this isn't interesting. Nobody wants to read about someone else's conversation, and especially when it is as uneventful as the one I'm about to explain. Here's exactly, word-for-word what we discussed:
I'm kidding. It's too exciting to type in full. You'll have to ask me in person.
But a few minutes into the hike, and out from the undergrowth emerges this structure. And it's big. Like, "How does this get hidden in this tiny wooded area?", big. To my pleasure, it's absolutely gutted. The walls are broken, floors have fallen through, and it's plastered with graffiti. I'm drooling.
 |
| The factory peeks out, hidden from plain sight |
I don't want to give away everything we saw, but we spent nearly an hour exploring this building. All of us were enraptured by it. Swallowed by creepers and rogue branches, bruised by age and weather, and "vandalized" by some teenagers, it was a thing of beauty.
Vandalized. Yes, technically, it was vandalized. Broken glass, paint, graffiti... it's illegal, isn't it? But what would this building be without it? Just another stupid, neglected, useless old building that has no purpose. Too much money to maintain, too much to destroy. In other words, dead.
The layers and layers of spray paint proved something to us. This building, on its last legs, tilting, buckling, was far from dead. Death is characterized by what's forgotten. The old brick factory, with all its missing machines, rusty pipes, and broken windows, is no longer a brick factory. Today, it is more alive than ever. If a building, hidden in the woods, away from civilization, lacking any electricity or WiFi can attract the attention of so many children and adults alike, how on Earth can we call it dead?
 |
| Man and nature blend seamlessly |
The only things that are truly dead are the ones that have no memory. The names, places, and things that once buried, never resurfaced. Those that aren't even in our current scope of reality. Dead buildings, however... they don't exist. No building can truly die until it is forgotten. Think about it - every house you ever lived in, every school you walked into, every bathroom you pissed in - is alive somewhere. And it's not dying any time soon.
