MATTHEW CHRISTOPHER MURRAY makes my work "ruin porn" and this site a chronicle of failure, so be it.

 MATTHEW CHRISTOPHER MURRAY (changed name to avoid PLAGIARISM) http://insanecausedbydoctors.blogspot.com/ 



 [AT LEAST YOU'RE RIGHT A LITTLE BIT HERE, BUT YOUR THOUGHTS ARE STUPID! THERE WERE TERRIBLE EFFECTS OF THORADAZINES. BUT THE "CHEMICAL STRAITJACKET" DRUGS WAS NOT EVER "THORAZINE!!!" HALDOL WAS "THE STRAITJACKET" DRUG!!! YOU JUST HAVE NO FACTS OF Any sort- god what a fool you are!!!!]

if my plagerised writings makes my work "ruin porn" and this site little more than a chronicle of failure, so be it.

The Rise and Fall of the Humane State Hospital System Text and Images by Matthew Murray [Sorry, Murray PLAGIARIZED his article from an OpEd Article found in the Los Angeles Times.] By THEO EMERY Staff Writer, CAROL LOLLIS Photo- THIS ARTICLE WAS PLAGIARISED BY MATTHEW MURRAY, AND HE HAS A WEB PAGE FULL OF PLAGIARIST WRITINGS http://www.abandonedamerica.us/ The rise and fall of state hospital State school was dumping ground Robert Mielke, shown here during a stroll around the grounds of the Northampton State Hospital, said he struggled when patients occasionally asked why they were hospitalized. "Today, I'd probably have an answer," he says. Mielke worked in many different jobs at the now-closed hospital. CAROL LOLLIS Photo By THEO EMERY Staff Writer NORTHAMPTON - Reaching the end of a pitted, weed-choked driveway of the Northampton State Hospital, Robert Mielke said that when patients sometimes asked why they were hospitalized, he had no answer to give them. He turned a deaf ear to the question, he said, because in many cases there was no good reason for their confinement. During the many years he worked at the now-closed hospital - first as a groundskeeper, then on the wards, and eventually as hospital treasurer - he didn't have the answer he has now: that thousands of patients filled the wards, grew old and, in some cases, died at the hospital simply because society was not able or willing to care for them in any other way. In its heyday, the hospital was a town within a town, he said, as he stood near the edge of the sun-dappled campus on a September morning. It took more than an hour for Mielke to amble around the silent buildings overlooking Northampton. He pointed out the overgrown peach and apple orchards, the site of the greenhouses, the dormitories for married couples, and the doors to the honeycomb of tunnels under the property. The significance of the decaying structure, now silent but for the occasional wind-slammed door and the shriek of rusty air vents, is as spr[AT LEAST YOU'RE RIGHT A LITTLE BIT HERE, BUT YOUR THOUGHTS ARE STUPID! THERE WERE TERRIBLE EFFECTS OF THORADAZINES. BUT THE "CHEMICAL STRAITJACKET" DRUGS WAS NOT EVER "THORAZINE!!!" HALDOL WAS "THE STRAITJACKET" DRUG!!! YOU JUST HAVE NO FACTS OF Any sort- god what a fool you are!!!!]awling as the hospital itself. Its legacy, Mielke said, is imprinted upon every patient who passed through the hospital doors and, sometimes, asked why they were there. "How do you answer people who ask 'why am I are here?' What do you say?" said Mielke, now 53. "Today, I'd probably have an answer." The boom, the bust More than a century ago, Northampton State Hospital was in the forefront of reform efforts to improve conditions for people with mental illness. The hospital and its nearby sister institution, the Belchertown State School, boomed together, becoming integral parts of the area economy by mid-century. Eventually, they also became emblems of the way society segregated the ill, the disabled and the outcast. As medicine and technology advanced, and attitudes about mental illness and retardation slowly shifted, both area institutions were caught in a tide of social change that swept the nation in the 1960s and 1970s. This interior photograph was taken in 1985, after this building at the Northampton State Hospital was emptied. Gazette File Photo Those changes focused on emptying such places rather than filling them, and discharging people with mental illness and retardation into community settings. The state shifted care to a new generation of reformers in the private sector, and boarded up the buildings at both institutions for eventual sale and development. The evidence of those changes are visible everyday in Northampton, Belchertown, and the surrounding towns. Most care for people with mental illness and mental retardation has shifted from hospitals and institutions to private organizations founded upon a vision of treating these people in the community, as equals. These agencies and advocacy organizations, with unlocked doors that open onto neighborhood streets and downtown hubs, strive to integrate people with mental illness and retardation into the fabric of society - rather than banish them to society's margins. Good intentions Though Northampton State Hospital and Belchertown State School eventually came to represent much of what could go wrong with care for mentally ill and retarded people, they initially were viewed as humane alternatives to inhumane conditions. In 1841, a young Boston school teacher named Dorothy Dix began teaching religion to jail inmates at Middlesex County Jail. To her shock, she discovered a "mad woman" chained to the wall in a basement cell. Dix gave up teaching and began investigating the plight of people with mental illness and mental retardation across the commonwealth. In 1[AT LEAST YOU'RE RIGHT A LITTLE BIT HERE, BUT YOUR THOUGHTS ARE STUPID! THERE WERE TERRIBLE EFFECTS OF THORADAZINES. BUT THE "CHEMICAL STRAITJACKET" DRUGS WAS NOT EVER "THORAZINE!!!" HALDOL WAS "THE STRAITJACKET" DRUG!!! YOU JUST HAVE NO FACTS OF Any sort- god what a fool you are!!!!]843, she reported the findings of her town-by-town investigation to the Legislature. People with mental illness and retardation were confined in cells and cages in nearly every community in the state, "chained, naked, beaten with rods, and lashed into obedience," she told lawmakers. Responding to Dix's stinging report, the state began funding institutions to care for the people Dix found, differentiating for the first time between mental illness and mental retardation. The state's only hospital for the mentally ill in Worcestor, built in the 1830s, had became overcrowded, and so the state funded new hospitals for the mentally ill in Northampton and Taunton. The Northampton Lunatic Hospital opened in 1858 around the notion that "moral treatment" of fresh air, hard work and regimented schedules for people with mental illness would cure them, according to "The Life and Death of Northampton State Hospital," a book published by Historic Northampton. A publication of the time summed up that optimism. The Ballou's Pictorial Drawing Room Companion proclaimed in 1956 that the hospital was "an exponent of the humane feeling that is entering the state government, replacing the cold and unChristian-like spirit which has formerly regarded these poor, unfortunate beings." Those attitudes, in turn, evolved. Pliny Earle, hospital superintendent from 1864 to 1885, was once an advocate of such "moral treatment," but by the time he arrived in Northampton, he had come to doubt whether it could cure mental illness, and he began to emphasize work rehabilitation for the patients. By the close of the 18th century, Northampton State Hospital - as it was renamed - had became a place not to cure, but to warehouse poor people who could not afford psychiatric care, as well as the senile, the elderly and others who, by today's medical standards, were not mentally ill at all. There were about 600 patients at the hospital at the turn of the century; by the 1950s, that number would increase four-fold, to almost 2,500. The hospital's heydey When the hospital reached its peak census in 1955, it was a booming enterprise that provided some of the region's best-paying, most stable jobs. It had also become a nearly self-sufficient entity, boasting its own gardens, slaughter houses and canneries. Entire families of employees lived on or near the campus. There were baseball teams and social events, and constant traffic down the hill from the hospital to the town. Shirley Gallup came to Northampton from South Carolina in 1958, when there were more than 2,200 patients. She expected that her new job as a psychiatrist for newly admitted women would last one or two years, she said. She stayed for 28. When Gallup arrived, the hospital was bulging at the seams, a small city on a hill above Northampton - and already ripe for reform. By that time, the hospital was overcrowded, underfunded and physically declining. It would be years later before any legal protections would exist to prevent people from being involuntarily committed. The living evidence of that legal void was in the hospital's back wards and infirmaries. The hospital had many patients with genuine mental illness. But it also housed many people with temporary conditions, such as mothers with post-partum depression, and other who were simply old, unable to speak English, physically disabled, deaf, rebellious, or sexually promiscuous. "I felt, as I saw the patients, that some didn't need to be in the hospital. Some needed to be in nursing homes. Six hundred of those 2,300 were geriatric," said Gallup. "The older ones - they didn't have the family to take care of them. They aged there, and they didn't know anything but institutional life." It was around this time that two key factors emerged: anti-psychotic medications that could control depression and psychosis, and a movement to legally redefine how patients could be committed to hospitals and what rights to treatment they had. It was in the early 1960s that "deinstitutionalization" efforts began in earnest, pushed by mandates from President Kennedy on the federal level. During those years, most of the patients left the hospital, and the town began to see more of its neighbors from the hill, according to Robert Fleischner, staff attorney at the Center for Popular Representation, the Northampton legal group that advocated on behalf of patients. "By the time of deinstitutionalization, Northampton had a high level of tolerance and was used to seeing people downtown," said Fleischner. "That's not to say that it was perfect - it wasn't. But there was a willingness to have people around who look different and act differently." Making the case for change By the 1970s, the anti-institution movement among parents of children with mental illness and retardation was swiftly gaining ground. It was fueled by media reports such as the 1970 "Tragedy of Belchertown" series in the Union-News of Springfield and the expose of Willowbrook Hospital in New York State. Two short years later, the Belchertown School Friends Association, spearheaded by Amherst parent Benjamin Ricci, filed a lawsuit against the state, seeking to improve conditions at Belchertown State School. By 1976, the patient census at the Northampton State Hospital had fallen sharply, to 536. But the pace of change was not fast enough for legal advocates of the mentally ill. Documenting patients' behavior on the wards, they came to believe that patients who could easily live healthy, productive lives had assumed "institutional behaviors" that made them appear sicker than they were. In other words, the hospital was not curing patients, but making their conditions worse, according to Fleischner. Taking a page from the Belchertown School Friends Association suit and other groups like it, the lawyers who later formed the Center for Public Representation filed a class-action suit in 1976 on behalf of a state hospital patient named David Brewster and others there. Two years later, that lawsuit against the commonwealth of Massachusetts would be settled in what became known as the Brewster Consent Decree. That agreement, overseen by U.S. District Court officials, promised to reduce the hospital census to about 50 patients and to discharge the rest into the community, according to Fleischner. "It was revolutionary to think of putting people into group homes of eight or nine people," said Fleischner. Raymond P. Brien,regional director of the Department of Mental Health from 1976 to 1979, said those years were "very emotional" for everyone involved. Because he has a sister with mental retardation, he entered the social work field in the 1960s - just ahead of the regional and nationwide sea change in attitudes. "On both the mental retardation and mental health side, I got to know people who were pioneers who had profound beliefs that most of the people in those institutions didn't need to be there," said Brien. "It was the first region in the country that closed both its state hospital and the state school without dumping the patients." Dr. Jeffrey Geller served as medical director of the state hospital from 1979 until 1984. He helped draft the the lawsuit, and then joined the hospital staff the year after the consent decree to help implement it. Even today, some people involved with the hospital believe that the need remains for inpatient hospitals to treat mental illness, and Mielke and Geller are among them. Though Geller's view has shifted since that time, he felt a "tremendous excitement" in the aftermath of the decree, he said. The original timeline for the decree's implementation was set for 2 ½ years. Instead, it took 15, and ended in a conclusion that even Brewster's lawyers had not originally foreseen: The state opted to close the hospital completely. On Aug. 26, 1993, Northampton State Hospital discharged its last 11 patients, and, with the van door slammed behind the ex-patients, Northampton's hospital for the mentally ill became a piece of history. Early questions Not everyone shared the enthusiasm for deinstitutionalization. In the early 1980s, as new community programs opened and spread in Northampton, some residents - including then-Mayor David Musante - feared that Northampton was becoming a "mental health ghetto," as one prominent piece of graffiti in downtown Northampton proclaimed at the time. Several incidents involving former patients, including fires set at halfway houses, reinforced that impression and led to efforts to rein in the spread of group homes. Rebecca Macauley was one of those who sought to confront fear about deinstitutionalization. Even today, she has constant reminders of her past: Out the kitchen window of Macauley's Old South Street house, through a dip in the tree line, she can see a copper-domed spire atop Building G, a hospital ward where she was once a patient. Macauley said that for years, people associated with the hospital carried "anti-resumes" they only shared among themselves - lists of all the places they were hospitalized, all the treatments they received, the experiences they endured. The anti-resume she accumulated after the death of her husband included five hospitalizations at Northampton and five at the Department of Veterans Affairs Medical Center in Leeds. Macauley said that during the early 1980s, there was a "terrible stigma" associated with being a hospital patient. She eventually "came out" in a letter to the Gazette, saying there was a "witch hunt" afoot in Northampton that sought to blame the mentally ill for all of the city's problems. She got into a public exchange with Musante in the newspaper's pages, and eventually arrived in his office unannounced for an angry showdown. Instead, the two became fast friends - an example, she said, of the healing that can, and must, take place in the long shadow the hospital casts over Northampton. "It was great, we had a great conversation. We became good friends after that. I knew what he was saying, I knew what those fears were," said Macauley. "Northampton State Hospital is an example of failed social policy. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but no one looked far enough down the road to see what it would become. And now, we're living with that legacy." During the late 1960s and 1970s, the advent of the "chemical straight jacket" Thorazine changed the face of mental health care. Neuroleptics like Thorazine produce a myriad of intensely uncomfortable, frightening side effects and were in fact later identified by Soviet political dissidents as one of the worst tortures they were subjected to in the "psychiatric centres" where they were confined. [AT LEAST YOU'RE RIGHT A LITTLE BIT HERE, BUT YOUR THOUGHTS ARE STUPID! THERE WERE TERRIBLE EFFECTS OF THORADAZINES. BUT THE "CHEMICAL STRAITJACKET" DRUGS WAS NOT EVER "THORAZINE!!!" HALDOL WAS "THE STRAITJACKET" DRUG!!! YOU JUST HAVE NO FACTS OF Any sort- god what a fool you are!!!!] They produced docile and compliant patients however, and their use was far-reaching and indiscriminate in the American mental health system. As their use became more widespread and the push for -DIS-institutionalism was spearheaded by President rICHARD m. nIXON and newly formed patients' rights associations, the focus of hospitalization shifted from containing patients for the remainder of their natural lives to bringing their behaviours to manageable levels that would allow community integration. While this policy was in many ways beneficial, the treatment at oUT pATIENT hOMES AND TO pATIENTS wAUNDERING THE sKID rOWS to be an inhumane and dehumanizing process. [ ======================================================= [In his book, entitled The Shoe Leather Treatment, referring to the common "treatment" of kicking patients until they were compliant or too injured to resist, former patient Bill Thomas relates that after years in state hospitals, a brief stay in prison after an escape attempt seemed an immeasurable improvement in his quality of life.] ======================================================= dID YOU actually read THIS BOOK? hEY, What Was The Reason that the Guards in This Book let the Little Nego Man who was Kept in a Strip Cell with Snow Blowing in through the WIndow, in Leather CUffs & Belt, for 6 Years, WHAT CAUSED them to LET HIM OUT?" What was the CRIME William Thomas Was SENT TO THE INDIANA CRIMINAL INSAINE HOSPITAL FOR? Perhaps he has a GOOD STORY TO TELL, as HE WAS CONVICTED BY "EYE WITNESSES' Testomy & PHOTOGRAPHS of HAVING SEXUAL INTERCOURSE WITH HIS MOTHER'S CORPSE in a CENETRAY CRYPT, NUMBERIOUS TIMES!" I don't say that BELITTLES HIS BOOK, I READ IT MANY TIMES, but IF ANYBODY DESERVED TO BE LOCKED AWAY, BILL TOMAS, a Necro Matricidal Maniac, ASSUREDLY NEEDED to be KEPT WAY WAY AWAY from People..."REMEMBER the CANNIBAL QUEER BRAIN EATER in MILWAUKEE----Jeffery Dharmer...!!!"] Vandalism has severely damaged the buildings of the hospital in Maryland. Doors are broken, windows smashed and graffiti covers nearly every wall. Coupled with the push to reintegrate patients into society, this flagrant abuse and neglect finally led to the closure of many asylums. Even this process was messy, however. Under President Ronald Reagan's policies, which often led to dumping clients out of hospitals with inadequate aftercare, the homeless populations soared. When the closure of Byberry State Hospital was initiated in 1986, three hundread patients drowned in the Schuylkill River before the Pennsylvania Governor decided to slow down the process to a manageable level. This process continues to this day and the problematic nature of providing care for the mentally ill continues to haunt us. Harrisburg State Hospital in Pennsylvania recently shut down, forcing communities and mental health providers to scramble to find alternatives for patients with higher treatment needs. Many patients now in communities may require assistance for the rest of their lives in dealing with mundane chores most take for granted, such as buying groceries and paying bills, because they were never exposed to these problems during their hospitalization. [AND NOW, IN THE 21 ST CENTURY, THE PATIENTS ARE BEING FORECLOSED OUT OF THEIR BOARD AND CARE FACILITIES...the STREETS in OKLAHOMA was FILLED WITH WANDERING FREEZING HOMELESS CRAZY MENTAL PATIENTS this month DURING THE BLIZZARDS of 2011! THE "JESUS HOUSE' the ONLY PROVIDER of CARE for the OBNOXIOUS MENTALLY ILL INSANE HOMELESS, MULTIPLIED DUE TO BANKRUPT and FORECLOSURES upon MENTAL HEALTH HALF WAY HOUSES, the TELEVISION MEDIA in conjunction with the OTHER TWO BIG "CHARITY’S" in OKLAHOMA CITY launched a SMEAR & ATTACK MEDIA "EXPOSEE' NEWS ATTACK" on the Jesus House, IN ORDER TO MAXIMIZE THE DONATIONS away from the MENTALLY ILL at the Jesus House" to the BIG CORPORATE "RESCUE-MISSION, INC" and "SALVATION ARMY. INC" who CAPITALIZES by ONLY HOUSING HEALTHY WORK AGE AND EMPLOYABLE PEOPLE, who go through FULL TIME WORK either ON CAMPUS or in LABOR-READY OUT SOURCE JOBS and PAY THE "MISSIONS" 90% of the INCOME for the "SALVATION & LOVE of the "CORPORATE "JESUS" and are KICKED OUT QUICKLY with NO REFUND OF MONIES for ANY INFRACTION!!!] A pile of discarded shoe coverings lies at the foot of the basement staircase in Athens State Hospital. The ever-present issue of what to do with state hospital facilities is also difficult. In many cases, the land and buildings will be almost immediately reclaimed, sold to developers or used as state agency offices. Several facilities, such as Danvers State Hospital in New York, are being converted into high-priced apartment buildings, although some ex-patients and mental health workers view this as a move only slightly more tasteful than making apartments out of Auschwitz. Other facilities like Dixmont have been completely demolished by large companies, which see the sites as development gold mines and have no problems bulldozing unmarked gravestones in patient cemeteries to make way for their projects. Some, such as Pilgrim State Hospital in New York, were partially used, abandoned and demolished. Countless more sites have been completely abandoned, standing until the roofs collapse under the weight of years of water damage or until they are burned by arsonists. Almost none are protected historic sites that visitors can enter to learn about their checkered past.

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The rise and fall of the state hospital system

by Matthew Murray


PERCHED ATOP A HILL overlooking a small college town in Ohio (United States), Athens State Hospital--now known as The Ridges--has an imposing presence that the banners for the art gallery in the central building do little to diminish. While a fraction of the building is currently in use by Ohio State University, the majority of the aging Kirkbride hospital has been left to the peaceful solitude of its own decay. The hallways and rooms, still peppered with fragments of the past, are rife with uncharted mold and bacteria; the walls have become intricate murals of the eroding lead paint that dusts the floor and poisons the air.

In many senses, Athens State Hospital is an anomaly. It has been incredibly well preserved and protected from thieves and vandals, and reminders of its history are still intact. Most state hospitals, such as Byberry State Hospital in Philadelphia, have been completely left to the elements and are easily accessible to anyone who cares to research them and risk getting caught by the meagre security forces that guard them. Such sites are frequently seen as a problem to the communities they are part of, due in part to the fact that an entire subculture of self-titled urban explorers has developed, populated by people ranging from those with a deep and abiding respect for the sites to those who look at them as opportune sites for graffiti and vandalism. While these sites are extremely toxic, the dangers are often invisible to those who enter. Asbestos and lead particles in the air do not affect one's health immediately and rotting floors often give no signal of their structural weakness until it is too late. Furthermore, these sites are on prime locations for development, yet their historical significance is undeniable, and often the cleanup of hazardous materials makes costs prohibitive.

While now famous for the abuses and horrors that took place inside, most state hospitals were initially beautiful, idyllic campuses founded in the late 1800s, largely in response to the tremendous need for mental health care for veterans of the United States Civil War suffering from what would later be labelled post-traumatic stress disorder. Public awareness of the need for adequate and full-time care for the mentally ill was higher than ever, and reformers like Dorothea Dix (1802-1887) and Thomas Kirkbride (1809-1883) helped promote what would become an unparalleled movement to create asylums funded by state and local governments to tend to the needs of the mentally ill. Such facilities were founded on the curative principles of healing through humane treatment, labour and the natural beauty of the sprawling campuses on which the hospitals were built, and were intended to be self-sustaining. As such, the food was grown and the grounds maintained by patients, and by all accounts the treatment provided was a vast improvement on the universally poor care afforded to the mentally ill prior to this era.

But such times were not destined to last. After the turn of the century, state hospitals became warehouses for an increasing number of people who society deemed undesirable, including criminals, the poor, homosexuals, those with unorthodox religious views, unwanted children, the elderly, syphilitics, alcoholics and anyone else who was inconvenient to those around them. During this period, it was frighteningly easy to commit a wife who was no longer wanted, children who misbehaved or aging parents whose care was too cumbersome.

As populations swelled past the capacity for which the asylums had been designed, the level of care plummeted, and with such diverse populations being cared for in the same wards, consistent treatment was impossible. Cuts in funding during wartime and the depression forced many patients to sleep on floors or in hallways. Treatment reached critical proportions during the Second World War, when funding and supplies were unavailable and the majority of able-bodied staff were involved in the war effort. The care for patients also became unimaginably nightmarish: there were wards full of malnourished, unclothed and filthy patients, who were forced to eat rotten food and sleep in quarters that were falling apart, often fatally exposing them to the elements. With staffing ratios at unthinkable levels (at times 1 staff member to 200 patients) and facilities crammed to nearly double their intended capacities, abuse by staff also became incredibly problematic. Patients were severely beaten, raped, prostituted, denied medical care and otherwise mistreated to levels that are beyond comprehension. One cannot help but think when looking at pictures from this period that the patients are nearly indistinguishable from Holocaust survivors.

In his book, Mad in America: Bad Science, Bad Medicine, and The Enduring Mistreatment of the Mentally Ill, Robert Whitaker makes a compelling argument for how the Holocaust and the treatment of the mentally ill in this period both were founded on the same principles of eugenics and the cleansing of "undesirables" from society: the stated goal of the concentration camps was the extermination of Germany's upper-echelon groups deemed detrimental to society, while the same, if unstated, goal in the United States mental health system was attained through forced sterilization and lethal neglect.

As the war ended, several major exposes brought the abysmal treatment of the mentally ill to light. A photo essay, entitled "Bedlam 1946", in Life Magazine and Albert Deutsch's 1948 publication, The Shame of the States (Mental Illness and Social Policy: the American Experience), helped raise public awareness of the plight of the inmates in many psychiatric hospitals. While this served to ameliorate the situation somewhat, most of the measures taken to remedy the problems were short-lived. Overcrowding and insufficient care continued to be problematic, although less so than during the years of the Second World War, and abuse of patients continued unabated. There is simply no way to encompass all the cruelties heaped on the patients; most are familiar with lobotomies, which gained popularity as they produced manageable patients, albeit those whose cognitive functioning had been permanently impaired. A particularly barbaric variation of this treatment was performed at Athens State Hospital by Dr. Walter Freeman (1895-1972), who made use of neither anesthetics nor an operating room, and whose careless technique shocked even other doctors and nurses familiar with the procedure. Another common form of treatment was hydrotherapy in which a patient was placed in a tub, which would be filled with either scalding or freezing water, and a sheet was zipped around the neck so only the head was sticking out. Depending on the temperament of the staff, the patient might be left in such a state for days without even a pause to use the bathroom. As the hospitals' intent was less to cure than to warehouse patients, the purpose of the treatments was less to produce any measurable improvement in their condition than to subdue them, making them convenient for the staff.

During the late 1960s and 1970s, the advent of the "chemical straight jacket" Thorazine changed the face of mental health care. Neuroleptics like Thorazine produce a myriad of intensely uncomfortable, frightening side effects and were in fact later identified by Soviet political dissidents as one of the worst tortures they were subjected to in the "psychiatric centres" where they were confined. They produced docile and compliant patients however, and their use was far-reaching and indiscriminate in the American mental health system. As their use became more widespread and the push for deinstitutionalization was spearheaded by President John F. Kennedy and newly formed patients' rights associations, the focus of hospitalization shifted from containing patients for the remainder of their natural lives to bringing their behaviours to manageable levels that would allow community integration. While this policy was in many ways beneficial, the treatment at hospitals continued to be an inhumane and dehumanizing process. In his book, entitled The Shoe Leather Treatment, referring to the common "treatment" of kicking patients until they were compliant or too injured to resist, former patient Bill Thomas relates that after years in state hospitals, a brief stay in prison after an escape attempt seemed an immeasurable improvement in his quality of life. Previous
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Coupled with the push to reintegrate patients into society, this flagrant abuse and neglect finally led to the closure of many asylums. Even this process was messy, however. Under President Ronald Reagan's policies, which often led to dumping clients out of hospitals with inadequate aftercare, the homeless populations soared. When the closure of Byberry State Hospital was initiated in 1986, three patients drowned in the Schuylkill River before the Pennsylvania Governor decided to slow down the process to a manageable level. This process continues to this day and the problematic nature of providing care for the mentally ill continues to haunt us. Harrisburg State Hospital in Pennsylvania recently shut down, forcing communities and mental health providers to scramble to find alternatives for patients with higher treatment needs. Many patients now in communities may require assistance for the rest of their lives in dealing with mundane chores most take for granted, such as buying groceries and paying bills, because they were never exposed to these problems during their hospitalization.

The ever-present issue of what to do with state hospital facilities is also difficult. In many cases, the land and buildings will be almost immediately reclaimed, sold to developers or used as state agency offices. Several facilities, such as Danvers State Hospital in New York, are being converted into high-priced apartment buildings, although some ex-patients and mental health workers view this as a move only slightly more tasteful than making apartments out of Auschwitz. Other facilities like Dixmont have been completely demolished by large companies, which see the sites as development gold mines and have no problems bulldozing unmarked gravestones in patient cemeteries to make way for their projects. Some, such as Pilgrim State Hospital in New York, were partially used, abandoned and demolished. Countless more sites have been completely abandoned, standing until the roofs collapse under the weight of years of water damage or until they are burned by arsonists. Almost none are protected historic sites that visitors can enter to learn about their checkered past.

Two examples stand out, however, as thoughtful ideas for reintegration of the properties into the communities. The state hospital in Fairview, Connecticut, has been turned into a public park--the buildings are well secured and the grounds well kept--where during the day one finds community members jogging, picnicking or walking their dogs. Ironically, by being open to the public, theft and vandalism have taken significantly less of a toll on the buildings compared to other state hospitals whose grounds are off-limits.

Athens State Hospital is a fantastic example of proper maintenance of an historic site. The university uses portions of many of the buildings and as such the grounds are well-maintained, beautiful and secure. It has an excellent section on its website dedicated to the history of the facility; the wings of the old Kirkbride hospital are in better condition than nearly any other state hospital in the country. Also unlike many other asylums, Athens State Hospital sits securely on a hill overlooking the small college town. While entering it requires a respirator and permission from the faculty, its rich and multilaycred past remains intact for now, serving as a poignant reminder and an epitaph to the many shattered lives that passed through its doors.

Matthew Murray's work in mental health spurred a deep interest in its history. Trying to capture the amazing beauty of the asylums led him to photograph other abandoned sites before they are gone forever, including prisons, factories, military and industrial buildings, farms and houses. His photographic work can be viewed at his website gallery, www.abandonedamerica.org.


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Personal Accounts: My Experiences as a Psychiatric Patient in the 1960s
William R. Carney, Jr., M.L.S.

In 1969, a turbulent decade was coming to an end. For me, that turbulence came in the form of having to deal with a serious mental illness when the system for treating mental illness was changing as much as the rest of society was. During that decade I spent more than 40 months in nine different psychiatric hospitals, most of them state institutions. I had 13 separate stays at these hospitals. At the close of the decade I walked into a community mental health outpatient clinic for the first time and never returned to a state hospital.

I had my first manic episode in 1958, when I was entering my senior year at Denison University. I left school and was hospitalized at a community hospital for about two weeks. I received shock treatments and returned to school, hoping that my symptoms were a one-time occurrence. I managed to graduate, but pursuing my goal of an advanced degree in theology proved to be frustrating. My recurrent symptoms landed me in several different hospitals in four states, depending on where I was working or studying at the time.

Grace New Haven hospital, a private hospital where I spent several weeks in 1960, was the first of my hospital experiences in New England. Although little active treatment was provided, I did receive some group therapy, and both the treatment and the environment proved to be better than most of my subsequent experiences.

In 1961 I spent eight months at Massachusetts Mental Health Center in Boston. I received about three sessions of psychotherapy with a psychiatrist every week. However, I was bored, having little to occupy my time. I was allowed out to walk around the block, and, if my family had sent me any money, I would buy a cup of coffee and a pastry.

For the most part the only therapy I received during my 40 months of hospitalization was drug therapy with Thorazine (chlorpromazine). Danvers State Hospital in Massachusetts, which hosted me for three months in 1963, was typical in that I received no treatment other than medication. Just a steady diet of institutional food, chlorpromazine, and boredom. The admission ward at Danvers was extremely crowded and chaotic, but the specialty unit to which I was later transferred was a bit more comfortable.

Discharge planning and follow-up treatment were notably absent from most of my hospitalization experiences in the 1960s. The process of transfer from one hospital to another was difficult and painful. In hospitals in Connecticut, Massachusetts, New York, and Pennsylvania I had no knowledge of any discharge planning and was not linked with community services when I was discharged.

In 1965 I found myself in a Howard Johnson's restaurant in New York's Times Square, where I ordered a large meal and several drinks. At the end of the meal I revealed that I had no money. Being somewhat manic, I thought this was funny, but the restaurant manager did not. Soon the police showed up and took me, involuntarily, to the infamous Bellevue Hospital. Bellevue was a nightmare—extremely crowded, with many patients' beds in the hallways. The conflicts among the patients were never-ending. My treatment consisted of my old standby, chlorpromazine, with Stelazine (trifluoperazine) added. The trifluoperazine made me extremely agitated, so I spent most of my time at Bellevue pacing the floors.

After several months the Bellevue doctors transferred me to Central Islip State Hospital on Long Island, a much calmer environment. At Central Islip some of the patients provided shaving services to the other patients. These patients were unskilled or used bad razors—or both—so I endured a lot of bleeding from the many nicks and cuts they unintentionally inflicted. Even though I was not alcoholic, I went to the Alcoholics Anonymous meetings on the ward with some other patients for the free coffee and donuts that were provided.

While I was at Central Islip, my brother tried to get me transferred back to Pittsburgh. He encountered great difficulties with the New York and Pennsylvania bureaucracies, but finally the hospital flew me back to Pittsburgh with an attendant, and I was admitted back to Mayview State Hospital, my home away from home (I had four stays there during the 1960s).

A year later, in the midst of another unsuccessful attempt at graduate school, I had several brief stays (each less than a month) at the City Hospital in Hartford, Connecticut. There on the psychiatric ward I received drug therapy and nothing else. When I stabilized they sent me back to school. After several episodes of this pattern, a friend took me to see an Episcopal priest, who took me to Norwich State Hospital.

The Norwich Hospital environment was decent, and I was fairly comfortable there. Compared with other hospitals, Norwich had more group therapy, art therapy, and activities such as holiday parties. After two months, I was discharged from Norwich under the assumption that I would return to the seminary. Instead, however, I caught a bus back to Pittsburgh, where I managed to get a bed in a rooming house and a job with juvenile probation.

I was relatively successful in the juvenile probation job. About a year into the job a family doctor prescribed Valium (diazepam) for stress, and that turned out to be rather helpful. It is notable that even after all those hospitalizations I was not seeing any kind of mental health practitioner in the community. After nearly two years I finally quit the job because of stress. A few months later, in 1969, I had an anxiety attack and drove myself to Mayview. This was to be my fourth and final stay at that hospital.

My first stay at Mayview had been the worst experience of my life. This experience began with a brief hospitalization at a local community hospital in 1961, followed by an abrupt transfer to Mayview, where I remained for six months. The hospital used an assembly-line technique to administer electroconvulsive therapy (ECT). I could see many people in front of me getting treatment and going through convulsions. I saw about five of these treatments before actually getting to the gurney myself. I was told to put my head down so that the electrodes could be attached. I knew that once I put my head down, which I dutifully did, the electrodes would touch my forehead and I would be convulsed and knocked out by the shock. When I came back to consciousness, I was given coffee and something to eat and was then sent back to the ward. During this stay at Mayview I received 20 ECT treatments, two per week. After the shock treatments I was given chlorpromazine and forced to work in the bakery without pay. I thought that after 23 years of life my world had come to a bizarre and shocking end.

Upon waking from ECT, I always felt depleted. Once the treatments were over, the chlorpromazine made me feel like a zombie. This first stay at Mayview was the most horrendous experience of my life. There were some social activities, such as dancing and singing, but I found them bizarre and refused to participate. I did engage in occupational therapy, mainly crafts. Mostly, however, I just sat around and gained weight because of inactivity and the side effects of my medication. When I finally got on an open ward, I enjoyed walking on the hospital grounds and going to the hospital store.

After I left the hospital, I continued to feel like a zombie until the psychiatrist, at my only follow-up appointment, discontinued my chlorpromazine (and did not replace it with anything else). Only after the chlorpromazine wore off did I feel human again; only then could I start to think clearly.

My second stay at Mayview, in 1964, also came after a brief hospitalization at the previously mentioned community hospital. This stay at Mayview was not as bad as the first one. However, I was forced to carry soiled laundry from building to building, my payment being a candy bar at the end of the day. I believe I had the option of not working, but I was afraid that if I refused to work I would lose my chance to be discharged from the hospital. My treatment was strictly chlorpromazine and custodial care.

My third stay at Mayview was the one after I was transferred from Central Islip. This time I was allowed to work at the Little Store, a small snack shop and restaurant on the hospital grounds. This was a great improvement over the laundry and the bakery, and this stay at Mayview was consequently much more pleasant. Nevertheless, I still received no active treatment and no follow-up treatment.

When I admitted myself to Mayview for my fourth and final stay in 1969, the hospital did not want to admit me. But I refused to go home, and they finally let me in. This experience at Mayview was briefer and better than my previous three stays. The environment had improved, and the patients were treated more respectfully.

So my first stay at Mayview State Hospital was the worst, and my last was the best. Still, other than ECT and drug treatment, there was little else to help me work toward recovery. Upon my final discharge, however, a nurse put me in touch with the outpatient clinic at Western Psychiatric Institute and Clinic. There, in 1969, I started weekly psychotherapy that lasted five years. I resumed taking diazepam and in general fared much better than I had in the previous decade. Of course, I still had the misdiagnosis of schizophrenia. It was only much later, in 1982, that I was finally given a diagnosis of bipolar illness—the diagnosis I consider to be the correct one.

In the 40 months I was hospitalized in the 1960s, I experienced the absence of what is now commonplace—active treatment, discharge planning, and connections to community-based treatment. The treatment I received was for the wrong diagnosis, and consisted mainly of powerful doses of a single antipsychotic drug. The treatment included many inhumane elements, including overcrowded conditions, forced work, and a lineup for ECT.

We have come a long way since then. Today the opportunities for recovery are much better. There are more integrated and holistic approaches, more rehabilitation, and less toxic medications, and more attention is given to wellness and community integration. Now I have better information about my illness and what I need to do to cope with it, and I am an active participant in my own recovery. Consequently, I spend less time in the hospital and more time in the community; I spend less time dealing with my illness and more time working on the rest of my life.

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by matthew christopher murray-a Unconvicted Major Plagherist

In the past few years, the popularity of photographing ruins has exploded. Aided by the ability to find locations via the internet, the omnipresence and inexpensiveness of digital photography, and the plethora of forums and photo sharing sites to distribute images, interest in the subject has increased exponentially. What was once a niche hobby shared by a small but hardcore contingent of chronic trespassers has mushroomed to such a degree that there are thousands upon thousands of photographs of abandoned locations uploaded daily to image sharing websites, hundreds of gallery shows, books, and websites dealing with them, dozens of articles discussing the subject in high profile newspapers and journals, and even television shows on urban exploration. With the ubiquity of the medium has come an increasing backlash against what has been popularly termed 'ruin porn' that alleges that the genre is more a voyeuristic romp through scenes of economic devastation by a bevy of photographers interested in self-promotion and profiteering on suffering than a legitimate artistic endeavor.

As a photographer who has visited hundreds of abandoned sites across America for nearly a decade, I can't claim objectivity in the matter. I have been to nearly every type of site imaginable, from factories and schools to churches and asylums, and my fledgling artistic career has been built on lecturing on the them and displaying my work on the subject via lectures, gallery showings, and my website abandonedamerica.us (hey! that's where you are now!). The term 'ruin porn' has been leveled at my photography on multiple occasions - much to my chagrin - and each time I have tried to defend the validity of not only my own forays in the field but also the topic as a whole as a sort of modern archaeology and an important critical reflection of our times.



Above: Ruin Porn

'Ruin porn' was originally coined as an angry response to the work of hoards of photographers and journalists flocking to Detroit to show the city's decline and the building resentment among locals at this one-sided depiction of their home. Local writers' frustration stemmed from the fact that they felt the medium was reveling in a shallow, post-apocalyptic representation that ignored efforts at renewal and very real problems that were faced by residents of Detroit. The continual focus on blight and decay, they felt, hampered efforts to promote positive aspects of the city and in fact perpetuated the popular perception of Detroit as a war-torn ghost town. Articles condemning the practice were followed by impassioned (and, to some, also one-sided) essays extolling the virtues of Detroit's burgeoning art scene and efforts toward economic improvement. Detroit had become the poster child for American ruin, and even despite the fact that said art scene (which was arguably aiding renewal) was partly comprised of an influx of artists interested in decay, an attitude of hostility towards this unflattering distinction developed. As in Venice, a city whose economy is based on tourism that is contributing to the rate at which it is sinking underwater, this new 'tourist' industry did have a mixture of benefits and detrimental effects. On one hand, this 'ruin porn' neglected to inform viewers of the efforts of residents to improve their town. On the other, the increased attention of outsider photographers created interest in the subject and brought these stories of renewal and growth to a public that might otherwise not have cared about them. It opened up a dialogue about the status of the city and its future that drew national awareness, and despite their hostility towards the subject, that awareness was nevertheless capitalized on by the very writers who rejected the photographers who visited their city. After all, who would be as familiar with the term 'ruin porn' or the debate on Detroit's status if not for the initial series of articles and photographs? In my opinion, while there is validity to both sides of the debate, nobody would be listening to that debate without the 'eye candy' that brought it to light.

Since then, the term has been used with increasing frequency, to the point that the real meaning has been diluted and is unfamiliar to many of the very people who use it. It is bandied about carelessly because it sounds hip and contemporary, much like 'sexting': it brings to mind a certain raciness, a taboo element of titillation and excitement that perhaps goes hand in hand with viewing images of potentially unsafe environments that often the photographers do not have permission to enter. Many who use the term to do not perceive it to be any insult to the work being discussed at all, which is perhaps in keeping with what it originally implied: a glib, superficial understanding of a deeply complex subject. In this context, it merely represents the gleeful desire and attraction viewers have for the images (much akin to, say, 'food porn') rather than a critical slam at the genre as being exploitative and shallow.

To others, the word represents a sort of victimization and fetishization of despair. What exactly makes one guilty of this egregious sin is still contested: is it merely presenting images of ruin for consumption without any context? Is it aestheticizing decay? Is it profiting from and making a career based on images of ruin? The nebulous nature of the term and its use as an insult means that it can be employed without much consequence and is frustratingly difficult to rebut. One common thread is that it typically applies to making 'pretty' pictures of abandoned sites, but beyond that consensus on the definition starts to fall apart. To one person it could be the use of High Dynamic Range (HDR) photography, which they do not care for and feel is trivializing the subject by making it beautiful. To another critic, it could be making images that romanticize places that they believe should be torn down for urban renewal, while yet another might contend that simply exploring places without properly advocating for preservation qualifies as 'ruin porn'. To some, the mere act of presenting a body of work chronicling ruins is all the qualification that is necessary, regardless of what else is done by the photographer or what the intention is, because they view the entire category as trite and clichéd. It becomes a sort of maddening, meandering mess of expectations and accusations, with each writer feeling they have the correct set of parameters of what the work should and should not accomplish and how it should be done. Because the core definition is ill-defined and constantly shifting, there is no way to adequately defend yourself: whatever it is that you're doing, you should be doing something else, but in the meanwhile your work bears the sleazy stigma of comparison to that of such esteemed photographers as those found in Hustler or Penthouse and you, by extension, are less an artist than a pornographer.

While the term is extraordinarily useful for brushing off the significance of an entire genre of work, it is much less useful for entering an actual discussion. It breezily dismisses the subject as perverse and pointless with the same carefree lack of thought and responsibility that the original photographers who were described with the term were accused of having. When examined more thoroughly, much like the topic of abandoned spaces, it reveals a wealth of material worthy of pondering. What are the responsibilities of an artist or photographer to their subject, and should they be chastised for attempting to make a profession of documenting ruins? What is ethical or unethical in an area so ripe for exploitation? Is art required to make some statement one way or another about a subject, and in that case what should the statement be? More to the point, is existing as an object of beauty justifiable in and of itself or must it 'accomplish' something? Must a photograph present both sides of a story? Is this genre unfairly saddled with a set of standards that are rarely applied to others?

In the following series of articles, we'll examine these topics in greater depth, in addition to trying to shed some light on the topic of urban exploration as it relates to contemporary culture and what its place in the dialogue about renewal, preservation, and art might be. In the meanwhile, please feel free to share thoughts and opinions, and stop back soon for more.


Continue on to Part II: A Chronicle of Failure
Continue on to Part III: On Dealing With the Dead

Comments

By Olivia Antsis: Thank you for taking the time to address some of the issues that the label "ruin porn" raises inside and outside the photographic community. Your first installment of the article provides a good introduction that wets one's appetite and encourages further thought, deliberation, and dialogue. You raise many important questions and put the issue into context for those unfamiliar with or confused by the label's many connotations, misrepresentations, and implications. As someone who has followed your work for several years, I have always been impressed by your integrity and thoughtfulness when it comes to doing right by these places. You live by a self-imposed code of honor that reflects your love and reverence for these spaces, and as far as I can see, you never miss an opportunity to pay heed to a site's historical and cultural significance or the impact it has had on surrounding communities and individuals. Your thoughtfulness and attention to nuance extends to the architects and caretakers of these sites, preservationists, and documentarians. I understand why the term "ruin porn" is so disagreeable to both you the photographer and us the viewers or appreciators. In my mind, whether intended or not, it is a tool that may easily be used to minimize and undermine the meaningful exchange that is really happening here. It is also disheartening that words are so often used as weapons when put into the arsenal of those seeking to destroy another person's credibility -- and for no other end but to buffer one's own insecurities or to satisfy the need for attention and self-validation. If anything, I think that by raising the issues you personally have with this label, you have acknowledged that it is important to you that your work has meaning and significance beyond its aesthetic beauty. While you are still discovering daily what this is all for, what this all means, and what will come of it, I know many of us appreciate that you continue to do what you do despite all of the uncertainty that you feel.

By Tracy S-Homer: I would not hesitate to believe that many have exhaled a breath long held after reading this series introduction. Addressing this concomitant gives supporters erudition to be promoters, rather than defenders, of this art.

By Jason Shepard: This was an interesting read. Actually, I've come across others that despise this terminology even more than you do. In fact, some photographers get rather angry any time they so much as hear this term. But, let's explore this a little bit. I actually prefer the term "ruin porn" as I find it descriptive, intriguing, and interest-generating. Pornography is defined by The American Heritage Dictionary as "Lurid or sensational material" (Farlex, 2012). In fact, I do find photographs of abandonment and decay to be sensational images. They don't "turn me on" per se, however, they do get my creative juices flowing. I spend hours staring at images of ruin, but I'm not doing so because I appreciate them as an art form or because I'm physically attracted to them. Rather, I'm picturing the entire repurposing project in my head. I am imagining not "what has been," but rather "what could be" in a reuse project. I take into account the surroundings, layout, original design intentions, and historical significance (if the photos and information are available of these aspects). If I see enough potential in the location (if provided), surrounding area (if known), and the building itself, I contact friends of mine who are developers and financiers to see if they have an interest in rescuing the place. I have, many, MANY times, had to ignore a place not because it has promise, but rather because the photographer, out of some ludicrous desire to keep a place to him- or herself or in a desperate, generally worthless attempt to "save" the place from vandals, has refused to disclose the location or even the general vicinity of the ruin. While it may, very rarely, prevent damage from vandals, it is also, very frequently, preventing those with the funds and interest from rescuing these blighted buildings and making them available for reuse. The fact that photographers are afraid, for whatever reason, to disclose locations is the primary negative connotation that I associate with the term "ruin porn." Keeping this information "secret" makes it appear to give ruin photography the connotation of being "bad" and this exacerbates the situation. I love your photography, but I see some of the same issues here that I see at dozens, even hundreds, of other websites just like yours: refusal to disclose locations and use of HDR (which does not give those of us looking at the reuse prospects a realistic image of the place). What I am glad to see is a lot more information on the "backstory" of the place that I don't run into very often. That I appreciate and so do those I speak with about these properties. Like you state, there are many different types of people and many different perspectives. Mine is only one of those and probably rather unique in the field. Hopefully, it will give you yet another angle to work from and provide a greater understanding of the term as well as knowledge that there are those out there who are actively seeking to rescue these ignored, derelict places and turn them into useful members of society once again. In fact, my family and I are deconstructing a barn and reconstructing it on our property to use as the framework for our new home and an abandoned silo to use as the framework for a multi-story playhouse for our children - our small part to play in reclaiming history. Speaking of history, that's yet another aspect of this that many don't realize yet (although the recent photographic documentation of New York City that was released to the public should help this be understood) -- You are documenting a fast-being-erased architectural history. As the pace of demolitions rapidly increases in an attempt to "wipe out blight" and "raise property values in the surrounding areas," this aspect of your photography will become more and more important as time goes on. Don't worry if there are people like me that don't see the artistic value of your photography. There are so many other aspects to consider that one small segment of the population with a lack of respect for any value in this photography isn't going to be a problem overall...At least that's IMO. -Jason

Confessions of a Ruin Pornographer Part II: A Chronicle of Failure Posted: 24th January 2012 In: Blog One of the many things that interests me about the locations I photograph is that each one represents failure. On a micro level, this is evidenced in the building itself and the failure of the owners to fund/maintain whatever it was established for. On a macro level, it often applies to the community's inability to support the business, and to an even greater extent can be indicative of lost industries and economic collapse on the county and state level. I would argue that the culmination of these failures shows a trend even greater (and more ominous), that of an overall social decline leading to the fall of an entire empire. When the term "ruin porn" is used, it is frequently joined with expectations that the photographer being discussed is accused of failing to meet. If this were not the case, there would be no need for such a derogatory term. The frequent criticism is that photography of abandoned sites constitutes artistic slumming, that the photographer is exploiting the misfortunes of others for economic and professional gain. After all, there is a profound sorrow inherent in these images. If one approaches them for anything beyond their surface aesthetic, the failures on a micro and macro level become clear. There is a sense of helplessness and injustice about them. Shouldn't someone be able to save this building? What happened to the people who lost their jobs in that factory? Who is to blame? Photobucket The Church of the Transfiguration's demolition remains one of the most heartwrenching examples of senseless architectural destruction I have witnessed. To make matters worse, there are no easy answers presented by the work itself, and happy stories of rehabilitation and reuse are few and far between. The Church of the Transfiguration in Philadelphia was one of the most breathtaking buildings I've ever seen; everywhere you looked there were more mosaics, statues, reliefs. Unlike many other places I've visited, there was very little structural damage. It could have been saved, but shortly after I visited it demolition began and almost none of the church escaped the landfill. The sense of loss and outrage is still heavy among the parishioners, and rightfully so in my opinion. This is the norm in my line of photography. We always are racing the wrecking ball, and sifting through the remains of the hopes and ambitions of others. As a viewer, you want there to be a happy ending. As a photographer, and one who is presenting things as they are to you, there is none that I know of. You can shake your fists at the sky as much as you want, but there are no comforting solutions to the images that allow you to move on. In the polarized political climate of today, there is always someone to blame. We can blame greed and capitalism, the church itself, developers, the Republicans/Democrats, poor city planning - the list is truly endless. The important thing is that, for closure's sake, we need to pin the fault on someone so we can wash our hands of the situation and go back to our regularly scheduled routines. As often as not, it is just as easy to shoot the messenger, to claim their work is without merit because, hey, what are they really accomplishing by showing us these things? Photographs like the ones I produce don't even presume to have an answer. They plop an ugly question at your feet, be it wrapped in a pleasing image or not, and just leave it there for you to ponder. The shattered windows and collapsing floors stare at you wordlessly asking, Why? Why do beautiful things fall to disrepair? Who allowed it? What will be left of us after we are gone? Why must ideals die, and why bother with life if all our endeavors end in oblivion and obscurity? Writers and bloggers tackle the subject from a myriad of angles but the truth is that the tropes are already in place. The images can speak of depression and despair, urban blight, serve as memento mori, romanticize the past, and so on. The problem is that like the images, no matter how much you try to take a fantastically complex subject that touches on everything from socioeconomic conditions to art to the very meaning of life and death, no mere article can ever hope to adequately address the subject or answer the dilemma any better than a picture can. Rather than admitting that this is an issue far too large for any artist or writer to ever manage, it is easier to simply reject the subject outright as well as the person who brought it up. My friend and fellow photographer Matthew Palmer observed, "I never understood how photographing an abandoned building now has some kind of stigma associated with it in the academic world unless you directly use said photos to somehow single handedly save the derelict structure or tell a journalistic story of the woes of the people who lived/worked there. If you posted pictures of national parks nobody would say you are shooting landscape porn because you didn't go into detail on the geological processes that formed the Grand Tetons or the history of the Indians who live at the base of the Grand Canyon. If you posted pictures of animals at the zoo nobody would say you are doing a social injustice for not going into the evolutionary history of the tiger or the fiscal difficulties facing the zoo's lack of state funding." In the face of the insecurity that the lack of certainty inspires, and in light of the fact that the people bringing the questions to light can't possibly hope to answer them either, the easy option is to dismiss the subject. To do so, you must find fault in the one raising the question: the photographer. What is the photographer trying to accomplish? Isn't the subject trite and overdone? How is their work helping the situation? We ask these things knowing that no matter what the answer is, we will deem it unsatisfactory. With minds already made up, we will point to another problem: how have you ever helped anyone? Have you ever saved a building? Who do you think you are? As a photographer of ruins, please allow me to answer that as directly as I can: I don't know. I don't know why I became obsessed with this line of photography, or why I spend all of my time and money creating images of these places. I can spout theories until the end of time, but ultimately I don't know. If I contract mesothelioma from all the asbestos I've inhaled, if I fall through a floor tomorrow and die or wind up paralyzed, I will have no better idea what the purpose of it was or what it accomplished. I've tried to 'raise awareness' and 'promote preservation' and I sincerely believe this is an important subject that we have no choice but to address as American cities decline if we are ever to hope to move forward. Nevertheless, I capture images. They do not save places or people. I may sing the praises of people who restore historic sites, but I never have been able to do so myself. I may try to share whatever fragments of history I have unearthed, and present them in the form of art so that people may understand what it is that makes me love them, but I have no clear indication of a single quantifiable effect this has had on anyone or anything. I can't tell you what we need to do to avert the disasters these sites represent. I can tell you that for all I've looked for an answer - and I sincerely have tried to find one - the problem is layered like an onion, and no matter how deep you cut into it, there are only more questions. I have theories, endless theories. Buy me a drink some night and I'll gladly tell you all the great lessons hindsight can teach when applied to abandoned buildings or the reasons I think the trend will continue until we have little left to lose. I can even tell you my hypotheses on what we should do to avoid it and why we never will. Ask me what I did to keep Transfiguration from being demolished, or how I kept them from tearing Taunton State Hospital down, and I'll probably stare back at you silently for a few long moments before putting my coat on and leaving for the night. I didn't know what to do. Beyond this limited forum on my website, and trying to periodically poke up activism on the part of people who enjoy my work, I haven't done much in concrete terms. Does that mean I am exploiting the misery of others? I don't know that either. Thanks for asking. As stated in the beginning of the article, these images represent failures. They represent failures of individuals, of businesses, of social systems, economies, towns and cities, states, ambitions and ideals, and maybe even our country as a whole. They also represent my own failures. I have not saved these places. I have not saved the people who lost their jobs from the unemployment lines, from poverty, or from any of the other problems the loss of these places caused. I am not perched somewhere safely above it all, impartially decreeing who was right and who was wrong. I live in a word that seems to me to be falling apart, and I can't escape it. When these places are ultimately destroyed, by vandalism and arson and the wrecking ball, it isn't something I observe with idle detachment. Beyond the destruction of our shared history and heritage, the demolition of these sites represents the destruction of my own personal past and the relationship I formed with these places. That grief and helplessness affects me deeply and I feel it at times like I would the loss of a friend. The guilty feeling that I somehow failed the places I photograph, the people who built them, and the people who brought them to life, is something I can never escape. I don't know what art accomplishes. I don't know if it accomplishes anything, or if we just create practical justifications for what we like and what we do. If you ask to measure some tangible benefit that what I do has to justify its existence or validate it as an art form, I can't. I create documents and records of moments that are imploding around me, literally and metaphorically. Beyond that, you're on your own. If that makes my work "ruin porn" and this site little more than a chronicle of failure, so be it. Continue on to Part I: A Lurid Tale of Art, Double Standards, and Decay Continue on to Part III: On Dealing With the Dead Confessions of a Ruin Pornographer Part III: On Dealing With the Dead Posted: 07th February 2012 In: Blog At its core, the photography of ruins is fundamentally about death. While there are a myriad of elements that can be brought into the discussion including but not limited to art criticism, history, preservation advocacy, and sociology, the very basis for the entire genre is that the photographs are of abandoned - or dead - spaces. It could be argued that such spaces still house life (in the form of the flora and fauna that reclaim them), and therefore are spaces in transition, but the key element is that what they once were created for is no longer. Much in the same way, a host of chemical and biological processes continue in a corpse but it is still no longer considered living. It is this concept that frames many of the discussions and accusations about the genre; those living in Detroit, for example, chafe at their city being characterized as 'dead' when there are still living citizens and businesses that inhabit it. Nevertheless, this aspect of the work is what frames our response, and is critical to decoding our reactions (and the reactions of others) to it. The set of expectations and taboos surrounding the photography of death is firmly entrenched. We expect that the images will be presented with respect, and we expect that the photographer will not 'take advantage' of the subject by exploiting them. Sally Mann's work photographing corpses at the University of Tennesee's anthropological facility where decay is studied provoked strong reactions from viewers (much to her delight) because of drawing them uncomfortably close to this fine line. Some described this body of work as 'beyond contempt', and it does raise a host of uneasy questions about motive, such as whether Mann was using the photographs of remains for shock value to promote her career. In one article about it, she is "observed happily wandering from cadaver to cadaver, prodding this body part and stroking that one". The issues of privacy and the idea that someone could potentially treat our remains or those of a loved one in a similar manner can never be far from the audience's mind. Conversely, there is Mann's own statement that "There's a new prudery around death. We've moved it into hospital, behind screens, and no longer wear black markers to acknowledge its presence. It's become unmentionable." Contemporary artists such as Andres Serrano, Enrique Metinides, and Maeve Berry also photograph the remains of the dead, and have similar controversies surrounding their work. In their defense, the photography of corpses is far from a new practice and was in fact much more widespread in the past. Post-mortem photographs of deceased family members or criminals were common in the 19th century, yet flourished for different reasons. Untitled, WR Pa 53 (2001) from the series What Remains. Photograph: Sally Mann/Gagosian Gallery While an abandoned building can certainly be anthromorphized either intentionally or unintentionally, and while it is in many cases used as a metaphor for the human body or spirit, the simple fact is that it is not a corpse. Shattered windows may resemble eyes, open doors may remind us of mouths hanging agape, but an abandoned structure we are viewing is a man-made object. While life has inhabited it, it has never been a living entity. Does this mean that viewing it with the same set of standards and preconceptions is unfair? In some ways, I would argue that it is not. While a derelict building may in actuality not be a corpse, in some ways it may perhaps be far more significant than one. A human's body may only hold a connection to the few dozen people who knew or loved them, but a dead factory may have had deep personal significance to hundreds if not thousands of workers. A church is not just an object, it is for many a symbol of a union with the divine, a place where babies are baptized, couples are married, solace is sought, and the deceased are put to rest. While the meaning and use of these sites can be called merely projections of our own will and desire, these connections are very real and very deeply rooted in the emotions of those who harbor them. To see a place you once called home destroyed by vandals may not physically injure you, but it is an erasure of your past, an attack on a part of your being. We expect a photographer who deals with these sites to tread lightly and with respect, and rightfully so; they are the bodies of hopes and ambitions, and in their link to our shared heritage and common past, they are in essence a part of all of our 'extended family'. Far from images of actual corpses that some may consider shocking and gruesome, these sites allow us to confront mortality on a much larger scale in a context that is perhaps less immediately horrific. Just as the family members might grieve through post mortem photographs of children, posed as though they were sleeping and perhaps surrounded by flowers, photographs can be used for closure and obtaining a sense of release from the confrontation of loss and acknowledgement of memory. However, while closure can be one intent/reaction, as Laurie Beth Clark's pointed out in "Never Again and Its Discontents", her essay about the purpose of museum exhibits based upon atrocities, another possible intent/reaction can be that of disclosure. Disclosure is almost a form of activism or protest. While exhibits with the intention of closure are there to essentially fit "a conventional model of trauma therapy wherein a patient orchestrates a structured visit to the setting of a traumatic experience in order to put to the pain to rest", those with the purpose of disclosure favor "learning from the past and perpetual vigilance lest we repeat these crimes." This is the expectation that I find is most common of the photography of ruins: that the photographer will disclose the history of a site, the status of the community and the impact the loss had on them, and advocate for preservation and prevention of the future loss of historic structures. While this is certainly a legitimate endeavor and one that I have worked towards with my own photography, it can also be limiting. Rather than the photography of ruins existing for its own sake, it must justify itself by what it does or tries to do. It can't simply provide a locus for closure, or a eulogy - this is much derided as a shallow lament for a nostalgic past that never existed or wallowing in the loss of others. Photobucket How does an image like this function differently if viewed as a source of closure for the members of the community who frequented this social club, as an historical record of elks lodges, as advocacy for preservation, or a statement about the overall mortality of mankind's endeavors? Further complicating the subject of the representation of death through ruins, and directly connected to the closure/disclosure schism in their reading, is the separate set of expectations we have for artists representing their own impending demise versus the artist representing the demise of another. Sally Mann's work exemplifies this in the accusations of her critics that she exploits the death of others. That she could merely celebrate the colors and forms of the decay in corpses seems perverse and unpalatable. Checkov observed that what makes a great writer is that they "move you in a certain direction and they summon you there too, and you feel, not with your mind alone, but with your whole being, that they have a goal, like the ghost of Hamlet's father who does not come and trouble the imagination for nothing." When an artist examines the death of another, it is expected that they are not troubling us with the ghost of another for nothing. We anticipate an almost narrative quality to their work, a certain dignity and gravitas, and a destination that their work will take us to where we can close the book on the subject and leave with a feeling of greater understanding - not only of the deceased, but of mortality and the meaning of life itself. Certainly this is evident in cinema and literature. For the death of another person to be displayed as an example of chaos and meaninglessness in a nonfiction work is almost unheard of. However, if an artist is representing their own death, many of the strictures on how the work is presented vanish. We don't expect someone like Jo Spence or David Wojnarowicz (who represented their own death through self portraits) to provide us with some lofty understanding of the meaning of life or death. We understand and accept that their work may be frustrated, confused, angry, accusatory, or sad. Much as we try to allow those who are coping with their own death the freedom to process it in whatever way they need to, we allow the artist to represent the subject as best they see fit and try to view the work for what it is. In this case, impending death is all the context that is needed. While the depiction of abandoned buildings is most frequently seen as the artist's approach to the death of another, and while this is in some cases accurate, it can also be read as their reaction to their own death. If this is the case, then the reading may change entirely and the dialogue over whether closure/disclosure are critical to the merits of the work is rendered nearly irrelevant. What of a photographer who is diagnosed with a fatal illness and chooses to sublimate that into images of ruins? Would we call their work 'ruin porn' or expect that they provide some outside context about the impact on the community? Would we ask that they present their work as activism or as a political statement about the destruction of the past, or could we simply allow it to exist as a manifestation of their own meditation on their mortality? If we would be more lenient with such photographs under these auspices, we must ask ourselves if expecting a terminal illness to allow a work to speak for itself on mortality is justified. After all, we are all mortal, and when stripped of outside context the presentation of ruins speaks of a death that awaits us all. Furthermore, if a body of work presents these places as the death of a way of life or worse, the death of an empire, unless the person presenting them somehow can manage to extricate themselves from the situation, their death may be implicit in the work. Even if it is not the intention of the artist to present their depictions of ruins as some sort of indicator of impending social collapse as I do, the slow deterioration and eventual demolition of a location (or even its renovation, which would still erase the current state of disrepair) are very much analogous to the deletion of their existence and the qualities that make it up by time, and ultimately the frailty of the human condition. If the purpose of the artwork is an exploration of these things, is it not somewhat demeaning to the art and the artist to ask that they package their message for our consumption? If this is so, how does this translate to the artwork that is literally dealing with the dead? These are questions without easy answers, but they merit serious thought before one enters into the critical dialogue about whether a work dealing with ruins is justified or not and whether or not we dismiss the artist and their intentions. Perhaps the one thing that we are excused for expecting of the work is some intentionality and thought, regardless of what that intentionality or thought may be. Dealing with the death of others, one's own death, or the subject of mortality as a whole is a heavy and difficult topic to navigate. I do not think that it is unreasonable to expect, like Checkov did of writers, that the artist does not trouble your imagination for nothing. Continue on to Part I: A Lurid Tale of Art, Double Standards, and Decay Continue on to Part II: A Chronicle of Failure

"Lost in Laconia":

"Lost in Laconia": During a time when people who were branded and stigmatized as "feebleminded" and a danger to society were banished to a life of isolation and total segregation, thousands of children and adults were institutionalized in large state operated institutions throughout the country. In the case of New Hampshire, that place was the Laconia State School.

This documentary examines the social values and cultural ideals of the twentieth century, relative to individuals and families who were labeled "feebleminded", deficient, or disabled in New Hampshire.

"Lost in Laconia" has been shown to audiences throughout New England and has been featured on New Hampshire Chronicle; New Hampshire Outlook; New Hampshire Public Radio; and New Hampshire Public Television.

Directed, Produced and Edited by 1L Media