Tucked behind the glitz of Manhattan’s West 57th Street, between luxury high-rises and the Hudson River, I discovered the skeletal remains of long-forgotten piers—hulking, weathered structures that once thrived with maritime life. Their decaying frames jutted out into the water like the ribs of a sunken beast. I had passed them for years without truly seeing them. But one quiet morning, with my 8x10 view camera slung over my shoulder, I stepped inside.

​

The interior swallowed sound. The walls, papered in rust and graffiti, echoed with my footsteps. Light filtered through fractured windows, creating a soft glow that mingled with the shadows. As I moved deeper, the space transformed into a kind of accidental museum. A child’s doll, water-damaged and eyeless, lay curled in a corner beside a rusted wrench. Bent curtain rods still clung to broken glass panes, their fabric yellowed and stiff from time. The smell of salt and metal was thick.

​

Setting up the 8x10 was ritualistic—focusing under the dark cloth, counting seconds on the shutter. The pier’s collapsing geometry and haunting stillness demanded the precision and deliberation of the large format. I composed images slowly, reverently, letting the camera document what time had eroded.

 

These piers felt like time capsules—abandoned tools from long-dead workers, the faint trace of squatters who made temporary homes in the ruins. Each exposure became a record of something vanishing—beauty in decay, memory in wood and steel. I returned often, always discovering some small artifact I’d missed. Photographing them wasn’t just about capturing an image—it was about listening to a place most had forgotten, and honoring its quiet, stubborn endurance.