Posts Tagged ‘rubble


Echoes and the crunch of broken glass

What is the appeal of an abandoned building?

A common question posed by every other person who happens to be squatting or doing brisk recycling scrap business, to me when I come snooping around. They sniff at the building, then at my camera, and scratch their heads. These are the friendly ones. The hostile ones literally chase you out, they tend to be the ones that have the most to hide: their status, their business, their families.

My answer is it depends.

The mood has to be right: The people, disinterested enough to leave you alone. Each floor seems to unveil something different, not just the view outside. There is the matter of the right music on Ipod. I sometimes like Explosions in the Sky, Bach’s Partitas for Violin No.2, Bob Dylan and even Guns and Roses. Music that complements the gravitas of the situation at hand. Heck, have you ever mounted narrow staircases with no banisters to Lady Gaga? Exhilarating.

The environment and atmosphere: The air and garbage has to be dry enough so any stench would not be so overwhelming that your hands are preoccupied shooting rather than covering your nose. A sun-drenched room is the best, where rays bounce off walls and broken mirrors on the floor.

The foundations have to be steady: Concrete floors are safe, though one has to watch for cave-ins; spots where soft cardboard is piled deceptively high that when you step in, the bottom is actually compost paper and your foot sinks right in. Wooden floors are tricky. Very tricky. I tried it in a large mostly-abandoned European house in Hongkou before, where half the wooden floor was sunken in. Each creak of the rotting wood gave me heart palpitations.

Common sense dictates that you wear shoes, not slippers. I once stepped into a trio of fluorescent light bulbs which exploded under my slipper sole. My screams reverberated through the floor as the glass bits flew into my feet, it took me 10 minutes to extricate myself. 

The potential spectacular view: It may not be the Vue Bar on Hyatt on the Bund, Glamour Bar or New Heights off the Bund strip. But you can always be surprised. With the sweet spot, you could stand there for hours alone with your thoughts, the quiet air punctuated by the occasional blare of the tanker on Huangpu River. In this case, the view of Pudong skyline, like some far away land and era, from this abandoned building will not exist in a few years. Unforunately, urban development will throw up more buildings near the river front, obscuring any view for unfortunate tenants living further behind.

Finally, the stories of chance encounters: Sometimes, squatters, recyclers or neighbors may tell you the history of the building and the neighborhood. This particular building used to be the Shanghai Yaming Lighting Company, established in 1923 and was the first lamp manufacturing enterprise in China. It subsequently created a joint-venture with Holland’s Philips Lighting. The factory subsequently closed and became a hotel. Yet, the outline of where the company name used to be on the building front is still visible.

When I was there, a simply-dressed woman in her 60s, carrying an umbrella, was staring at the building, lost in her own thoughts. It turned out that she had worked in the factory assembling light bulbs before the Cultural Revolution. She was then in her 20s. She later became a teacher and is now retired. In a matter of months, she will be emigrating to America to join her son and husband, both at Ivy League colleges in Boston. “I heard this building was going to be torn down,” she sighed wistfully, “I thought I come for one last look before I leave China.” 

July 2010



“The tanks are coming! The enemies are surrounding us!” he screamed, dodging bullets from the machine guns spraying from all sides.

“Fatty! Quick! Hand me the grenade!”

Fatty, a large and tubby comrade, heaved his way behind a half-destroyed wall to hand over a loose one.

The boy lobbed it over and they both ducked as the explosion consumed its enemies with fiery flames.

Suddenly, sensing another enemy close by, their heads simultaneously swivelled and found an assassin, whose scope zoomed in on them.


“Oei! What you doing? MOMMM!!!!!!!!”

“WHAAT?! She’s taking your picture! Smile, dammit!”

Taken south of Shangchuan Huiguan (商船会馆), Old Town

March 2010

* ‘Malchik’ is Russian for boy, and in this context, harks back to Athony Burgess’ “A Clockwork Orange“.


Out with the old

It is not uncommon to bump into lone individuals surveying old longtangs that are undergoing demolition – the occasional photographer who quietly weaves in and out of shadowed lanes or curious passers-by wondering what once stood in the place of razed rubble.

But lately, I have been encountering nostalgic residents who have moved out but returned to visit neighbors who are themselves preparing to leave. They sometimes meet in groups just to have tea or chit chat about their new residences or lack there of.

One elderly gent told me he was renting a small room in another longtang after his house was demolished. He has received his compensation and was waiting for his new apartment in Pudong to be completed.

“It is a 2 bedroom apartment, and oversees a park!” he boasted. Old neighbors nodded in approval and agreement. Unfortunately, it was very far away, past the Pudong Airport, which is about 2 hours east from where we were standing.

For the next half hour, I stood with the two former residents and watched movers carry boxes out of a crumbling house.

As we move into the New Year, the adage rings true. Out with the old, in with the new.

Taken near Dongjiadu Lu (董家渡路)

January 2010


Solitary labor

Dawn was just about breaking when I saw him through the haze of cement dust.

In a sea of construction workers milling around for breakfast, this man was off to an early start, splitting rocks by a huge site.

The man seemed entirely misplaced. He had no uniform or hard hat, just a white blazer, dirty jeans and disheveled hair.  A migrant worker being roped to do odd jobs perhaps? Or maybe he was behind in his duties and was forced to catch up during breakfast time.

With each incessant thump, his task seemed futile with his inferior tools against stubborn concrete that refused to break apart. His frustration carried through his tense body and grew with the senseless hammering.

Suddenly, his eyes met mine through the camera lens and burned a fiery red.

“What the hell are you doing?” He growled.

I mumbled a quick apology, sensing that his anger was more visceral than I could handle. There was an inherent rage in him that I felt I had foolishly triggered with my intrusion.

He shifted toward me and I quickened my pace away from him.

That was when he spat in my direction, raising his fists as he broke into a stream of verbal abuse. He cursed and kept cursing. Horrible and vulgar words that came out of his mouth were coated in angry spittle.

The reasons for his anger mattered little. Just that he wanted me to feel his wrath.

October 2009

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