Ghosts of Industry: the New Haven Clock Co.

Artwork from one of the epic Yale Art/Architecture school parties.

At one time, the New Haven Clock Co. was the largest clock manufacturer in the United States. Founded in 1853, it had a long and storied history before it ceased operations in 1960. At its peak, it employed more than 1,500 workers, many of them Italian immigrants.

The history of clock making on the site goes back even further, to Chauncey Jerome, who, starting in 1842, revolutionized clock technology and mass production, and pioneered international markets for US clocks. When his company failed, his nephew, Hiram Camp, founder of the New Haven Clock Co., bought it out of bankruptcy and combined the two operations.

Amazingly, several of the clock company's buildings still stand on Hamilton Street, and, the gods of business and government willing, they will be transformed into affordable housing for artists over the next few years--the Clock Shop Lofts.

This transformation has been the dream since 1999 of Bill Kraus, a consultant who specializes in the redevelopment of historic buildings for urban revitalization. He got bit by the preservation bug at an early age when he was growing up in a historic house in Ridgefield. Bill took me on a tour of the remaining buildings on Friday. We wore long pants tucked into our socks to avoid being bitten by fleas brought there by cats.

If you want to learn more about the crazy history of this place and the people who lived and worked here, make sure you see the documentary film being made about it by Bill and famous New Haven doc film maker Gorman Bechard.

There's a phenomenon called "ruin porn" within the photography world--photos of old factories, train stations, government buildings etc. that capture the past grandeur of a place and seem to revel in its current decrepitude. Famous examples are the old Packard plant and the Michigan Central Station in Detroit.

But in the old New Haven Clock Co. buildings, human activities have continued up until this day, so the place is still alive, and evidence of its recent past is scattered around like toys after a giant overgrown kids' play date. Since the clock business closed, a succession of outsider businesses and people have occupied space there, including a number of strip clubs and nightclubs; R&B and punk collectives; a troupe of mimes; a motorcycle club; and countless other strange and wonderful people and enterprises--both legit and criminal in nature.

Here are some historic images of the Clock Shop:

 The Clock Shop today:

Bill Kraus being interviewed by a Yalie.

Scenes from the Bad Ass White Boys Motorcycle Club:

There was a plan at one time to create a "haunted house" in the factory. It didn't pan out, but some of the spooky stuff remains:

Artists, entertainers and musicians lived there:

Featured artists at one of the old strip clubs wrote notes on the walls in their dressing room:

 Bill Kraus found casings for old clocks and internal memos in an attic:

Some odds and ends:

Bill Kraus: a wonderful storyteller whose stories must be heard.

The Orkney Islands: In Search of Ancient Ancestors

A few years ago on a trans-Atlantic journey, I stopped in Iceland for a few hours in the middle of the night. I found myself staring at a photograph on the wall of a family of Icelanders in traditional clothing, and I remarked to a fellow traveler: "There's something strangely familiar about these people." Her answer: "They look like you."

It was true. I have a mix of DNA from Germany, England, and Scotland, but one branch of the family came from the Orkney Islands off the top of Scotland not too long after the islands had been ruled by Norway and/or raided by Vikings for centuries (like Iceland). No doubt, there's a dose of Norse in me.

A couple of weeks ago, my wife Lisa and I spent a week in Scotland, and in the middle of that week we made our way to the Orkneys so I could tap into my Viking roots. I had high expectations, but never guessed how satisfying the experience would be.

The Orkneys are a group of about 70 islands surrounded by a rollicking sea and bullied by weather. On many days, the wind and rain are awesomely intense. They slice in sideways, creating a fearful racket, ripping at anything that's not lashed down, and literally beating you up with your clothing. It's just an amazing, exhilarating experience.

The Ring of Brodgar.

The islands don't have much in the way of trees, but they offer up broad vistas of pasture dotted with sheep and cattle. Also, in addition to the homes of farmers and villagers, there are many abandoned, roofless stone houses.

Remarkably, the land is strewn with standing stones and rings of stones, burial mounds and whole buried villages erected or built by neolithic people 5000 to 6000 years ago.  That's long before the Egyptian pyramids.

It seems likely that I have some remote connections with the mysterious people who lived on the islands in those ancient times, but it's nearly certain that I share code with folks who lived there in the 1600s. According to Ancestry.com, an ancestor named James Works was born on the island of Shapinsay in 1660 and Christened in a church there on August 12 of that year. He later got married, moved to Belfast, in Ireland, and started a family there before moving on in 1718 to the United States. Others in the family line used the surname Work, rather than Works, according to Ancestry.com.

Balfour Castle, Shapinsay. The Balfours once owned the island.

 That's all I know about this dude, so when we arrived in Orkney I didn't have great expectations of making familial connections there. But I was pleasantly surprised. Shortly after arriving on Shapinsay by ferry, during a walkabout, Lisa and I met people at the community boathouse who were friendly and talkative. I asked if they knew anybody names Works or Work--and they did. There was one man named Work on the island, an elderly gentleman who lived alone in a stone house by the sea. Duncan Work was his name.
 

Lisa in front of Balfour farm buildings.

Duncan is possibly a distant cousin of mine, separated by 5000 miles and 360 years.

One of the ladies in the boathouse called Duncan to see if he would entertain guests, and another drove us out to his house--which was almost totally covered in overgrown bushes that had been sculpted around it by the wind.

We were greeted by Duncan in his kitchen, where he passes most of his days. He sits at a table near a window that looks out onto a lawn and a pasture sloping down to the sea. He has ham and CB radio equipment stacked on the table. His hobby is listening to fisherman speaking via CB and people around the world chatting via ham radio channels. He joked that he had learned to swear in multiple languages by listening to fisherman from many nations conversing during times of high stress.

Duncan Work

In spite of Duncan's 83 years and poor health, he was warmly welcoming and mentally sharp. He confirmed that he's the last man named Work still living on Shapinsay. A cousin, Wilma Work Brown, lives not too far away.

When he was young there were many Works on the island, he said. It was one of the two most common surnames--along with Sinclair.

Where had all the Works gone? "They died away over time, or moved away," Duncan told us.

The view out Duncan Work's window.

Later, at Shapinsay's museum and archives, I examined details of the 1841 census, apparently the first one conducted in Scotland, and saw that at that time there were 35 households of Works people on the island--more than 100 people. They were listed most commonly as fishermen, farmers, carpenters and straw weavers.

Duncan grew up on a farm in the northeast corner of Shapinsay with his parents and grandparents. His grandparents had purchased the farm from the Balfours when they pulled up stakes in the late 1800s. It was called Whitecleat Farm.

On the farm, the Works raised sheep and cattle, and harvested hay, oats and turnips to feed the animals and "potatoes to feed ourselves," Duncan said. He didn't really enjoy farming so when he had a chance he took a job on the island's road crew.

Here are some photos of earlier life on Shapinsay that are on file in the museum:

Whitecleat Farm in winter.

Duncan Work riding a sheep.

Duncan, left,with his dad, Billy.

Work family picnic, with Wilma Work Brown in the pram.

Duncan lives in the family home of his late wife, who died nine years ago. He says that when he dies, the property, Ostoft Farm, will go to a niece and nephew.

As we prepared to leave him, Duncan asked if he could have a hug with Lisa. Afterwards, he said, "If we all hugged each other more, the world would be a better place."

After we left Duncan, we visited the ruin of an old church and graveyard about half a mile from Duncan's house. The graveyard had plenty of Work grave markers. Here's a photo:

Ghosts of Industry: Potosi, Bolivia

Potosi is an awe-inspiring place. Cerro Rico, the phyramid-shaped mountain that looms above the city, has been mined for silver, zinc and tin for more than 400 years. During the period of Spanish conquest and colonization, Potosi was literally the center of the world--in terms of wealth creation. It is said that the ore removed from the mine during that time could have built a bridge of silver from Potosi to Madrid.

I visited Potosi a couple of weeks ago during a three-week journey with friends through Bolivia and Peru. One of the most amazing experiences on the trip was a tour of a working mine in Cerro Rico.

Here's the mountain looming over Potosi.

When the Spaniards were in control, they worked indigenous people and animals to death in the mine and in smelting plants and a coin mint. The people were exposed to noxious dust and mercury--plus the danger of cave-ins. While they were not slaves (since they were paid wages), they were prisoners. They couldn't quit or leave. In the mint, we saw spots where people had worn deep grooves in the wood plank floor with their bare feet.

After independence, the Bolivian government ran the mine for many years, but, in 1985, when the global price for tin plummeted, the government gave up the mountain. It was essentially played out from their point of view. However, the miners keep at it. They formed collectives and continued to mine. Today, there are about 200 mines in the mountain, and about 15,000 miners work there. They chew coca leaves so they can work long hours and perform intense physical labor--such as pushing metal carts carrying two tons of ore.

I toured one of mines with a group of about a dozen tourists. Here's what we saw:

Mine tour poster.

Here's the mine we visited.

Me in my mine tour outfit. It was dusty and wet in the mine.

Getting ready to go in.

It was a tight fit.

Two guys push a two-ton load out of the mine.

Jose, our tour guide.

 Jose worked in the mine for about five years, but he pulled out because of the danger to his health. The miners breath silica dust, which causes cancer. There are also a lot of accidents. The average miner, he told us, lives to be 50 years old.

A miner drills holes for dynamite charges.

They build wooden buttresses to prevent cave-ins.

Eduardo, center, one of the veteran miners, describes his job.

Tio, the god of the mine.

The Spanish used religion to control the indigenous people. They said god owned the minerals in the mine, so by removing them they were serving god. Each of the mines in Cerro Rico today has an effigy of "Tio," the god of that mine, in one of its passages. Each Friday, the miners make offerings to Tio. They bring cigarettes or cigars, light them, and put them between Tio's lips. They sprinkle alcohol and other drinks on Tio. They give him coca leaves. If you look closely at the photo you will notice that Tio had a huge erect penis. A very potent dude.

A miner rests after delivering a load of ore.

Young women sort out valuable chunks of rock.

We spent about three hours at the mine, walking in a few kilometers. I hit my helmet on the ceiling about a dozen times--but no permanent damage done.

Wall painting in Potosi.

Another.

We saw a lot of pride in the miners of Potosi. But their situation also represents the duality that's so prominent in traditional Andean religion. The mountain is the source of their livelihoods; yet it also kills them. Like their ancestors during the Spanish conquest, there seems to be no way out.