Test post: Photo of me posing with my Bell & Howell taken by Joe Koonz
Nuclear
Photographs and images are a two dimensional representation, but a great photograph can pull you in with the illusion of the third dimension. The mind can perceive depth through shadows, colours, lines, perspective, and the story that is being told. One can almost get the feel that they are there when they absorb the scene and ponder the details. There is a sense, however, that no photograph can capture. While the power of the mind can conjure wild sensations like smell and temperature, there is a feel that can only be experienced in person. The first time I was in the presence of a nuclear plant, I was in awe of the magnitude of the cooling towers. It felt like the closer I got the bigger they became, like a cinema effect. Then as I reached the base of the concrete mega structure, the air changed. It was like a shift in gravity, sound, and movement. It was incredible and pretty indescribable. I'll put to rest the immediate thought you may be having about an explanation...radiation. This particular plant had never reached the stage of completion to be a functioning generator of electricity and did not contain or process the uranium that comes to mind when we think of nuclear power. The feeling was conjured up by pure unadulterated awe.
As I arrived for my most recent visit, the sky cleared and I was given the approval to climb the great external stairway to the rim of one of the towers. At the top of the concrete enclosed stairwell, there is access to the inside of the tower where they do sound research and recordings. I immediately learned why. As I neared the centre, I approached a new field of sensory stimulation. Even the smallest of noises would kick back a spiralling echo from multiple places inside the tapered waisted megalith.
After a few snaps, claps, and shutter flicks, I made my way back out to the staircase and was given the lowdown on my impending ascent. Apparently most people find it a bit overwhelming and halfway is a reasonable goal. I understood this pretty quick as every step was on expanded metal stairs alongside a disorienting and ever-changing perspective of a concrete slope and out in the elements. There was nowhere I could look that gave any sense of spatial grounding.
I lost all sense of time to the soundtrack of my inner voice sternly chanting “This is what you are here for. There is no danger. People do this all the time. Almost there. You can do this, Cat. I am one with the Force; the Force is with me”. I was in an altered state of concentration and it actually came as a surprise to me when I reached the rim. I am not convinced there is a word for the feeling that hit me at this moment and I am unsure how to describe it other than terrifyingly hyper alive. An inner voice that was quietly on loop the whole time kept saying “there is nothing that says you have to do this. At any point turning around is perfectly acceptable“. Knowing all of this is true was a real test of my determination. It may sound ridiculous, but I learned way more about myself from this experience than years of introspection.
If the stairs let me on this narrow circular catwalk at six o’clock, the sun was blinding me from the twelve mark, which gave me a little logic to fight the fear because if I were to take any photographs, I need my light source behind me. I set out on the rim of the beast and it started to pour rain.
Back on terra firma, with massive demonic pupils (I can only presume), and limbs shaking like a newborn giraffe, I set off into the reactor building to explore the massive underground, dismantled, and stripped carcass of what was intended to be a power generation plant. It now serves as training facilities for disaster rescue and reenactment, movie sets, and apparently a holy grail for someone who obsesses about abandoned beauty, big industry and infrastructure, decay, history, and photography of said things.
When nature starts to regain her territory and take back slowly in a delicate fusion of industry and decay, I find my favourite balance in this world. Nothing speaks to me deeper than seeing the unnatural human creations melding with the supernatural force of life in what I often describe as the ultimate art collaboration.
There is a feeling that some people experience called Stendahl or Florence Syndrome. It has also been called an 'art attack' when an observer is so moved by something they find overwhelmingly beautiful. It can make you dizzy to the point of losing consciousness or hallucinating and it's simply a release overload of the 'feel good' chemicals that the brain produces. Hearing a beautifully mastered song through a quality sound system can induce some passionate music lovers into tears. Seeing an epic historic work of art like a Michelangelo has been known to send people into this ecstatic state. You can see the beauty of things like the Sistine Chapel, breathtaking architecture, or museum artifacts in a photograph, but it cannot compare to the experience of being in their actual presence. People often say that once you travel, you will never be the same again. I am convinced that it is partially because of the difference in perspective between images and real life. Adding a literal dimension to what we knew previously can make us feel powerful or powerless, make the world feel immensely huge or surprisingly small, and give us a new way of looking at the existence we previously knew. A two dimensional image can only reveal so much, but a great photograph has the power to evoke a flood of sensations. To be able to capture images that might strike emotion is a goal that keeps me shooting and searching. My images generally mean more to me than to other observers because I have the whole experience in my mind that recreates itself when I look at a photograph I have taken. It is a constant strive to do my best to capture as many senses into the limited expression of my parameters. To take a thousand meaningful words and make my photos worth every one.
Too bizarre to be successful
Suicidal Tendencies. Mike Muir. Photo by Cat Ashbee
March 3rd 2016, I managed to inadvertently cram about a month's worth of adventure in a span of 24 hours. At times, the events in my life are like a movie that is too bizarre to be successful. Coincidentally, that could also be the title of a movie about my life.
I left my home in Vancouver BC late afternoon. Hopped in my 1973 VW and made a run south for the border. My ticket to see Suicidal Tendencies at The Showbox, camera gear, and warm clothes packed for a little Stateside excursion. Earlier that day I had touched base with the band 'The Hilltop Rats' who were opening for the show. I was going down as a spectator but since I was bringing my camera gear for an unrelated photo session the following day, I mentioned to the band that I would be 'in the area with my gear'.
After idling along through the lineup at Peace Arch border crossing, and explaining my life story to the border bagent, I accelerate into the USA....and then quickly decelerate about 400 metres in. (437 yards, USA.) My car stalled in the classic way this classic beast always does in the most inopportune circumstances. Being an air cooled 43 year old engine that requires minimum 94 octane fuel, it's always a gamble when I can't find a gas station that fits my requirements. Luckily (and I mean that in the most optimistically sarcastic sense) I can fix this issue and get rolling again and have all I need with me. I disassemble the air cleaner and all of the hoses and lines, pour gasoline into the carburetor, plug a vacuum line, and crank it until it starts. Of course, this process has to be done a few times until fuel starts reaching the fuel pump again, yadda yadda yadda, it's dirty and gross and time consuming. And when you are on the side of the Interstate, there is a stress and danger factor as well.
Back on track, I am ripping down the road and my phone starts ringing. Since I need to get somewhere to wash my filthy hands and get the fuel smell off, I pull into the next town and check my voicemail. It's Zac from The Hilltop Rats. At the last possible second, they wrangled a photo pass for me for the night. Holy shit!!!!! I am still over 2 hours away and need to get there fast to get the pass and get into the show. I get back in my car and I am going to have to make good time to make this dream come true. And my car stalls again. Same nightmare, same fix, and now I am really behind. But I am determined and running on adrenaline at this point. I spotted a big truck going just the right speed and drafted my way to Seattle behind it. Good thing that at this point I am a little familiar with the city and know the best way to get to The Showbox SODO and it looks like I am going to make it with not a moment to spare. The very second I pull into the parking lot, the same one I always park in when I come here to photograph GWAR, my phone rings and it's Zac with the news that they are on in 15 minutes and he is waiting at the front for me. I race through the oddly empty parking lot to the front of the closed venue... because there are TWO SHOWBOX VENUES in Seattle and I have the wrong one. I have literally less than 15 minutes to get my car up and through one of the busiest streets downtown, find this particular Showbox that I have never been to before, find a parkade, get my gear, get to the venue, get to the front of the line, get my photo pass, and get to the front of a sold out show. And now that I had shut my car off and restarted it, I am in that optimal window of fuel evaporation car failure. I don't give up easily. Not on the chance to photograph Suicidal Tendencies. Fingers crossed and brain screaming, I start my ascent up 1st Ave with one foot on the clutch, one heel on the gas, and toes on the brake because I will be damned if I let the rpm get low enough to cause even the slightest air bubble to stall this unit. Onward rusty steed! With the proper venue in sight I see a hotel parkade nearby. I pull into a stall, grab my gear and start running full bore up the hill. I am changing my shirt as I am dashing in a panic with a camera in my hand, looking like some kind of psychotic thief and, oh my god, I wish I was making this up. I get to the Showbox and since my mad dash and costume change was up the hill, everyone in the line up witnessed my spectacle of an approach from above and all eyes were on me. The front bouncer held the line, rolled his eyes and walked over to me. "You must be Cat". My reputation precedes me. "Come this way", he sighs with rolling eyes "Your paperwork is already filled out" and he leads me to the front counter ahead of the chuckling spectators. I get my photo pass in my sweaty little hand and sign the sheet. The very second I muscle my way to the front, Hilltop Rats approach the stage from the back. Zac runs over to me for a hug. No word of exaggeration, there was not a single second to spare.
Hilltop Rats from Tacoma, WA. If you get a chance to see them, DO IT! Photo by Cat Ashbee
I photograph the first three songs and was expelled from the photo pit, as per usual. I was finally able to catch my breath as I watched the rest of their energetic set. Then the moment I had dreamed about for years arrived and flanked only by 2 other photographers, I got to shoot one of my favorite bands of all time. Usually the pit for something like this is packed shoulder to shoulder with media, but since this whole night was some kind of gift from The Force, I had freedom and space to chase singer Mike Muir back and forth all over that stage. This was no easy task. Mr. Muir had possibly the most energy I had ever seen in a performer and getting him in my camera sights was a challenge. In fact, the whole band had the same energy and put on the most dynamic show. They were all over that stage and my brain was going a mile a minute. Three songs went by fast and I had to make my exit to the side for the rest of the show.
Now this is where a normal night of excitement would reach a conclusion. But I was only beginning my 24 hours of craziness.
Suicidal Tendencies. Nico! Photo by Cat Ashbee
I left the venue satisfied at this incredible experience and thankful for the wild ride that seemed to be a miraculous set of events. I was looking forward to an inevitable adrenaline crash and a solid sleep in the back of my car. In my haste and need for a place to park, I had overlooked the hours of access to the parkade. It was locked down with no entrance after certain hours. I circled the block looking for some kind of way in, to no avail. After running multiple theories and scoping the place, I spotted a vehicle leaving the parkade from a different gate. I ran full speed at the closing door and made it in like Indiana Jones. At the very least, I could sleep in my car in the temple of doom until morning. That is, if this was the right building. Which it was not. That different exit that was my sneaky entrance, was for the adjacent parking structure and not actually the same one where my car was. Thanks to the delirium of my exhaustion, my gratefulness for the night, my otherworldly optimism and determination, and a little knowledge in urban exploration, I set out to find a common service corridor. After trying many locked doors, I found one that was overlooked and into the concrete bowels I go. Like a homing pigeon, I had my car in my sights and had no logical explanation on my path of orientation through the tunnels and stair cases that eventually led to the right building. One more try at my luck and I could be scanning the city for a quiet residential road to catch a few winks before sunrise. My car started and I approached the exit, scanned my parkade ticket and was prompted for payment. Holy smokes, visa accepted and the door opened. At this point I was hysterical and literally laughed out loud until I pulled over for a nap.
The sun came up a few hours later and I set out on the interstate headed for my photo destination and the reason I had my gear with me in the first place. Hours later I arrived at the Abandoned Nuclear Power plant. This place and the massive cooling towers deserves it's own photo essay so stay tuned for that one. Just like the night before, my photo session with these concrete giants was an adrenaline fueled adventure and far exceeded my expectations. As I made my way back upstate and into Tacoma, I rounded off my final 24th hour of non stop adventure in a hotel room overlooking my tired VW for a hot shower and a solid sleep. For a finicky old car with no heat and a tiny back seat, it's no picnic but it fits my life quite well. Optimism and determination are a high octane fuel. It's easy to live life in the comfort zone but the real noteworthy experiences are outside of it.
Cat Ashbee
(Too bizarre to be successful)
One of the reasons this night was so important to me was that the first time I saw ST live, I was a disaster. I used to drink at shows, and with my judgement already impaired, it was easy to consume myself out of control. I barely remember that night but through the lenses of some cell phone photos, Facebook told me I was up on stage for the last song. It might have been a cool moment to fondly look back on, if only I could. It was a lesson I tried to learn from before but really sunk in now. It could have been a once in a lifetime chance to see a band I loved, and I polluted the experience. I felt happy to get a second chance when they announced a Seattle show and I bought a ticket immediately. I wanted to eliminate the chance for regret in this instance and was thankful immediately for the opportunity. Right up until the final moment, I was content at just being there to see what I robbed from myself the last time. Getting a photo pass was the pearl in my oyster.
Live fast, shoot RAW. Cat Ashbee
The Lunatic Asylum : BC's Riverview / Essondale
Photographs and words by Cat Ashbee
We don’t use the term “Lunatic Asylum” anymore. It’s easier for us to think about something if we clean up the words we use to talk about it when the subject has dark and disturbing associations.
Canada’s history of the treatment of mental illness is just as unsettling as the mental picture you may conjure, and helping the mentally ill with the medical system doesn’t go back as far as you may think. It was only in 1872 that the first treatment facility opened in BC in Victoria. They implemented leg irons and confinement practices and ‘padded walls’, which were padded with straw. Treatment was largely confinement and punishment. Not much was understood of the brain back then and not so long ago. In 1904, land East of Vancouver was purchased and destined to become a “Hospital for the mind”. For a time the developing grounds were named Essondale Hospital until renamed Riverview in 1965.
With the new implementation of treating “the insane” in their own hospitals, they also saw new advancements such as Opium and Chloral Hydrate use and experimented with “Hydrotherapy”. Researching early treatments such as these brings forth so many vastly different descriptions, depending on who is sharing the information and what part of the history they are trying to write.
That sinking feeling as we peer into the past
The grounds at Riverview have had many buildings and wards over the years and the first facility built opened in 1913. Later named West Lawn. This is by far my favourite structure and it still stands today, although just barely.
West Lawn was built to house and treat 480 male patients. By the end of the first year of operation, nearly a thousand resided.
West Lawn was closed in 1983 but select areas were used by the film industry and still are. Most of it is in such an advanced state of decay that it is unsafe. The upper floors are skeletal and crumbling and asbestos insulation falls and creeps with the continuing decomposition. The ceiling and roof collapse in areas and the floor barely exists.
Nothing really mattress anymore
Being deserted for thirty years and virtually untouched with the exception of the elements, the place feels like it has a tortured soul of it’s own. The slow decay over time has created a twisted, warped, and indescribable scene.
"Death is but a door; time is but a window. I'll be back" -The last words of Vigo the Carpathian in 1610 (as told by Ray in Ghostbusters 2)
The once state of the art facility now sits, as of this writing, living and growing as all the elemental chemical reactions create what I see as the ultimate work of art collaboration between nature and man. The massive iron anti-suicide staircase that was built like an impenetrable cage to traverse the floors looks even more menacing as time corrodes.
Iron barriers to prevent distraught residents from plunging to their demise down the stairwells, it was also like a cage restraining death itself in its core.
In a centre for medical practices that a lot of society seems to have a hard time facing and talking about, the rooms and halls appear physically how many people view it’s history. Decay and deterioration is a part of life. It is unavoidable and essential in this cycle we are a part of.
"Life, uh, uh, finds a way" -Dr Ian Malcolm (Jurassic Park)
Until it falls to the ground for whatever reason the future brings, the West Lawn building remains my favourite architectural structure on the planet. Closed in 1983 and virtually untouched since, it is fenced off and boarded up and heavily patrolled.
Rot In Place, my dearly decrepit.❤️
One by one, the fixtures hung
The cemetery at Riverview still remains. Flat stones mark many of the sites where patients, staff, and others were buried. As a person that appreciates cemeteries more than your average human, the graves at Riverview appear unremarkable at a glance. There is, however, an interesting resident that requires explanation beyond the absolutely vague and simple recessed lettering. ‘JANE DOE / DIED UNKNOWN”
Cryptic...
Lacking the year of birth, which is common among the other grave markers, Jane is also missing her year of death. Also absent is her real name. When I first discovered the stone, I thought about the lack of information and any scenario I created in my mind was dark and sad. Until I found her story, I was convinced Jane Doe had a tragic story to tell. Perhaps she still does, because the origins of her acquisition are buried and lost. This body, Jane Doe, was the educational skeleton that they used at the facility. They layed her remains to rest in April of 2012 after her years of service at Riverview.
Many have entered, few ever left
It’s no wonder that Riverview is a hot spot for dark tourism. Doorways with the ominous feeling of the one way trip many took, the fascination with the controversial treatment of long ago, and the unsuccessful recoveries throughout the century of it’s existence, bring people from all over to see and feel for themselves. Crease Clinic, which still stands and is maintained, was built in 1934, expanded in 1949 and housed a surgical centre. The controversial sterilization of patients, lobotomies, shock treatment, convulsive therapies, drug administration, and experimental methods of rehabilitation were practiced here. Underground tunnels were implemented between Crease and other structures. Countless stories float around about fires, rampant tuberculosis, suicides, violent incidents, and unexplainable deaths. It doesn’t help that the notorious serial killer Robert Pickton’s pig farm was about 5Km away.
They have filmed, and continue to film, movies and tv shows at the Riverview grounds. Peering through shattered windows into abandoned rooms, hearing the many odd and unexplainable noises of the decaying buildings, and feeling the general sense of a place like this is otherworldly to experience. Despite the attempts to 'develop' the land, the historic and fascinating buildings still stand. Some still in use and some as a reminder of the past. That short existence of progress and exploration of the mind and brain.
In the words of a good friend of mine:
"For thirteen billion years, I was dead. Took a short break to create. Soon enough, I'll go back to bed."
-Ken Chinn
Aka Mr. Chi Pig (SNFU)
Ashes
West Lawn from the back. Rot In Place, my dearly decrepit.
Ashbee
Forgotten but not gone
The crumbling entrance to Mount Moriah Cemetery being taken back by nature.
The first place I look for when I travel to somewhere new, is the oldest and most elaborate or historic cemetery. I find them to be the most beautiful sanctuaries. Rows of varying stones, crypts, monuments, statues, fountains, benches, and art. They are truly like a quiet art park, sometimes in the middle of cities, where each small or massive piece is representing of someone’s life. We go through our whole existence gathering experiences and stories and some are passed on, but the grave is where the physical manifestation resides. I would like to say forever, but there are some disturbing truths on this matter.
Mount Moriah in Philadelphia was my first experience in an ‘abandoned cemetery’. The lease on the land expired. Cemeteries can be on leased land, which seems a little unsettling the more you think about it. I am a huge advocate of abandonments and letting nature take back what was once hers and the beauty of her doing so inspires the hell out of me. Mount Moriah was a prime example of my passions colliding. Stones overgrown and covered, crumbling structures, headless angels, a colony of marmots, nesting birds, and vast rolling hills of resting places. The vines climbing up the weathered marble and the sprawling vegetation that swallows meticulously carved markers gives a place that is built on death a new and vibrant life. My time there was spent in awe. I photographed the beauty, soaked in the surreal scenes, pondered the past, watched the wildlife, and inadvertently picked up a tiny unwanted hitchhiker. The whole ordeal is a story in itself, but I was visited by a tick that left me a present. I was diagnosed with Lyme Disease weeks later. (No worries, I got swift and top notch treatment thanks to living in the age of information and technology)
Nature is an unbeatable force that we attempt to coexist with and given the chance, she will take back what was hers. Mount Moriah is an example where the balance is heavily shifted in her favour. There is a preservation group that maintains parts of the grounds and hauls away the garbage dumped by uncaring others. They remove the occasional graffiti and mow the paths so people can still walk through. It’s a beautiful thing they do to allow the public to access and embrace the beauty and to allow survivors to visit their deceased loved ones. They do this by volunteer or non-profit group and I find that inspiring and beautiful. All this space could legally be bulldozed down after a half-assed disinterment of most residents. They could pave it and build condos or some revenue gathering businesses. The reason they don’t bother is that the property value is really low. And so it sits half-kempt. Beautiful in it’s own way, taken back by nature.
In Vancouver BC and other places of dense population, the property value prevents abandonments from sticking around too long and the constant streamlining and downsizing is turning all of the cemeteries into flat fields. From a profit point of view, it makes more sense to pack things in tight and set any stones low so they can drive a ride-on mower over it. It saves countless hours of landscaping labour, which is kind of a saccharine way of saying that it eliminates jobs. Jobs people are proud of. When I was in Oakland California, I did a portrait session with James, a groundskeeper that maintained the beautiful hills of headstones. He posed with his weed-whacker among the marble residents for photos that are now his business card. James, and the whole full time crew, loved their jobs. The Oakland Cemetery is , by far, the most spectacular graveyard I have ever seen. I spent eight hours walking the grounds and the sense of awe never dampened once.
The stories of the past reside in giant stone libraries and are wealth of history and individual life stories. Summaries literally written in stone. Sad stories, inspiring words, tragic reminders, romantic gestures, and monuments that feel immortal.
But nothing is forever. The cemeteries stand as a resonance. Until they, themselves fade and become unprofitable and slip into the forgotten.
Cat Ashbee
Making room for flat markers.
Up the flagpole
First blog post. Let's see who salutes. Let me introduce myself a little. I am Cat Ashbee, soul collector and punk rock hoser.
In the beginning, Cat created light. No, not really. But how did this all begin?
I had been taking photos for most of my life and always felt passionate about capturing the scenes around me. The natural beauty of this world inspired me so much and I spent most of my time chasing spiders, birds, and the golden hours of light and searching for mushrooms and intriguing structures. One day as the show date approached, I wondered if there was a chance I could photograph one of my all time favorite bands who were coming to a close city. I dropped a couple of emails to a contact for SNFU and they invited me to shoot the night. That night changed my life as I had no idea I could be photographing one of my other biggest passions: music. I grew up in the day of 'no cameras' and strict photo rules at shows and the thought had not crossed my mind until this incident. It opened doors; I made connections, friends, relationships, and a path that would lead me situations I never thought possible. Fast forward to today as I look back on the places since then, and so far, that live performance photography has taken me and the amazing things that I have done. I moved to the heart of Vancouver to be immersed in the pulsating scene and that wave has taken me through the countless arteries that keep the music alive here. I have toured with notable Canadian punk bands, traveled around the continent, met my heroes, and rubbed bloody elbows with giants. And I am just getting started. Stay tuned, my friends.
Photo above: Me in my blood soaked glory. Taken by Darren Lulka