The Poignant Demolitions and Transcendent Rubble Piles of Detroit

     If you live in Detroit long enough, one thing you learn is to never use a building as a signpost.  For it is not uncommon for a building, any building, to disappear; sometimes seemingly overnight.  As landscapes go, Detroit's shifts as much as a polar ice cap.  You may not know this if you have only been following what happens here by searching for "Detroit ruins" on the internet, or looking through recent photography books, or even by visiting art museums.  The eternal aspects of the photographic documentation exacerbate the legend of the city's ruins on a daily basis.
    There is indeed an understandable fascination with the decay of a once magnificent building, but when said building is demolished it continues to live on, in the minds of many, only at the most dramatic peak of its demise. This peak usually involves at least one of the following:

     —the introduction of a natural element overtaking an interior space, usually moss, foliage, water or ice.
     —an eerie reminder of the former use of the building, usually a piano (preferably toppled), medical or industrial equipment, or some sort of paperwork in massive amounts.
     —an incongruous feature which makes the whole story even more incomprehensible, something like a boat on the fourth floor of an abandoned factory.

     Mostly, however, it is the stillness depicted in these photographs that creates a false sense of what life is really like amongst the ruins.  For good or ill, this an active place, the demolitions don't ever stop; and it is in the denouement where the story of any ruin becomes the most dramatic.  It is dissonant, oddly sculptural, dusty, often heart-wrenching, and, sometimes, theatrically lit.  

     About fifteen or twenty years ago a demolition often meant an implosion.  A crowd would assemble at a scheduled time (an implosion, by the way, is something you never want to be late for) the building, or buildings, would come down in a matter of seconds and, if they weren't running from a dust cloud, the people would applaud and go home.  There was little time for reflection.  Now the preferred method seems to be one crane operator slowly clawing away at the structure.  This usually takes a few weeks for the larger buildings, and over this time the gravity of the event creates a unique set of emotions for the viewer to comprehend.  But apparently, the spectacle of constant demolition is as distinct to Detroit as its now world-famous ruins.  A couple years ago, while showing a visitor from Europe around,  it was surprising to see him transfixed, dare I say mesmerized, because he had never seen a wrecking ball before.       

      Once the pendulum of a wrecking ball starts to swing, or the giant, articulating arm of a crane commences punching through the uppermost floors; it is painfully obvious at this point that arguments for preservation, restoration, or adaptive reuse are over for good.  All anyone can do now is resign themselves to the reality of Detroit at this time.  This resignation can be insidious, in the sense it is not evident until it has taken over; and that is the true essence of what we're dealing with here.  If Detroit looks like it has been bombed, then we are witnessing the bombings, as we safely, and awkwardly, go about our lives.

    After a building is reduced to rubble,  the amount of gawkers and photographers walking around is greatly diminished.  It is, however, an interesting period in the timeline of a demolition.  Usually there is a twisted pile of metal that looks like a collision between a John Chamberlain sculpture and a Mark Di Suvero sculpture, sitting ready to be recycled.  These piles are often more stunning than many painstakingly assembled art installations. 

    The same might be said about the jumbled rubble piles of concrete, brick and rebar.  In the case of the photograph below, closer inspection reveals two columns of books appearing as integral to the structure of this former school as the construction material itself.  They look as though they were purposefully placed to provoke a reaction.     

     Most buildings that are torn down in Detroit, it should be noted, are not high profile spectacles.  Most are houses or small storefronts.  Indeed, the mayor has said he wishes to tear down 10,000 structures by the end of his term in 2013.  He has already overseen the destruction of 3,000 this year alone.  Except for the people who live near these places, or pass by them every day, their demise usually goes unnoticed. 
    The photo below was taken two days ago at the corner of Franklin and Riopele.  Unlike the major demolitions, which are cleaned up, their plots plowed flat in a matter of days; this building's remnants have sat here for six months.  It was a quiet June morning when this two-story structure met its end.  It had burned, for the last time, the night before.  This particular fire had engulfed all the wooden floor joists, so there was no longer anything preventing its exterior brick walls from collapsing. 

     As the demolition crew went to work knocking these walls into the basement, the man from the city's building safety department and I reminisced about what a nice place it used to be.  "That's what I was trying to tell these guys" he said, meaning the demolition crew.  This was the Rhinoceros Club, a place that drew a racially mixed crowd, like all the best Detroit places, who would dine and drink to the sounds of someone playing the piano.
     If you watch the two men on the left in the following video, you will see just how nonchalant things have become in the business of tearing down buildings here. 

    The Rhinoceros Club was merely this building's last incarnation.  Somewhere beneath that rubble there is a carved stone that says "Troester 1911".  Exactly 100 years later, that stone, which can be seen curving at the top center of the facade,  now acts as a grave marker.  At least until this debris is finally cleared.  Most likely this corner is destined to be a vacant lot, like tens of thousands of others in the city.  And like almost all those lots, what stood on them will be forgotten with time.  People may always know where home plate was at the old ballpark, but no one may ever remember there was once a place on this corner where people used to relax and listen to a piano player.  All the physical evidence will one day be erased, that is the reality; and reality trumps nostalgia.