Mr. P. Explores

Mr. P. Explores This page is the Facebook home of "Mr. P. Explores," documenting photographical adventures into abandoned locations, odd attractions and architectural gems!
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Come along for the ride! Also, check out the "Mr. P.'s Tales from the Road" Podcast on Spotify!

More scenes from Cleveland, Ohio's massive and decades abandoned Richman Brothers factory, where once fine suits and clo...
09/03/2026

More scenes from Cleveland, Ohio's massive and decades abandoned Richman Brothers factory, where once fine suits and clothing was made. A continued tour from a sunny day at the beginning of August, 2026. It still amazes me just how much the vines crawling up the old fire escape have progressed over the years. This year was the thickest I'd ever seen them. Fascinating how Mother Nature takes back what we leave behind. Enjoy the set and have a wonderful Thursday out there, all! -Mr. P.

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Two weeks ago, a historical and absolutely gorgeous abandoned church in Cleveland, Ohio was set to the torch by individu...
09/02/2026

Two weeks ago, a historical and absolutely gorgeous abandoned church in Cleveland, Ohio was set to the torch by individuals claiming to be "explorers." Many have heard of the fire that annihilated the Friendship Baptist Church on East 55th and Central and followed the news as it came. At least one 19-year-old is being indicted for his part in the arson, with two mystery "friends" who as of now, remain unknown. The city lost an amazing landmark and those who once attended here lost a piece of them in the process. The reality, as time goes on, is that this type of story is not unique to Cleveland. More and more places have been going up in flames in cities far and wide, and usually by the same types of characters.

Since then, sadly, those of us who are a responsible part of the exploratory community are now being lumped in with these criminals and like-hungry social media goons, who are slowly destroying historical places that can never be rebuilt once gone. The police are drawing no distinction between we who have been doing this forever, being careful and respectful in the places we go, and the little jackals who have been setting things on fire, vandalizing beautiful structures and generally ruining things because "why not?"

This article covers my thoughts on all that. I had to write it all down and get it out, as it has really been bothering my over the last two weeks. I'd like to hear your opinion, if you have one. Thanks for hearing me out, all, and have a great night out there... -Mr. P.

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https://mrpexplores.substack.com/p/we-were-never-supposed-to-become

How the Algorithm and the Performance Culture is Killing Urban Exploration, one torched church at a time...

The Bombay Beach Drive-In looks like the last movie theater left operating after the end of the world, which, of course,...
09/02/2026

The Bombay Beach Drive-In looks like the last movie theater left operating after the end of the world, which, of course, is exactly why it belongs in Bombay Beach. Sitting in the desert near the troubled shores of California’s Salton Sea, the installation consists of rows of rusted, gutted and long-dead automobiles permanently parked in front of a giant movie screen made from the white side of a semi-trailer. Old Ford Galaxies, Nash Metropolitans, an AMC Pacer and other automotive remains sit exactly where an audience would have parked decades ago, while salvaged amusement-park seating has also appeared near the front. There is no need to buy a ticket. The audience has already been sitting there for years.

The Drive-In grew out of the strange artistic renaissance that began transforming Bombay Beach during the mid-2010s. Once a booming Salton Sea vacation community, the town had been devastated by flooding, the ecological decline of the lake and the collapse of tourism, leaving behind abandoned trailers, empty lots, junked cars and the wonderfully eerie landscape that eventually attracted artists, photographers and filmmakers. Filmmaker Tao Ruspoli, hotelier Stefan Ashkenazy and Lily Johnson White helped launch what became the Bombay Beach Biennale, an intentionally absurd answer to the prestigious art biennials of places like Venice and New York. The first official Biennale took place in 2016, although its roots stretch into gatherings and artistic experiments begun the previous year.

The Drive-In was among the early permanent projects created as part of that movement, with Ashkenazy and others salvaging abandoned vehicles from around Bombay Beach and arranging them into an imaginary theater. Biennale producer and filmmaker Arwen Byrd is also credited with co-creating the Drive-In during her early work in town. Rather than haul away the wreckage of Bombay Beach's decline, the artists turned that wreckage into the artwork itself; a deliberately post-apocalyptic version of one of the great symbols of mid-century American leisure. It is especially fitting here. Bombay Beach itself had once been part of California's mid-century dream, when people flocked to the Salton Sea to boat, fish, swim and escape into the desert.

And unlike a fake movie set, the Bombay Beach Drive-In actually works. Movies have been projected onto its screen during gatherings and Biennale events. One early gathering included film screenings at the newly built theater, and later the gloriously appropriate 1957 monster movie "The Monster That Challenged the World," a film actually set around the Salton Sea, was screened there. The installation was conceived not simply as temporary festival scenery but as a permanent gift to Bombay Beach, something that would remain after the artists and visitors went home.

That is what makes the Bombay Beach Drive-In such a fantastic piece of outsider art. It doesn't try to hide the decay surrounding it. It uses it. The dead automobiles, desert dust, ruined resort town and enormous empty landscape become part of the piece. During the day it can look funny, surreal and almost cartoonish; around sunset, when the mountains darken beyond the Salton Sea and the rusty cars throw long shadows across the dirt, it becomes something much stranger. It feels like everyone drove out to see one last movie, the world ended somewhere during the second reel—and somehow the picture kept playing.

The most beautiful thing about this visit to document the Drive In was the time at which we arrived. Driving all afternoon across the desert from out touch-down in Las Vegas, we reached the Sea at golden hour, and so the sun was setting and projecting beautiful shades of orange upon the landscape. The rusty cars and the waning light combined to create something very special on that trip. For such a small town, there is so much there I would love to go back and take more time with...perhaps at a time of the year where the desert temperatures are not at 117 degrees. In time. Enjoy the spread, stay cool out there in the hot weather and have a great middle to your week! -Mr. P.

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For nearly a century, the Eagle Avenue Lift Bridge has stood over the Cuyahoga River in Cleveland’s Flats, one of those ...
09/01/2026

For nearly a century, the Eagle Avenue Lift Bridge has stood over the Cuyahoga River in Cleveland’s Flats, one of those wonderfully oversized pieces of industrial infrastructure that seems almost inseparable from the landscape around it. Built in 1930–31 as part of the larger Eagle Avenue Viaduct, the bridge connected the Scranton Peninsula with downtown Cleveland, carrying Eagle Avenue up from the industrial Flats toward Ontario Street. Its construction was tied closely to the massive Cleveland Union Terminal project of the Van Sweringen era, when rail lines, streets and entire sections of downtown were being rearranged around the new Terminal Tower complex. When it opened, the Eagle Avenue span became Cleveland’s first vertical-lift bridge, and reportedly only the sixth of its type in the United States.

The bridge was designed by the engineering firm Waddell & Hardesty, with F.L. Gorman serving as designing engineer. Its centerpiece was a roughly 225-foot Pennsylvania/Petit through-truss lift span suspended between two enormous freestanding steel towers. Counterweights and electric motors allowed the entire roadway span to rise vertically, leaving the Cuyahoga open for the ore boats, freighters and other vessels that were the lifeblood of Cleveland’s industrial river. An operator’s house sat dramatically in the middle of the steel truss. The bridge itself was only one portion of a much larger structure: the Eagle Avenue Viaduct stretched nearly 2,000 feet from Scranton Road toward Ontario Street, carrying automobiles and pedestrians over the river, railroad tracks and the cluttered industrial terrain of the Flats.

Like so many Cleveland bridges, Eagle Avenue was never simply scenery; it was working machinery. Thousands of workers, trucks and automobiles crossed it while below them freighters squeezed through the crooked Cuyahoga. By the late 20th century, however, the structure was showing its age. Problems with the lifting machinery forced a closure in the late 1980s, followed by an extensive rehabilitation that ultimately cost more than $3 million. The lengthy closure even hurt nearby Jim’s Steak House badly enough that its owner sued the city, eventually winning compensation for the business losses caused by the bridge project.

The bridge also became associated with one of the strangest and most wonderfully Cleveland pieces of underground art history. Beneath it was the "Temple of Lost Love," an unofficial, constantly changing outsider-art environment begun in 1991 by performance artist Frank Green and other members of Cleveland’s alternative art community. Graffiti, paintings, assemblages, mosaics, mirrors, found objects, sculpture and installations accumulated beneath the bridge, while performances and gatherings transformed an otherwise forgotten industrial space into something resembling a post-apocalyptic outdoor cathedral. People continued adding and subtracting from the Temple for roughly eleven years. There was no admission booth, gift shop or carefully curated gallery wall; the decaying bridge and the gritty riverbank were the gallery. In 2002, city crews painted over much of it, apparently with little realization of what they were erasing. Today the Temple is remembered as a remarkable piece of Cleveland’s underground artistic history: weird, spontaneous, communal and completely inseparable from the battered industrial landscape that produced it (and one of the only pieces left on the bridge is shown in these photos, years after the rest of it was gone).

The Eagle Avenue Bridge itself finally reached the end of its working life in the early 2000s. The aging viaduct was removed in 2005, leaving the lift bridge disconnected from the roadway system and stranded over the river. With nowhere left for its roadway to go, the span was retired permanently in the raised position so ships could continue passing underneath. For the next two decades it became one of the Flats’ great industrial ghosts; a bridge leading nowhere, its towers, counterweights, operator’s house and suspended roadway slowly rusting above the Cuyahoga. Maintenance money was instead directed toward Cleveland’s other operating historic lift bridges, and Eagle Avenue continued to deteriorate.

Eventually that deterioration became more than cosmetic. Inspections found severe corrosion, section loss and serious problems with critical vertical structural members. The bridge was rated in critical condition, and engineers concluded that simply leaving it standing was becoming a danger to river traffic below. Cleveland considered stabilization, relocation and even replacement, but the costs climbed dramatically; returning the crossing to usable condition would have approached roughly $60 million. In November 2023, Cleveland City Council approved its removal.

The dismantling process has stretched considerably beyond the original timetable. Work has involved cutting the enormous structure into manageable sections and using cranes and barges to remove the steel without disrupting one of the busiest industrial shipping channels on the Great Lakes. U.S. Coast Guard notices show removal operations continuing into 2026, including positioning a large barge beneath the raised span to facilitate taking it apart.

And when Eagle Avenue is finally gone, there currently is no direct replacement bridge planned for the site. The city evaluated constructing a replacement, but ultimately selected complete removal as the safest and most economical alternative. That means the peculiar sight Clevelanders have known for more than twenty years, a gigantic lift bridge hanging permanently in the air with no roadway attached to either end, is disappearing for good. Another piece of our history gone forever.

It is a strange ending for something that was once considered a thoroughly modern piece of Cleveland infrastructure. The Eagle Avenue Bridge began as part of the enormous optimism and engineering ambition surrounding Terminal Tower and the transformation of downtown Cleveland. It spent decades carrying workers and traffic above a river packed with industry, survived into the post-industrial age, sheltered one of Cleveland’s most wonderfully bizarre underground art experiments, and then spent another twenty years simply hanging over the Cuyahoga like the skeleton of another era. Now, piece by piece, it is being taken away.

Soon there will simply be open sky where one of Cleveland’s great rusting monuments once stood. And within a generation or two, no one will ever realize that it had been there at all. Sort of a sobering thought. Enjoy these shots, taken back in April of 2024, before the work began to dismantle it, and have a great day out there, all. -Mr. P.

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Standing along Main Street near the waterfront in New Rochelle, New York, the New Rochelle Naval Armory is a surviving p...
08/31/2026

Standing along Main Street near the waterfront in New Rochelle, New York, the New Rochelle Naval Armory is a surviving piece of the city's military history dating to the early years of the Great Depression. The building was constructed in 1932–1933 as a permanent home for the 31st Fleet Division of the New York Naval Militia, which had previously been bounced between temporary and leased quarters. New York military officials had been pushing for a dedicated armory for the unit since the 1920s, and the waterfront site was particularly valuable because it provided Naval Militia personnel with direct access to Long Island Sound for small-boat training.

Unlike the enormous, castle-like National Guard armories built around New York during the late 19th century, the New Rochelle Armory reflected a much more utilitarian Depression-era approach to military architecture. The roughly 30,000-square-foot brick complex was dominated by its enormous barrel-roofed drill hall, with large industrial windows providing natural light to the interior. When completed, it was considered one of the most modern Naval Militia facilities in New York, containing a rifle range, radio room, offices, training spaces and a drill deck that could double as a gymnasium. Its location beside the water also included facilities for boats and maritime training.

The Armory became the permanent headquarters of the 31st Fleet Division in 1933 and soon became much more than simply a building where reservists drilled on weekends. During World War II it functioned as a center for military readiness, training and induction, and over the decades thousands of servicemen passed through its doors. Local preservation groups have stated that roughly 300 men associated with those inductions would ultimately die in combat. The facility continued serving the Naval Militia, Naval Reserve and Marine Corps Reserve through the Cold War. A 1951 state military report described the New Rochelle facility as well constructed, exceptionally maintained and fully adequate for its mission, noting that the Navy had invested heavily in improving its training equipment. Part of the waterfront was even used by the U.S. Coast Guard as a small-craft mooring area.

The Armory also became woven into civilian New Rochelle. Its cavernous drill hall and other spaces were used for civic, social and cultural gatherings in addition to military functions, making the building one of those old armories that quietly served as both military installation and neighborhood gathering place. Generations of local veterans knew the building intimately, and its long association with people leaving New Rochelle for military service eventually made it something of an unofficial memorial in its own right.

Military use finally ended in 1997 after more than six decades. New York State transferred the property to the City of New Rochelle for the symbolic price of $1, with restrictions requiring the property to remain available for public purposes. Instead of immediately finding a new life, however, the old Armory largely went dark. Years of vacancy and deferred maintenance followed. Heating, electrical and plumbing systems deteriorated, water intrusion became a problem, and the once-busy drill hall became an enormous empty shell. Proposals connected with redevelopment of the surrounding Echo Bay waterfront even called for demolition of the Armory, setting off a long-running battle between the city, developers, veterans and preservation advocates who argued that an important piece of New Rochelle's history was being allowed to disappear.

Fortunately, the story did not end with a wrecking ball. Plans gradually shifted toward incorporating the historic building into redevelopment of the waterfront. Major stabilization work on the Armory's enormous drill hall was completed in 2020, including work connected with the roof and removal of hazardous materials. The Armory is now intended to become part of the larger Pratt Landing waterfront development, with plans calling for the restored drill hall to eventually serve as an event and community space while an adjoining portion houses an Armory Veterans Center.

For more than sixty years, the New Rochelle Armory was filled with marching feet, shouted commands, radio training, rifle practice, dances, meetings and young men preparing to leave home for wars overseas. Then, almost overnight, it became another huge abandoned relic sitting beside a changing waterfront. Its battered brick walls and enormous empty drill hall remain reminders of an era when nearly every American city possessed places like this—buildings that existed somewhere between military installation, community center and monument to the people who passed through their doors.

I was able to tour this amazing old building in August of 2023, when I was invited by an amazing painter friend from New Rochelle to take a look at some of the local sites. This was our first exploration of the morning, and it did not disappoint. the cavernous space was a challenge for my wide-angle lens, but in the end, was able to show the large scope of the massive hall. Three years later, I am still hoping that this incredible naval relic of a time long gone gets a second go at life, rather than be demolished and replaced by yet another overly expensive-to-live-in high rise apartment building in town. We can but hope. Enjoy the set and have a fantastic Monday! -Mr. P.

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Good evening, all. I have a new article on the Substack tonight, this one a love letter to, a history of and photos prov...
08/29/2026

Good evening, all. I have a new article on the Substack tonight, this one a love letter to, a history of and photos provided for Detroit, Michigan's doomed COOLEY HIGH SCHOOL, which is sadly, tragically being demolished as we speak. Galleries of photos from exploratory adventures there over the last few years combined with galleries of photos from fifty years' worth of scanned yearbook photos from the Cooley yearly publication, "the Castellan," to show how life was within its halls when it was whole and healthy as a school. I hope you enjoy the history on this beautiful gem in the crown of Detroit Public School's crown in a much happier time.

And, if you attended or worked at Cooley at any point in the past, please share your memories and stories in the comments! I'd love to hear your experiences. Enjoy! -Mr. P.

Photos of then and now; the building as it stands, and the students who made the institution what it was.

Horace Mann High School was one of the great monuments to the era when Gary, Indiana was booming, steel was king, and th...
08/29/2026

Horace Mann High School was one of the great monuments to the era when Gary, Indiana was booming, steel was king, and the city was building public institutions with the expectation that its population would only continue to grow. Established on Gary’s west side in 1918, the school initially operated out of portable buildings as enrollment in the rapidly expanding steel city overwhelmed existing schools. Under Gary superintendent William A. Wirt, permanent construction began in the early 1920s: the east building was completed in 1922, the west building followed in 1924, and the cornerstone of the large central building was laid in November 1926. The sprawling complex was essentially complete by 1928.

The finished Horace Mann was far more elaborate than the average American high school. Built of red brick with extensive stone trim, its design incorporated Tudor and Collegiate Gothic influences, particularly around the arched main entrance, while the surrounding grounds were carefully landscaped with rolling lawns, terraces and even a small artificial pond. Inside were dozens of classrooms, administrative offices, laboratories, libraries, shops, a cafeteria, two gymnasiums, separate swimming pools for boys and girls, and a huge two-tier auditorium. The auditorium was especially important under Wirt's famous "Gary Plan," in which schools were intended to function not simply as places where children sat in classrooms, but as educational and community centers incorporating academics, recreation, arts and practical training.

Horace Mann quickly became one of Gary's premier schools. Enrollment reached about 870 by 1929 and exploded alongside Gary's steel economy, approaching 2,400 students by 1937 and peaking at roughly 2,600 during the 1950s. A 5,000-seat outdoor stadium was begun in 1930, and the campus continued evolving over the decades. Gary College, the institution that eventually contributed to the development of Indiana University Northwest, was established at Horace Mann in 1932, with its first commencement held in the school's auditorium. A modern gymnasium and other improvements were added during the 1980s.

But Horace Mann's fortunes ultimately followed those of Gary itself. As the steel industry contracted, jobs disappeared and Gary's population fell dramatically, the enormous neighborhood schools constructed for a much larger city became increasingly difficult to maintain. By 2003, Horace Mann had only 546 students rattling around a complex that had once accommodated thousands. Facing severe financial problems and declining enrollment throughout the district, the Gary School Board voted in April 2004 to close Horace Mann. Despite protests from parents and residents, students walked out of the building for the final time on June 10, 2004.

What followed was nearly two decades of abandonment and deterioration. There were proposals to reuse Horace Mann as an administrative center, but inspections found the aging complex in extremely poor condition and unsuitable for occupation without enormous investment. Water intrusion, scrapping, vandalism, graffiti and exposure steadily consumed rooms that had remained surprisingly recognizable after the school initially closed. Desks, books, equipment and other remnants of school life lingered amid the decay, turning Horace Mann into one of Gary's best-known abandoned landmarks.

One of the worst blows came in May 2017, when arsonists set fire to the auditorium. Before the fire, the enormous room was still remarkably recognizable, with rows of red upholstered seats, curtains, a stage and even a grand piano surviving inside the abandoned school. The blaze devastated the space, destroying the seats and curtains, collapsing and damaging portions of the interior and leaving behind twisted metal, charred walls and the remains of the piano. Contemporary reporting noted that arsonists struck several abandoned Gary schools that year, including Horace Mann, Lew Wallace and Edison; at Horace Mann, the auditorium was effectively destroyed.

Today, Horace Mann is an especially haunting piece of Gary's history because its enormous scale tells the story better than almost anything else could. This was a school built for a city that believed its future was limitless; a landscaped educational campus with swimming pools, gyms, workshops, an auditorium and thousands of children filling its halls. Its abandoned classrooms and burned auditorium are therefore more than picturesque ruins. They are physical evidence of the astonishing rise, prosperity and eventual contraction of one of America's greatest industrial cities, a Rust Belt story written in red brick, broken windows and empty hallways.

In this set, I have included looks at some of the more well known areas of the building, focusing on the auditorium, one of the unique main stairwells, both of the original gymnasiums, one of the second floor science labs, and what was once a fantastic mural on the walls of one of the academic sections. To go with the photos that I have taken since 2019 up through last year, I have included actual shots that were taken between the 1940's up through the 1980's, scanned from various editions of the Horace Mann yearbook, the "Horace Mannual," and edited using AI photography software to provide a look back in time at what these spaces looked like in much happier times for this beautiful old bastion of education.

As always, if you attended Horace Mann in Gary and have memories and stories to share, please do in the comments below! Enjoy the photos and have a spectacular beginning to your weekend, all! -Mr. P.

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A look inside an abandoned middle school in Detroit, Michigan, on an excursion far back in 2021. The world was tentative...
08/28/2026

A look inside an abandoned middle school in Detroit, Michigan, on an excursion far back in 2021. The world was tentatively coming out of Covid, prices were still down on gas and hotels and people were still hiding inside, making it far easier to explore without local entanglements. This school was still relatively clean from our first explore of it a year prior, though tags had started to go up in the double gyms inside the massive structure. The one thing that comes to mind was the fine sprinkling of paint chips that had powdered the wooden floors of those gyms. This was still an amazing school to witness, though I can only imagine what it looks like now. Last I heard, it was perhaps in line to be renovated, though I haven't confirmed that. I hope those rumors are true, as a building as grand as this deserves a second chance at life. Enjoy the set and have a great conclusion to your week, all! -Mr. P.

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The old Barnes-Gibson-Raymond spring plant is one of those easily overlooked pieces of Detroit’s industrial landscape th...
08/27/2026

The old Barnes-Gibson-Raymond spring plant is one of those easily overlooked pieces of Detroit’s industrial landscape that played an important role in keeping the city’s automobile factories running. The company was organized in Detroit on November 1, 1922, when Barnes-Gibson-Raymond acquired the existing Zenith Foundry property and began expanding it into a major spring-manufacturing operation. The complex itself developed in stages: portions of the large multi-story building date to 1913, other sections were constructed around 1921, and the fourth and fifth floors of the tall factory building were added in 1937.

Barnes-Gibson-Raymond arrived in Detroit at exactly the right moment. The automobile industry was exploding, and every automobile required an enormous assortment of springs, clips and other small pieces of precision metalwork. The factory manufactured nearly every variety of mechanical spring except leaf and cushion springs. Although its products were sold throughout the United States and even exported, roughly 75 percent of its production was reportedly consumed by Detroit's automobile manufacturers. Beginning with only about 25 employees, the operation had grown to around 400 workers by 1930.

The company itself had roots extending well beyond Detroit. Wallace Barnes had begun manufacturing springs in Bristol, Connecticut, in 1857, originally producing them for such things as clocks and hoop skirts before the business followed American industry into bicycles, machinery and automobiles. Barnes-Gibson-Raymond was established in Detroit in 1922 through a combination of related spring-manufacturing interests, and in 1923 became part of the newly organized Associated Spring Corporation. The Barnes-Gibson-Raymond name continued to be used as a division for decades afterward; a 1943 engineering calculator preserved by the Smithsonian is actually marked “Barnes-Gibson-Raymond, Division of Associated Spring Corporation, Detroit and Ann Arbor, Michigan.”

Architecturally, the plant is classic early Detroit industrial construction: heavy brick walls, large expanses of factory windows, reinforced floors, loading areas and a combination of sprawling manufacturing spaces with a tall, narrow multi-story section rising above them. Its piecemeal appearance reflects how industrial plants commonly grew during Detroit's boom years; rather than being designed and constructed all at once, buildings were enlarged whenever additional production demanded more space. The surviving complex consequently contains pieces from several different periods of construction, including remnants of its earlier life as the Zenith Foundry.

The plant was also part of a much larger industrial ecosystem along the nearby railroad corridor. Metalworking shops, foundries, steel companies, lumber and coal yards crowded the neighborhood, while the enormous Packard complex stood roughly a mile away. Barnes-Gibson-Raymond was essentially one of the countless supporting factories that made Detroit's automobile empire possible; the places that rarely put their names on finished cars but manufactured the thousands of components required to build them. Labor records preserved at Wayne State University's Walter P. Reuther Library also document Barnes-Gibson-Raymond and Associated Spring workers represented through UAW Local 236 during the postwar decades.

Eventually Associated Spring shifted operations away from the old inner-city Detroit facility as manufacturing patterns changed and newer facilities opened elsewhere, including a Barnes-Gibson-Raymond operation in Plymouth during the postwar period. The older buildings survived under later industrial and warehouse uses; one of the last apparent uses was as a furniture warehouse. By the 2000s the complex was increasingly deteriorated, and by the late 2010s it was effectively abandoned. In 2018, Detroit officials formally classified the facility buildings as dangerous structures and authorized steps toward their removal, although demolition never commenced to erase the old complex.

Remarkably, the factory is still standing, and as of 2026 there is at least a possibility that it could survive. The property is currently being marketed for redevelopment for $2 million. The listing describes approximately 96,500 square feet of industrial space, although other listing figures place the combined structures even larger, with heavy-industrial zoning, loading docks and two non-operational elevators. The brokers make no attempt to disguise its condition: the buildings have been “heavily neglected” and would require extensive rehabilitation. At the same time, they are specifically being offered as a potential redevelopment project suitable for manufacturing, warehousing, distribution or some more creative reuse.

For now, Barnes-Gibson-Raymond remains another stubborn survivor of Detroit's industrial age; a battered brick factory that once employed hundreds of people making tiny components that disappeared inside millions of automobiles. It isn't as famous as Packard, Ford or Fisher Body, but places like this were every bit as necessary to the machine that made Detroit the Motor City. More than a century after some of its oldest sections were built, the plant is empty, deteriorated and facing an uncertain future, but it is still there. And with the property now actively being offered as a redevelopment opportunity, there remains at least a chance that the old spring factory could once again become useful rather than becoming another empty lot where a piece of Detroit's industrial history used to stand.

Enjoy these old photos of Barnes-Gibson-Raymond, dating back to 2022, and have a fantastic day out there, all! -Mr. P.

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