The Rutherfurd Stuyvesant Estate
The grand mansion of the property surrendered itself to flames many years ago, leaving only an overgrown field where once it proudly stood. Orphaned, the remainder of the buildings on the property sit, and slowly sink into ruin. To us though, the significance found here was never directly related to the history of the property, but rather how this house adapted to unmaintained life in the woods. As with most places that become abandoned; once left alone, these buildings can become something else entirely. Gone are the pristine lawns and manicured pathways; replaced with tall grass, weeds, and thorns. The bright washes of the house's exterior, faded, stained, and ensnared by the growth of the forest. The bustling of life within the walls has long since passed. All that endures here now are the hushed sounds of a slow decay... and the deranged ramblings of a mysterious author scrawled upon the walls.
For well over a decade now this property has become a home of sorts for an unknown person we have come to call the "Profane Poet". This is not just any form of graffiti however, what is found here would better be described as various forms of madness, and it is heavily poured upon the walls, ceilings, floors, and literally everywhere in between. Vulgar writings, primarily directed at a few choice people, namely Palmer and a Mark. Adding further to the eeriness of the unhinged writing is the fact that the poet returns periodically to write over any text that has faded with age. This would suggest that not only is the person behind these writings very angry, but also obsessive to a severe degree about keeping his or her messages legible.
This is one of the few locations where a baby leg isn't out-of-place.
We returned on a winter night to photograph the estate under a full moon.