After you took me to the silos for the first time, I knew I’d be back. With other abandoned sites, there was this interim thrill, knowing cranes would render it to dust the minute you left. Most places I go are temporary; you visit to ride the crest of the wave before it crashes. With the silos, no one is afraid of them really going anywhere. After all, they’ve been around longer than Willis Tower or Wrigley Field. They’ve suffered countless explosions. The city around them collapses and falls, but the silos stand still. A point of convergence in a world of chaos.
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It’s like a Michael Bay movie, but he won’t be here for another hundred and ten years.
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It is September 9, 1905. A spontaneous combustion roars on the bank of the Chicago River. Nearly a million bushels of grain erupt in flames. It’s like a Michael Bay movie, but he won’t be here for another hundred and ten years. The Santa Fe Railroad stores its cargo in this facility, a riverside grain elevator that’s been around since the early 1800s. Within an hour, it’s gone. This is the second time it’s happened. Someone needs to build something that can last for more than thirty years without catching on fire.
Instead, someone builds something that will outlive the grain industry itself, despite constantly catching on fire.
Instead, someone builds something that will outlive the grain industry itself, despite constantly catching on fire.
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They’ve suffered countless explosions. The city around them collapses and falls, but the silos stand still. A point of convergence in a world of chaos.
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It is 1906. The Cubs have just lost the World Series to the White Sox. 75% of San Francisco is destroyed in an earthquake, but new railroads are rambling west anyway. Chicago is on its way to leading the nation in grain production. Amidst the chaos, John Metcalf is designing the set of Transformers for the Metra.
Back at this point, there are no Transformers. Michael Bay’s grandmother is a toddler. The Metra is painted bright red, travels at 60 miles per hour, and is called the Topeka & Santa Fe Railroad (despite accessing virtually every big city except Santa Fe). Metcalf is actually tasked with making a grain elevator off the bank of the Chicago River, what will soon become the site’s first recognizable form in a series of unforgiving reincarnations. He has no way of knowing he’ll make the same mistake as every other man building a grain elevator, sending the cement monstrosity into its tween years as a spray-paint-and-broken-windows emo phase.
Instead, the elevator is finished. It is ceremoniously named the Santa Fe Railroad Grain Elevator, but most people probably know it as That Giant Eyesore on the South Branch. This is a time before tufts of skyscrapers stubble Lake Michigan’s coast, a time when such a cement monstrosity rises from rubble like an 80-foot industrial-era fist. Imagine, a skyline with only one building! A train with only one purpose! A future with only one possibility!
It doesn’t happen. The grain silos don’t bring the railroad to an age of prosperity and fame. Instead, they keep accidentally blowing themselves up. Of course some people are upset, but apparently this happens all the time. Tons of grain elevators meet this same demise, especially in Chicago. It’s something about the way the dust mixes with oxygen. No one understands it. We live in a cruel world.
Back at this point, there are no Transformers. Michael Bay’s grandmother is a toddler. The Metra is painted bright red, travels at 60 miles per hour, and is called the Topeka & Santa Fe Railroad (despite accessing virtually every big city except Santa Fe). Metcalf is actually tasked with making a grain elevator off the bank of the Chicago River, what will soon become the site’s first recognizable form in a series of unforgiving reincarnations. He has no way of knowing he’ll make the same mistake as every other man building a grain elevator, sending the cement monstrosity into its tween years as a spray-paint-and-broken-windows emo phase.
Instead, the elevator is finished. It is ceremoniously named the Santa Fe Railroad Grain Elevator, but most people probably know it as That Giant Eyesore on the South Branch. This is a time before tufts of skyscrapers stubble Lake Michigan’s coast, a time when such a cement monstrosity rises from rubble like an 80-foot industrial-era fist. Imagine, a skyline with only one building! A train with only one purpose! A future with only one possibility!
It doesn’t happen. The grain silos don’t bring the railroad to an age of prosperity and fame. Instead, they keep accidentally blowing themselves up. Of course some people are upset, but apparently this happens all the time. Tons of grain elevators meet this same demise, especially in Chicago. It’s something about the way the dust mixes with oxygen. No one understands it. We live in a cruel world.
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This is a time before tufts of skyscrapers stubble Lake Michigan’s coast, a time when such a cement monstrosity rises from rubble like an 80-foot industrial-era fist.
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It’s 1932. The third explosion hits. Since it’s the peak of Chicago’s gold-hued grain reign, the site is rebuilt and expanded to hold twice as many bushels. It operates for 45 more years before self-destructing in another accidental explosion. By 1977, grain isn’t profitable enough for anyone to bother fixing it. After almost a century of sifting, Damen settles into a brief retirement. The Cubs lose the World Series again, this time to the Yankees.
Unsafe for operation, the 35 silos sit on the river bank in varying stages of decay. The Department of Central Management fails to sell the property, since the buildings have to be completely demolished before they can be remade into anything workable. To some, it’s still an eyesore, especially as it accumulates graffiti and grime. But in Chicago’s undemolished trash is Hollywood’s treasure. Michael Bay arrives at the site, determined to turn the riverbank ruins into a movie set. The crew wipes off the skulls and swear words, then replaces them with giant Mandarin characters. For the first time in 35 years, the Damen Silos are alive again. Maybe all they needed was more explosions.
Unsafe for operation, the 35 silos sit on the river bank in varying stages of decay. The Department of Central Management fails to sell the property, since the buildings have to be completely demolished before they can be remade into anything workable. To some, it’s still an eyesore, especially as it accumulates graffiti and grime. But in Chicago’s undemolished trash is Hollywood’s treasure. Michael Bay arrives at the site, determined to turn the riverbank ruins into a movie set. The crew wipes off the skulls and swear words, then replaces them with giant Mandarin characters. For the first time in 35 years, the Damen Silos are alive again. Maybe all they needed was more explosions.
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Grimly, even the special effects of Hollywood didn't damage the structure. It makes you wonder if the City told them not you. It makes you wonder why the City even cares.
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It’s 2013. Transformers: Age of Extinction comes out and makes so much money that some people think it’s actually good. Anyone watching the movie assumes the Damen Silos are in China, which just goes to show that they were more talented at acting than the rest of the cast.
At this point, the Damen Silos have breezed from industrial grain grinders to hollywood actors, but despite the impressive resume, no one’s buying. The price drops to almost 500% to $3.8 million while the Department of Central Management attempts to sell the place off, one last time. It’s a good deal, they advertise. It’s the last plot of open land available in the city. Nobody seems to care.
At this point, the Damen Silos have breezed from industrial grain grinders to hollywood actors, but despite the impressive resume, no one’s buying. The price drops to almost 500% to $3.8 million while the Department of Central Management attempts to sell the place off, one last time. It’s a good deal, they advertise. It’s the last plot of open land available in the city. Nobody seems to care.
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He's afraid to climb on the roof, but can't explain the ease you feel walking across the metal rods. You've been here before, you tell him. In another life, maybe, and of course the silos were still here.
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It’s 2017. Taylor Swift’s new album is crooning on the radio. For once, the Cubs win the World Series. It’s a warm night for December.
Our Uber driver Margarite pulls to the side of the road. We direct her to stop right before the neon signs. On another night, in another car, the driver would have asked what two young kids were doing at this off-the-path business park at eleven o’clock on a Saturday night. Margarite isn’t like that, though, and she kills the engine. We thank her and start walking.
You hold the fence open for me so I can crawl under. We cut through a field of reeds, picking our way toward the first structure. I have no idea what happened in this building, but as I trace the crumbling metal framework with a dusty finger, I imagine it was once a warehouse of sorts. There was a place like this in my hometown, with the same cavernous interior and grimy corners. Boys used to sneak off there so they could make out with their girlfriends.
We find a staircase that crumbles and curves in such a demonic pinnacle that you know you have to climb it just because every mother in the world would tell you not to. We leap to the roof, tip-toe across the metal beams because they’re sturdier than what remains of the tar. We take pictures with the graffiti at our backs.
I’m looking for a window to stand in when I accidentally catch sight of the city. From here, only a few minutes’ walk from the Ashland Orange Line, Chicago is dim. It looks like it could almost be a collection of close-knit stars. When I try to take a picture with my phone, I end up with grainy purple darkness. It’s the worst photo I’ve ever taken, but I’ve caught the universe in my hand.
Our Uber driver Margarite pulls to the side of the road. We direct her to stop right before the neon signs. On another night, in another car, the driver would have asked what two young kids were doing at this off-the-path business park at eleven o’clock on a Saturday night. Margarite isn’t like that, though, and she kills the engine. We thank her and start walking.
You hold the fence open for me so I can crawl under. We cut through a field of reeds, picking our way toward the first structure. I have no idea what happened in this building, but as I trace the crumbling metal framework with a dusty finger, I imagine it was once a warehouse of sorts. There was a place like this in my hometown, with the same cavernous interior and grimy corners. Boys used to sneak off there so they could make out with their girlfriends.
We find a staircase that crumbles and curves in such a demonic pinnacle that you know you have to climb it just because every mother in the world would tell you not to. We leap to the roof, tip-toe across the metal beams because they’re sturdier than what remains of the tar. We take pictures with the graffiti at our backs.
I’m looking for a window to stand in when I accidentally catch sight of the city. From here, only a few minutes’ walk from the Ashland Orange Line, Chicago is dim. It looks like it could almost be a collection of close-knit stars. When I try to take a picture with my phone, I end up with grainy purple darkness. It’s the worst photo I’ve ever taken, but I’ve caught the universe in my hand.
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There's equipment still hanging from the ceiling, but you're not afraid it's going to fall. You pity the man who is tasked with eventually blowing this place up... for good.
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You tell me we’ve got to see the other building, so I tuck my hands back in my pockets and sail down the sorry excuse for stairs. We’re quiet as we cross back through the reeds. The world around us is, too. This is the least noise I’ve ever heard so close to Chicago. The calm before the storm.
There’s a security guard that doesn’t catch us when we cross over into the silos. You show me how to find the window and make my way inside. I don’t wait for you before wandering into the basement, winding my way through the halls, stopping before a huge pit of sand. Dust motes flirt in front of my eyes and I flinch like they’re after me. Looking down, my shoes have disappeared up to the ankles. There’s an odd chill that tickles my skin, more like the canned breath of a refrigerator than the kinetic flush of a breeze. I imagine this is what it would feel like to be on the moon. You ask me where we are.
To be honest, I don’t know. I’ll never know. In fact, despite amassing a detailed history I know by heart, I’ll always step inside the Damen Silos without the slightest idea how they were used. What used to fill this space? Bushels of grain? A man with a clipboard? Michael Bay and Mark Wahlberg? Perhaps, this was the site of one of those many explosions. Maybe, my boots sift through what remains of the aftermath. Or maybe, it’s just sand.
We stay for a long time, but green flashing lights let us know that the security guard is making rounds. We take the opportunity to leave, finding our way to the same hole in the fence that we used as our entry. It’s still a warm night, so we walk to the L stop to shake the sand from our shoes. We’re the only ones on the platform after we swipe in. It’s not a frequently-visited part of town, so there isn’t another train coming for twenty-eight minutes.
There’s a security guard that doesn’t catch us when we cross over into the silos. You show me how to find the window and make my way inside. I don’t wait for you before wandering into the basement, winding my way through the halls, stopping before a huge pit of sand. Dust motes flirt in front of my eyes and I flinch like they’re after me. Looking down, my shoes have disappeared up to the ankles. There’s an odd chill that tickles my skin, more like the canned breath of a refrigerator than the kinetic flush of a breeze. I imagine this is what it would feel like to be on the moon. You ask me where we are.
To be honest, I don’t know. I’ll never know. In fact, despite amassing a detailed history I know by heart, I’ll always step inside the Damen Silos without the slightest idea how they were used. What used to fill this space? Bushels of grain? A man with a clipboard? Michael Bay and Mark Wahlberg? Perhaps, this was the site of one of those many explosions. Maybe, my boots sift through what remains of the aftermath. Or maybe, it’s just sand.
We stay for a long time, but green flashing lights let us know that the security guard is making rounds. We take the opportunity to leave, finding our way to the same hole in the fence that we used as our entry. It’s still a warm night, so we walk to the L stop to shake the sand from our shoes. We’re the only ones on the platform after we swipe in. It’s not a frequently-visited part of town, so there isn’t another train coming for twenty-eight minutes.
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And you think: How long has this place been here? How many names are scribbled on these walls? Does mine even deserve to be one of them? |
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It’s 2017. Still no one wants to buy the Damen Silos. They belong to no one, but in another sense, they belong to everyone. I remember looking out across the river, squinting to make out the lines of the city, sifting through sand with the mottled toe of my boots. They belong to me, I think. Don’t take them away.
This year, there isn’t an explosion. Grain is stored in fireproof containers now. Michael Bay is making a documentary on poaching elephants. They’re up to the seventh Transformers movie. The BNSF doesn’t run this way anymore, and everyone calls it the Metra. The industrial world was born and replaced with something faster and less flammable. This place has become a relic.
We’re on our way home when I tell you it’s more than just an adult playground. It isn't the rebirth of a place so much as a death you can live in. The finer details have crumbled and, in some kind of grungy mirror of the building's lifespan, the site has decayed to its foundations. At one point, there were fifteen floors that held 800,000 bushels of grain. Now the staircases are reduced to their support beams. And the stories are all that’s left.
This year, there isn’t an explosion. Grain is stored in fireproof containers now. Michael Bay is making a documentary on poaching elephants. They’re up to the seventh Transformers movie. The BNSF doesn’t run this way anymore, and everyone calls it the Metra. The industrial world was born and replaced with something faster and less flammable. This place has become a relic.
We’re on our way home when I tell you it’s more than just an adult playground. It isn't the rebirth of a place so much as a death you can live in. The finer details have crumbled and, in some kind of grungy mirror of the building's lifespan, the site has decayed to its foundations. At one point, there were fifteen floors that held 800,000 bushels of grain. Now the staircases are reduced to their support beams. And the stories are all that’s left.
HOW WILL YOU GET YOUR SHOES DIRTY?
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