Trenton State Hospital, Forst Building

View into patient room and down corridor during civil twilight.


Trenton State Hospital - currently known as Trenton Psychiatric Hospital, and formerly the New Jersey State Lunatic Asylum - is one of the most historically significant asylum campuses in America. The first asylum constructed according to the Kirkbride Plan, it was also the first erected due to the advocacy of Dorothea Dix. The main building was designed by John Notman, and completed in 1848. In the mid-1960s, the grand administrative section was demolished, and replaced with the utilitarian modern structure known as the Stratton Building.

A good ways to the southeast of the main building, past a disused swimming pool and baseball diamond, two large buildings stand next to a cluster of smaller cottages. The Marquand Building is still fully operational, although disconnected from the services of the physical plant far to the northwest; this building administers the cluster of active cottages nearby. The larger Forst building, a three-story building next to Marquand, has been abandoned for decades, and it is something of an enigma - with little reliable information readily available, the only clues we have as to its history are those we can read into site visits and photographs created during site visits.


Large patient bedroom during nautical twilight.


Whereas most of the buildings featured on this blog have well documented histories that can be confirmed through multiple primary and secondary sources, there is almost no information readily available on the Forst Building, save what can be learned from analyzing the structure itself. The only references to the structure online are documents pointing to plans by the State of New Jersey to demolish it in the near future. Annual reports from the asylum from the end of the 19th and first decade of the 20th centuries make no reference to this building, nor does the overview report of the State Hospital system from 1965. A 1913 annual report mentions the construction of a nurses' home somewhat removed from the campus - but this could equally refer to Forst, Marquand, or a number of other structures extant and demolished.

From architectural clues - the layout of the Forst Building, the methods and materials employed in its construction, and the mix of utilitarian design with a few architectural flourishes - a few things can be inferred, though they cannot be assumed without further evidence. The building was likely constructed some time between the 1920s and 1940. The unsecured and intact windows, of clear and even glass, help confirm that it is not much older, as well as giving clues towards its purpose - it's very possible that it was originally a staff housing building, and if not, it certainly wasn't a secure ward - it may have been a minimum-security ward for convalescent patients. In the central wing on each floor, there is a large room with an unadorned brick fireplace. This works with either theory - these could have been the common areas shared by nurses or orderlies living in the building; alternately, they could have been lounges for staff on break, or dayrooms for patients, although the large rooms at either end of each floor seem more suited to the latter purpose.

Artifact clues paint a clearer picture of more recent uses of the structure, and give a ballpark timeline for its abandonment. On the first floor, there are piles of literature concerned with addiction and recovery - suggesting that the final use of the building was as an inpatient rehab facility. Indeed, the layout of the structure itself would have lent itself quite well to this purpose. Most artifact evidence points to abandonment in stages; while the southern wing of the building is nearly devoid of objects in situ, the central wing still contains beds, furniture, and a small scattering of patient belongings, and the northern wing is basically cluttered with things left behind, suggesting it was the last section of the building to be vacated. The majority of items left on the top two floors suggest an abandonment date in the mid-late 1970s, with the exception of a newpaper from the early 1980s - this could, of course, have been left by an interloper. Evidence on the first floor, including office machinery and paperwork, points to its use into the early 80s - it's possible that the first floor was still in use after the top two were vacated.


The central hallway connecting the three wings of the building, showing extensive roof damage, taken during civil twilight.



A closer look at the roof damage, taken mid-day five years earlier.



The top landing of the staircase in the northern wing during civil twilight.



Top-floor hallway junction highlighting water damage to roof.



The top-floor lounge area in the central wing, with a simple brick fireplace topped by a somewhat ornate wooden mantle.


The northern wing of the structure is littered with artifacts ranging from patient clothes to half-full jars of barbecue sauce, cleaning products, books, and other assorted things that were not removed by patients when the building was abandoned.


A typical room on the top floor of the northern wing of the building; a dresser has been emptied out, and various objects have been left amidst the fallen plaster.



Under a table, a toothbrush and small plastic bottle sit among plaster and paint chips.



The artifacts found throughout the northern wing are quite varied in type - here, a seashell sits next to a can of hairspray and a pair of denim jeans on a mouldering carpet.



A well-preserved lampshade hangs precariously off the edge of a utilitarian table.



A pair of Nike shoes - apparently predating their iconic "swoop" logo - sits on a table next to a patient bed.



Several closets still contain clothing, among other belongings - here, a pair of pants remains folded over a rusting hanger.



A pair of refrigerators - which still have containers of various food items inside - sit inside a room that was presumably a communal kitchen, although no stove or sink was present.



A crutch still leans against the wall next to a bed.


Many of the patient rooms in the central wing still contain beds and furniture, and in the northern wing, many still contain belongings. This suggests relatively rapid abandonment, and the fact that apparently useable beds, refrigerators, and other furniture and appliances were not removed for use in other buildings or state facilities helps to confirm this.


Sunrise streaming across door into patient bedroom in central wing of the top floor.



Each room had a metal tag with its numeric designation stamped into it - the fact that metal tags were used, as well as the layers of paint which made it onto the tags, suggest that they were either an original feature of the building or an early addition.



The patient in room 1 was likely a devout Christian. Or a devoted Elvis fan.



A passive-aggressive note was left on the door to room 2 by the housekeeping department, and later added onto by the fire department. Five years later, the note was gone.



A typical patient bedroom, with two blacklight posters still attached to the wall. By five years later, the blue poster had been removed, and the artifacts in the room rearranged, likely by a photographer looking to create an interesting (but artificial) scene.



A damaged feather pillow - a stark contrast to the cheap synthetic or horsehair pillows found at most asylums. This pillow was later placed in the room with the blacklight posters, probably as part of an arranged photograph.



This bedframe still had a shipping tag from the manufacturer attached. As the tag refers to the facility as "State Hospital" and not "Psychiatric Hospital", it predates 1972.


The southern wing of the building is nearly bereft of artifacts; none of the rooms contain beds, and only a few objects of any sort remain. This suggests that this was the first ward vacated while the building was being closed down.


Hallway in the southern wing of the building, with view into a room containing one of the few remaining artifacts - a medical work desk.



A typical empty room on the top floor of the southern wing. Although evidence points to it being the first ward abandoned, it is also has the most intact roofs.



Another southern-wing room, demonstrating the colors from the overgrown windows and reflection from the bricks of the building cast upon the plaster wall.



Second-floor hallway in the southern wing. The unsecured transoms above the doors provide further evidence that this building was never a medium- or maximum-security ward.



The chair beside this tub is clearly marked so that it was not removed to a patient's room or common area.



This top-floor southern-wing bathroom has suffered significant water damage, and has created an environment conducive to the invasion of climbing vines.



The second-floor landing of the heavily decayed southern staircase; vines have climbed in through a window on the switchback landing and made their way down the stairs.



The first floor features a hallway with various psychedelic paint designs on the walls; here, the paint has mostly covered an old hand-painted guide pointing towards the fallout shelter.



A wooden chair in one of the hallways; this was almost certainly placed here by another photographer to create an artificial scene - note the fallen plaster upon the chair, and the lack of similar plaster surrounding it.



This first floor classroom contained a small number of desks, as well as some literature on drug rehabilitation - it could have functioned as a meeting place for Narcotics Anonymous meetings.


There's only so much that can be learned from site visits without actual documentation - and so, my readers, I call upon you to please email me with any information, anecdotes, suggestions for sources, etc, so that I can firm up the history of this unique and interesting building which still resonates with the feel of the Age of Aquarius.


The now-missing "Afro Love" poster that once adorned a patient's bedroom. This poster was printed in 1974, and thus it can be inferred that this building was vacated no earlier than this year.

Convent of St. Mary, Abbey and Chapel, Peekskill, NY

The 1876 Abbey of the Community of St. Mary, shot by moonlight.

For over a century, the Convent at Mount St. Gabriel, a picturesque plot of land in the highlands of Peekskill, NY, was home to the Community of St. Mary. From its humble beginnings in 1872 in a clapboard farmhouse, the Convent soon grew into a multi-building complex with a full church, a school, and ample housing for both the Sisters and their charges. By 2003, when the convent moved to Greenwich, NY, the school had already been repurposed, but the Abbey proper, as well as the Chapel, remained vacant, as they have to this day.

Based on a Benedictine model, the Community of St. Mary adheres to a simple monastic life centered around prayer, reflection, and service. From tumultuous beginnings, including an uphill battle against the established positions of the Church on monastic orders in general, the CSM eventually flourished after being widely recognized for the selfless acts of its Sisters in service to the community. It is the oldest indigenous Anglican order in the New World, and the first monastic body constituted by the Episcopal Church since the dissolution of monasteries in the 16th century.

While the forms of service practiced by the nuns of the order have varied over the years and regions, at this particular complex, the running of a school and the manufacture of communion wafers were a primary focus. In 1977, as a result of declining enrollment, the Episcopal church closed the school, and the parcel of land containing it was sold off to a private developer; in the early 1980s, the 1911 building was converted to luxury condominiums. The Chaplain's House on the grounds is now the private residence of a local doctor, and has been gut renovated.

But since the CSM moved to a larger property in Greenwich, New York, in 2003, little has been done to the 1876 Abbey and 1896 Chapel buildings. The interiors of each are, for the most part, gutted; work was begun on the buildings, but never completed, due to the subprime mortgage collapse. Some significant interior architectural features have been left intact, but the majority of the structures have been stripped down to their frames. The properties are owned by Ginsburg Development, and their website indicates that they will be developed as "The Abbey at Fort Hill", a 12-unit luxury condo complex. This would be to the benefit of the town of Peekskill, which sorely needs the tax revenue, but also to the benefit of the Community of St. Mary - as part of the proposed development, Ginsburg would relocate the cemetery to the Greenwich location, bringing the founding Sisters to the modern convent.


The majority of the Abbey was gutted in between 2003, when the property was vacated, and the subprime mortgage collapse of 2008.



Untouched so far, the chapel on the second floor of the Abbey is remarkably intact.



During the heyday of the Convent, this chapel was primarily used to provide services for ailing nuns, who were housed on the second floor of the building.



As membership in the Convent and its school declined, the small chapel was used for most services, and the large 1896 Chapel building was only used for special functions.



The ornate hand-painted walls were finished prior to the start of the First World War, and are holding up remarkably well.



Very few interior architectural details remain, but apparently the developers feel that the original wooden staircases will fit with their luxury condo designs.



A view through one of the dormer windows on the third floor, looking towards the Chapel building.



An ornate spiral staircase leads from the first to the third floors.



This mechanism, with an array of gears and dangling weights, led up into what was possibly a bell tower.



View of the grounds at sundown. To the left is the Abbey, and to the right is the Chapel.



A dusk view of the 1896 Chapel, which was constructed of locally quarried stone - during this time period, labor was cheap, and materials expensive.



A font on the outside of the chapel; the inscription translates (roughly) as "Lydia: rest thou well and pray for us".



The bell tower on the Chapel building.



A view to the road leading away from the Convent.

For more images of the Convent, check out Amy Heiden Photography.

The Divine Lorraine Hotel, Philadelphia, PA

Ballroom in 2006, in the midst of being gutted; the marble floor was in the process of being pulled up.


Personal note: I feel compelled by recent reports of the deteriorating conditions at The Divine Lorraine to write this article, which I may only accompany by some photos taken in the span of a couple of hours in 2006. The Lorraine is NRHP listed for both its architectural import and its significance in civil rights as the first integrated hotel in Philadelphia. It is currently in significant danger of demolition-by-neglect. Because the building is now gutted and deteriorating, I cannot reshoot the photographic content for this article, so I must present what I have, warts and all.


View of building from tiny porch attached to bedroom.


Not-So-Humble Beginnings

The building currently known as the Divine Lorraine Hotel has been a fixture on North Broad Street in Philadelphia for over a century. It was designed, as the “Lorraine Apartments”, by controversial architect Willis G. Hale in his characteristically theatrical high-Victorian style. Construction began in 1892 and took two years to finish. At the time, the building was praised by few – Hale’s style was seen as outdated, being typified by extravagant ornamentation, and many viewed the Lorraine as bombastic.

Nevertheless, it was a very luxurious building, and among the first high-rise apartment buildings in Philadelphia. Offering an in-house staff that eliminated the need for personal servants, a central kitchen in which meals were prepared for tenants, and two luxurious ballrooms for events, the Lorraine briefly attracted the upper crust of city renters. In 1900, it was purchased by a new interest which converted it into a hotel. It continued to attract a wealthy clientele until its sale in 1948 to Father Divine, who anticipated a very different use for the structure.


A typical hallway in the Lorraine.



Typical bedrooms in the Lorraine contained features such as this small fireplace.



One of the few beds remaining when the building was photographed.



Most of the artifacts that had been left in the Lorraine were moved down to first floor and affixed with price tags; apparently, these books weren't worth the hassle.



The most common artifact found in the hotel: a copy of the Bible.



The only television seen in the entire structure; Father Divine was said to have frowned on the viewing of TV.



A bathtub was pulled halfway out of this crumbling bathroom.



A room on the Ninth Floor. This is supposed to have been the room in which Father Divine's wife lived; even the head of the movement was not exempted from the rules prohibiting cohabitation.



A view from one room into the room across the hall. The rooms were painted in a variety of pastel colors.


Introduction of the Divine

George Baker was born, likely in Maryland, to two former slaves. From humble beginnings as a gardener and itinerant Baptist preacher, he came to envision himself first as a divine messenger, and eventually as a deity himself. He granted himself the title of Reverend Major Jealous Divine, and became known to his rapidly growing congregations as Father Divine. In his early years, his preachings focused primarily on the virtues of celibacy and the downplaying of gender roles.


The front of the tenth-floor chapel, originally one of two ballrooms in the Lorraine Apartments.


Father Divine and his congregation moved frequently in the early years, and eventually settled in New York. Several times, he ran afoul of the law, and he moved around the city, and outside the city. Meanwhile, his message shifted towards civil rights. Unlike many black preachers of the day, he was not polarized against whites – Father Divine’s message centered around equality, and he focused on desegregation, anti-lynching legislation, and similar issues. He formalized his movement into a church, the International Peace Mission Movement.

In 1942, Divine’s legal troubles caused him to flee New York; he ended up in Philadelphia. In 1944, Johnny Mercer attended a sermon entitled “You got to accentuate the positive and eliminate the negative.” Mercer wrote his trademark song the following year. Meanwhile, Divine decided to open up a number of residences for his flock, which he referred to as Heavens. In 1948, he purchased the Lorraine Hotel for $485,000, reopening it as a Heaven under its new, and final, name: The Divine Lorraine.


A Bible lays open to the book of Job on a dresser; this would almost seem a fitting metaphor for the building itself, were it not so likely that someone had intentionally left it like that.

Because of his focus on celibacy, even within marriage, Divine divided the structure by floors; men and women would not share a floor. Modesty was expected of the residents; women had to wear long skirts, and men, long pants. Alcohol, drugs, and cigarettes were forbidden, as was swearing, mixing of the sexes outside of meals and church functions, and any form of blasphemy.

The clientele of the Lorraine changed drastically; congregants were simply given rooms to live in, as they were expected to have already turned over their savings to Divine. Additional rooms were available to rent, but the prices were low, and the Lorraine no longer attracted the upper-class residents that once called it home. The hotel was fully integrated, with no preference for race, and religious belief outside the movement was accepted so long as it did not contradict the teachings of Father Divine. A soup kitchen was operated out of the first floor of the building, providing hot meals to the indigent of the neighborhood.


When Father Divine took over the Lorraine, this statuette was affixed to the front. If any readers know who the statue portrays, please let me know.


Father Divine passed away at his estate in Gladwyne, PA, in 1965. His second wife, Edna Rose Ritchings, who was significantly younger than he, took over leadership of the movement. The congregation continued to operate the Divine Lorraine. In the early 70s, cult leader Jim Jones split off from the International Peace Mission Movement, forming the Peoples Temple – the group which would eventually commit mass suicide in Jonestown. Eventually, the movement began to dwindle – Father Divine’s teachings forbade sex, and the movement stopped attracting new members – and most of the Heavens had to be sold. In 2000, the congregation parted with the Divine Lorraine Hotel.


A wide view of the chapel just after first light.



Detail of the proscenium over the tiny stage from which Father Divine gave his sermons.



The rear of the chapel.



Detail of the "God" inlay at the rear of the chapel.


Sale, Gutting, and Neglect

David Peace, an adherent to the International Peace Mission Movement, continued to reside in the building from 2000 until 2006, maintaining it to the best of his abilities. This proved relatively easy to do – because in a rare turn for an economically beleaguered neighborhood, area dealers and squatters had so much respect for the legacy of Father Divine that there were few attempts to trespass in, or vandalize, the structure.

The Divine Lorraine was listed on the National Registry of Historic Places in 2002. In May 2006, Philadelphia developer Michael Treacy, Jr. purchased the building and formed a development team to oversee its use. He promised that the building would be rehabilitated as a mixed-use property, consisting of 135 condominiums and a large-scale restaurant, and that the historical integrity of the landmark would be preserved.


Most of the furniture and other artifacts from the Lorraine were gathered on the first floor and affixed with prices, ready for a rummage sale.


For a few months, little happened, and then work crews began to show up at the building. But they were not there to rehab – little by little, they began to tear the building apart, selling off pieces to architectural salvage companies and interested individuals. Marble floors were removed from the ballroom and chapel; wooden floors were torn up and bundled, bathtubs were gathered in hallways. Even the ornate plasterwork was torn apart. And after the building was thoroughly scavenged, it was completely abandoned, without any significant measure being taken even to shore up the roofs.


A plywood walkway was constructed at the rear entrance to facilitate moving demolition equipment in and out - as well as objects being sold, such as the kitchen equipment lined up to the left.


As it turns out, the developer had no intention of rehabilitating and preserving the Lorraine unless the city and neighborhood bowed to a number of concessions, including fiscal benefits, additional land acquisition, and favorable zoning. When the developer did not receive the requested concessions, he gutted the building, sold what he could for salvage, and left the structure to rot. David Peace no longer watches over it, and having gutted, it is no longer treated with the reverence it once was. It has become a home to squatters and members of the drug community, and has been heavily vandalized; its exterior is now covered in graffiti. Water damage too has quickly become an issue. Less than half a decade’s worth of neglect has reduced the Divine Lorraine to an endangered shell.



The grand stairwell from the first to the second floors was sheathed in plywood; recent photographs indicated that the stairs themselves were torn apart for the marble, and only an iron skeleton remains.



When I visited the Lorraine in 2006, salvage was well underway. In this hallway, the hardwood floor has been torn up and bundled for sale.



In this room, the tub was pulled from the bathroom, and the marble tiles were then ripped out and placed against the wall. The doors have also been removed.



A room in which the hardwood floor has already been scavenged; it appears that the door is next.



The door here has been removed, as well as the brass hinge. Even the screws from the switch-plate were taken.



Throughout the lower floors of the building, various like objects were grouped together by kind, presumably to facilitate sale. Here, doors are stacked against each other in rows.



Dozens of radiators filled another room.



The bathtubs were removed from this floor's bathrooms and lined up in the hallway.



Even the mattresses, unused in over half a decade, were priced to sell.


As a Closing Note

It is unacceptable that this building, a national as well as a local landmark, is falling prey to demolition-by-neglect. While the figure of Father Divine and the nature of his movement may be controversial, it is uncontroversial that he was an important precursor to the civil rights struggle, and that the Divine Lorraine had a significant role in this history, both by association and by virtue of its status as the first integrated hotel in Philadelphia. Further, it is a remarkable building, and one of the few Hale commissions still standing. The avarice of a developer who gutted the building, “taking her for all she was worth”, and then walked away, should not be allowed to cause the eventual destruction of this treasure.

I would urge all of my readers in Philadelphia to get involved on some level with the preservation of this structure. And I would urge all of my readers outside of Philadelphia to spread the word. If there is enough public outcry over this, if the right people are appropriately shamed, perhaps the Divine Lorraine stands a chance of being a jewel of Philadelphia once again.


This tiny cross placed upon a lightswitch had managed to endure.