American Tin Cannery, Monterey, California
Rain fell in gentle showers scattered between torrential downpours on the Monterey Peninsula. I grabbed my cameras and drove out to Asilomar to photograph the enormous surf. Cameras and rain don’t mix, and the rain never let up, so as night fell, I decided to head for home. On the way, I passed the long shuttered American Tin Cannery, sitting like a hulking phantom in the rain. This spirit from another age stood poised as if a message or a warning hung behind the darkened windows. The sodium-vapor streetlights lit the facade in sparks of bright, glinting off splashes of rain that dripped and pooled from the cannery like a creature emerging from the bay.
The mystery of its past lured me forward. The west entrance roof, built on the old railroad platforms, provided cover as I set up a tripod to accommodate a long exposure to capture the scant light. Except for an occasional passing car, I was alone. Beads of rain pinged against the old metal siding, while images of the factory’s forgotten nightshift workers drifted through my mind. I snapped a few shots and made a few adjustments when a woman appeared from behind, seemingly out of nowhere, and walked past. Her presence startled me. Out of pure reflex, I snapped a few shots as she walked past, capturing her shadowy essence as she hurried along through soft rain.