As home to a burgeoning population of urban explorers, France has always been ahead of its time. In fact, the government sanctioned and sent photographers across the country in the mid-19th century on the taxpayer’s dime. The photographers’ goal was to explore and photograph the crumbling architecture and infrastructure of the country.

In 1851, the Commission de Monuments Historiques embarked on an unprecedented survey of the French landscape. Five photographers traveled to the far reaches of France. Their targets would be the buildings that made up the heritage of France – the “architectural patrimony” of the country. It was to be known as a Mission Heliographique, and the photographers returned with plates and prints portraying buildings – many of which no longer exist. Sadly, upon return, their negatives remained largely unpublished for over a century.

An image of a church entry by Hippolyte Bayard

Edouard Baldus (1813-1889), Hippolyte Bayard (1801-1887), Gustave Le Gray (1820-1884), Henri Le Secq (1818-1882), and Auguste Mestral were chosen to photograph France’s built heritage (you can download a detailed analysis of Le Secq’s 1851 photos here – 3MB PDF). The Societe Heliographique – with the financial support of the French government – had chosen these photographers as the nation’s sole documentarians of their crumbling and ‘archaic’ architecture. Each photographer was told to visit a specific region of France. Baldus went to the south and east; Le Gray embarked on a journey to the Chateaux of the Loire Valley-Blois, as well as numerous small towns with Romanesque religious edifices; Le Gray and Mestral traveled to the yet-to-be-restored town of Carcassonne and other sites in south-central and central France; Le Secq was dispatched to the north and east side of France, where he found towering Gothic cathedrals; and Bayard (the only stalwart user of glass negatives) went to Brittany and Normandy to document the quaint architecture of Coastal France.

Photos of (from left to right) Gustave Le Gray, Hippolyte Bayard, Henri Le Secq, and Auguste Mestral

The five photographers returned in the Winter of 1851 with more than 300 photographs. There was much fanfare upon their return. But the photos were immediately retrieved and locked in a drawer. Bayard’s glass negatives are yet to be found.

The Mission Heliographique was the first state-sponsored, photographic survey of architecture. Yet the visionary parent society, the Societe Heliographique, only survived for less than three years, from 1851-1853. Even Le Gray, one of the five ‘esteemed’ photographers on the expedition – found himself in Syria and Egypt in 1860, on the run from tenacious creditors. Le Gray later died in Cairo, perhaps still incognito due to his debts.

The ruins of Karnak, by Gustave Le Gray, while he was exiled in Egypt.

The expedition’s failure as an artistic polemic to save architecture was perhaps – ironically – due to its success. According to Naomi Rosenblum, in “Documentation: Landscape and Architecture,” The photographers’ skill and artistry helped doom the project. The beautifully composed images of decaying buildings made them appear in a positive light, which did little to encourage the restoration work for which the Mission Heliographique had originally embarked. It was said that – soon after the Mission Heliographique – Paris lost 70% of its architecture due to the urban renewal efforts of Napoleon III under the architectural supervision of Baron Georges-Eugène Haussmann.

A Church in France by Hippolyte Bayard.

Ironically, Napoleon saw the great potential of the new medium of photography and of the Mission Heliographique, in particular. Says Naomi Rosenblum, in A World History of Photography, “The [French] government continued to regard photography as a tool integral to its expansive domestic and foreign programs, commissioning documentations of the countryside, the railroad lines, and of natural disasters as evidence of its concern for national programs and problems.”

Napoleon III used photography to propagandize to the French population and monumentalize the new architecture he had created under his rulership. Within a decade of the Mission Heliographique, Charles Marville was hired by the City of Paris to document the Medieval passageways soon-to-be demolished by the wrecking ball of Haussman’s grand vision. One might assume that Marville incited a preservation consciousness through his photos of decaying architecture, but the fact was that Marville often purposely portrayed his subjects in a negative light – often using these photos to legitimize the Urban Renewal efforts of Baron Haussmann (and, by default, Louis Napoleon as well). One particular example is the photo below, in which Marville sprayed the streets with water prior to photographing the alleyway (in order to make the street appear infested with sewer).

A potrait of Charles Marville (left), and one of the famed works of Marville, which was intentionally "made-up" to appear as if the alleyway was infested and inundated with sewer.

One might say that the efforts of Baldus, Bayard, Le Gray, Le Secq, and Mestral were all to no avail. With their photos locked in a drawer, and a number of the buildings they photographed demolished under Napoleon III – some might see the Mission Heliographique as an exercise in futility – a project that did not carry through on its intended goal.

I’d like to see it in another light.

The days of the Commission de Monuments Historiques no longer exist. State-sponsored surveys of historic buildings are essentially a thing of the past. Though the United States instituted its own version as a result of the New Deal, known as the Historic American Buildings Survey (HABS) — the skimpy funding (HABS relies largely on summer interns these days) and the lack of a grand vision of documentation both ensure that HABS fails to encapsulate the artistic inspiration that the Mission Heliographique had.

In the end — ironically — what had once seemed to be an utter failure became an astounding success 100 years later. Gustave Le Gray had posthumously achieved the brass ring of photographic prowess: One of his photographs was among the list of top ten most expensive photographs sold in history when it was auctioned at the price of $838,000 in 1999.

Gustave Le Gray's "The Great Wave," recently sold for $830,000, and was listed as one of the top ten most expensive photographs of all time.

I’d like to think of modern urban explorers as the “illegitimate” Le Grays and Le Secq’s of our time. Many of us skirt the law to beat the wrecking ball. I’m sure many of us hope that, some day, our work will be valued and understood in the same way that these photographs are today.

Further Research about the Mission Heliographique

All About the Mission Heliographique

• http://www.metmuseum.org/TOAH/hd/heli/hd_heli.htm
• http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_m3575/is_1263_211/ai_86390754/

Napoleon’s Use of Photography as Architectural Propoganda

• http://www.archdaily.com/15271/learning-from-the-slums-12literature-and-urban-renewal/
• http://livgudmundson.com/essay/essay-napoleon.html
• http://www.findingfrance.com/stories/baron_hauss.html

More about HABS/HAER

• http://memory.loc.gov/ammem/collections/habs_haer/
• http://crmjournal.cr.nps.gov/04_article_sub.cfm?issue=Volume%201%20Number%201%20Fall%202003&page=6&seq=1

I find it difficult to write about places I have not seen or photographed – let alone places that disappeared over a century ago. But it’s the exercise of researching and viewing such places through the prism of the past that compels me continue my own efforts at double-speed. Without these scintillas of inspiration, I probably wouldn’t have the ambition to continue my documentation.

This entry probably represents the first location I’ve written about that I have not witnessed or photographed first-hand. In fact, you’d probably be hard-pressed to find a living soul on this Earth who has been inside of the second home of the California Academy of Sciences at 833 Market Street.

First, let me begin with a bit of a story. This story begins in the Summer of 2004, when I had just graduated and moved to a quaint little apartment on the corner of 48th and Irving, right across from the Golden Gate Park and steps away from the Pacific Ocean. I took to exploring the park on my bike, and eventually found myself, for the first time, on the grounds of the 1894 midwinter exposition of San Francisco. Back then the DeYoung Museum, as we know it now, looked like a shiny new, copper penny, and it was yet to be opened. Across from the DeYoung was a white building, slowly succumbing to the environment. It was the original aquarium for the California Academy of Sciences – and it was one among many solo experiences that led to my interest in building hacking.

The fine arts building of the Midwinter Exposition of 1894

I pondered what was inside of that building, which dated back to 1913 (I had managed to see when it was abandoned, long before the construction crews had moved in to begin on the new Cal Academy). I had a burning curiosity to see what sort of artificial landscape was built inside. I could only imagine the grand columns and wrought-iron banisters — all of it locked up inside of a decrepit institution, like many that closed after suffering through the Loma Prieta Earthquake.

What I didn’t realize was that I would soon find myself in that building, but only after it had become the new California Academy of Sciences, LEED certified, with 60,000 photovoltaic cells and a cornucopia of California flora literally growing on its roof. Inside of this new $500 million facility, I spent the day dodging hyper children and fingerprint-covered aquarium glass to find myself on the East end of the building, watching a short documentary about the history of the Academy.

Then, suddenly, it appeared. The photo wasn’t for more than a few seconds, but I couldn’t help but be enthralled by its potential, fully hoping that this foyer still existed, with all of its incredible accouterments and embellishments.

The Long-gone California Academy Mammoth, which was destroyed by the Great Quake of 1906

It’s not too often that one sees a truly enthralling building. In fact, in my lifetime (and believe me, I’ve explored HUNDREDS of buildings), I’ve probably only been truly in awe with three, possibly four — max. I would never have imagined being enthralled with a building via vicarious exploration of it through mere images. But the second home of the California Academy of Sciences was a true house of elegance.

The photo of the central atrium of the 1891-1906 Cal Academy of Sciences reminded me of another building I saw in Detroit, the Farwell building, which was originally encrusted in hand-cut pieces of colored glass from Louis Tiffany himself. The ceiling, eight stories above – through an open-air foyer – was a Tiffany chandelier, which disappeared one night after a building fire.

The central atrium of Detroit's Farwell Building, which seems to be fashioned in the same "Chicago-school" style as the 1891-1906 California Academy of Sciences Building.

Unfortunately, the Market Street California Academy of Sciences no longer exists — it was destroyed in the 1906 Earthquake. Academy curators and staffers reportedly ran to the building on Market street and rescued a single cart of materials, including Academy minute books, membership records, and 2,000 type specimens.

Everything else – 50 years of research and the brain trust of the newly minted state’s scientific heritage – had been destroyed. The massive Mammoth in the central atrium was consumed by fire – and only a single tusk was retrieved.

A photo of the building after the Great Quake of 1906.

What makes it all the more intriguing to me is the weight that such an anonymous photo could have in my mind. I began to think: It was once a beautiful, public space that probably filled the imaginations of numerous children in its brief life from 1893 to 1906. Today one isn’t privileged to see the Mammoth, or stand in the central skylit area to admire the repeating patterns of ornate railings and tall columns of marble.

A slightly awkward photo of a Cal Academy atendee standing in front of a Grizzly. Just look at those railings!

Call me a traditionalist, but just from my perception of one photo, taken by an anonymous person over 100 years ago – I can honestly say that I’d rather have the Academy of today look like that. But the truth is, the 1891 Academy – no matter how much I would like it to – no longer exists. And oddly enough, in the moments that I doubt what I do through my photography, or its true impact, I briefly think of this building.

The photos I’ve gathered of the 1891 California Academy of Sciences are the only ones I know that exist. They’re just snapshots from an anonymous photographer, but they’re of a world that exists in a different place now, one inaccessible to humans – replaced by modern high-rises and financial institutions. Years of architecture, and construction, hundreds of thousands of man-hours, hand-carved pillars, and hand-gathered specimens — all of them had become dust in the wind. But one thing remained: Those photos, the only visual record of what the interior once looked like.

Further Research

Reference Site for Cal Academy Docents: Complete History of the Academy
[Note: This file is a PowerPoint Presentation – You’ll Need Microsoft Office]

I wanted to make this post, not simply to jump on the bandwagon of the media outpouring for Michael Jackson. I’m not here to judge his life or talk about his finances, or his troubled past, or the allegations, or even Bubbles. I’m writing this simply to tell a story. It’s a story that I didn’t really have the inclination to say before. Now that Michael’s “Ranch” no longer exists, and — rides dismantled — it simply stands as a bank-owned shadow of its former self, I wanted say a few things about my experience at Neverland, and the truth behind how I was able to get in.

In many ways, I feel this is sort of a confession. I never saw Neverland as an interesting place. At first, I didn’t understood its potential to tell a photographic story. As someone who finds significance in historic architecture, I neither saw Neverland as significant, nor historic. All of that changed.

In December of 2007, I was on my way down to Ventura for the Holidays. I had taken multiple trips down the 101 before. Each trip, I made it a point to stop at a roadside abandonment to photograph at night. As it invariably is every December, just prior to Christmas, the radios are filled with the repetitious yuletide jingles of yore. Usually, the six-hour drive is bearable if I switch from one station to the next – between commercials. This particular drive down, I grew weary of the music. I’m not exactly sure why Michael came to mind. Part of it probably had to do with the silence and the habit of mine to imagine music in my head in such moments. It’s also possible that I passed the off-ramp for Los Olivos and thought of the place, only to think of it more and more. Whatever it was, the idea of then-abandoned Neverland began to roll around in my mind. The radio was off, and I began mentally turning over rocks in the process. What did Neverland mean about Michael? Then the big one loomed: Why couldn’t Neverland be “historic” in my mind?

I must admit, I suffer from the myopic view, like most historians — amateur or otherwise — that history must always be equated with old. That’s why Graceland was “history” to me, but Neverland never would be — at least not until it was gone. Hours passed, and the desire to see the inside of Neverland grew stronger. I had essentially exhausted all other photographic possibilities down the 101, and I knew this opportunity wouldn’t last long. Then, a day before I began the drive back up to San Francisco, I exited a theater to find what seemed like snow falling on me. I immediately realized they were large flakes of ash from a fire nearby. The sky was dark and orange. It was an eerie, foreboding signal, or at least that’s what I made it out to be. I needed to photograph Neverland, or else — and I had a strong feeling — it would all go to ashes without proper documentation.

Once it was decided, there was no convincing me otherwise. Still, I thought more than once of giving it up altogether and to continue driving North. I tried to convince myself that I had trespassed many times before at other locations — but the implications had never really bothered me until I considered walking into Michael’s private park. As I write this, I still try to justify my actions by thinking how much Michael truly wanted to share his world. It was a genuine wish of his for everyone to understand things the way he did. And the world largely didn’t understand what he was trying to communicate with Neverland, so he abandoned it.

People have asked me over the past year what it felt like to be in Neverland at night, alone. I didn’t want to say anything except that it was the most surreal and incredible experience of my life. Others asked me how I felt about Michael, after seeing Neverland, but I couldn’t completely answer that. I was withholding judgement. Maybe, like all battle-bruised humans, I had the sneaking suspicion that all of my best feelings about the man would be shattered when another allegation would arise. But it never happened, just as I suspected, because everything I saw at the Ranch indicated to me that he was an innocent man.

The night I drove up to the front gates, the security guard was there, sitting in a well-lit pillbox on the side of the road. Neverland itself is up the road about 400 yards from the front gate. It happened to be a dark night. In fact, there was a new moon, and the sky was clear of any clouds. Out in Los Olivos, the stars shone brightly, and there was little light pollution in the atmosphere. I was sure to maintain my speed as I passed the guard, and I drove up the road to small parking area east of the park. The walk to Neverland was about a half-mile through rolling hills in pitch black conditions. I carried a GPS, set to its dimmest level, and continued on a straight click, towards the North end of the park.

I came upon a back road that seemed to have been a utility road for the animal caretakers. By then, all of the animals were gone, save a few dogs in the old aviary. Bursting out from the branches of valley oak, I found myself in a miniature city. I had emerged right at the petting zoo. From there, my adventure began.

Strangely enough, the moment I entered, a howling wind spread across the valley. Trees cracked their massive arms and fell; I could hear the Ferris Wheel creaking; the rope drawbridge waved wild and unpredictable. When I walked up to the deserted bumper car tent, the wind had become so strong, that it was tearing the red, canvas roof. It’s fortunate that the wind also allowed me to roam freely around the park without a single bark from the nearby dogs.

In the midst of all of this wind, the only static elements of Neverland were the frozen, bronze faces of the myriad statues that dotted the grounds. The children’s smiles almost seemed sad, in the context; and other than the occasional jolt of fear that hit me when I encountered a new frozen figure (thinking it was a real person), these statues were the subjects that I found my camera most drawn to. The rides themselves could have been found on any county fair in any state in the country. But it was the psyche of Michael Jackson that drew my curiosity. The statues were a conduit; they were my artifacts to catalog before the time of their eventual liquidation arrived.

I took two more trips to Neverland, each time with close friends. In all, I captured hundreds of photographs of the park. Many of these photographs, I will never publish. Each trip became progressively more bittersweet. I don’t really have any regrets about doing what I did, but if there is one thing I wish I had done at Neverland, it would have been to ride down the Super Slide; I think MJ would have liked that, and I’m sure the friends with me on my final trip would have turned it into a photo shoot.

Despite how kitschy it all seemed; despite the controversy; and the fact that I could only see Neverland from one perspective (that of night),  the times I spent at Neverland are among the most memorable moments of my life. Neverland allowed me to escape the cynical, xenophobic world of a country mired in war, terrorism, and daily reports of suicide bombers.  They may have been only a few nights of escapism, at best, but they allowed me to put myself in the shoes of Michael — moon walking my own way among the soon-to-end dreamscape of a truly magnanimous soul. May you rest in peace, Michael; your dream will live on.

Additional Neverland Sets

• My friend Scott’s set of Neverland Ranch photos
• Another great set from Sean