Even on days where the sun warms the mahogany bricks of the many hollowed, dusty factories along the waterfront, the neighborhood has the feel of a place long forgotten. Iron wrought fences bend back as if stepped on by giants. Human sized oil drums are scattered and labeled “hazardous liquid” in rushed handwriting, amongst warped deadwood that look like fossil remains. Despite the Red Hook Flea Market a few blocks away, it is noticeably empty on a Sunday afternoon. There is a quiet hum underneath the streets that can be heard, like something is brooding beneath. This is just one of Bill Hilgendorfʼs many Brooklyn playgrounds.

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