07;
“Look what they’ve done to my brain ma”. The painted words stand out clear, clashing in red, yellow, green and purple paint on now worn and watermarked sugar paper. Another in bold red simply reads “Abandon hope all ye that enters here”, “Mother has the devil in her heart”. Hundreds of childlike drawings depicting people, animals and houses scatter the cracked terrazzo floor. But on closer inspection the large house is a Hospital and the people are clearly identifiable as nurses and patients. Here in the abandoned Art therapy ward of Canehill Lunatic Asylum, the memories, thoughts and personalities of those who once lived here haunt the now derelict building, reminding those who visit of what some might call a cruel, but essentially bittersweet past.
The corridors that once led to days rooms, Doctors offices and countless residential wards are now water logged, broken and decaying. Odd Victorian floor boards move under me as I walk over the cracked asbestos tiles that cover the Hospital’s skeletal form. The 1970’s refurbishment made sure most of the original features had been safely amended, and therefore the floors, ceilings and original doors were mostly covered over or replaced. Nothing is from it’s own time, strewn papers, personal belongings and light fixtures all from the past, but then lucozade bottles and cigarette packets decorate the hallway giving the corridor here, an anachronistic feel. It looks as if the Triffids had just invaded, crawlers, vines and creepers litter the walls and skirting boards. I walk over the charred remains of patient files and personal belongings as I get closer to one of the old wards that primarily housed young women. A green leather Suitcase with a tag, belonging to Miss Phillips lies open and empty save for an address written on the paper inside. Lost and found, like these people, and now like Canehill.
It’s quite soothing walking into the old Browning ward. The floral curtains and the soft pink walls are reminiscent of a respectable design. I can see why many people would have enjoyed staying on this ward particularly. The windows are tall and a beautiful light graces the room, leading out to a magnificent view of a courtyard with terraced seating. The piano on the far side of the room looks worn as if it has been played frequently. Though the metal frame beds, a trolley with leather straps and an old medicine unit is also present, decomposing and rusting into the ground. Again here, the juxtaposition of the place and indeed it’s inhabitants making the atmosphere all the more poignant. There is a pain that lingers in it’s decomposition, but a beautiful one. As if the building itself is now - ironically, calling for aid. The women who would have come here could have had any manner of mental illness, postpartum depression, schizophrenia or even medically triggered mental illnesses such as syphilis or brain damage. These women would stay residentially starting from 1 week then anything up to indefinitely, depending on their condition and progress. However this was just one of thirty-seven wards, each holding up to 20 men or women, the true scale of the place at full capacity, especially during it’s opening years in the 1890’s, is unimaginable.
The complex as a whole consists of more than 20 buildings all interconnected by the long tunnelling corridors. It is because of this, it is lucky it hasn’t burnt down fully. Vandals, arsonists and thieves often come to Canehill, leaving most parts of the beautiful building gutted by fire and subsequent water damage, but for the most part, the places of interest and intrigue have been left intact. The chapel still stands, almost brand new, the altar and cross still very much in place. Plaques surrounding it commemorate those who fell in the Great wars. It is in here that one can find a true sense of peace, in albeit a rather foreboding environment. High stacks of burnt wooden chairs have left sharp pronged pits and uneven floors due to flooding, are a prominent danger. But I can’t help but imagine that is what living in Canehill would have been like - foreboding and full of suspense. In the some of the case studies found in the admin blocks, nurses write about violent patients and those who were heavily sedated on a regular basis. It intrigues me to know - who was Miss Phillips? Why was she here? What did she do in here? Was she a violent patient? Was she a patient at all? All these unknown answers. But here, in this sanctuary, a living - or rather crumbling museum to the glory days of Canehill, the opportunities to find the answers are very real.
The closest I found myself, however, to empathising with the patients of Canehill, was through looking at the paintings and drawings left in the art therapy room. In such a vast Hospital, it was this one room that drew me back time and time again. The tortured mind is a creative mind, and the insight into what some of these patients were experiencing is a rich and absorbing journey. In a poem titled ‘Epitaph for Happiness (And Audrey)’ - written and left by a patient in 1969, it reads, “There is no equal power within the mind. Yes! Love’s happiness was hard to find”. The inference and subtle messaging that one can decode from the page makes the poem all the more poignant and represents truly what Canehill means to many people today.
For many Canehill Asylum is a ruin or a derelict playground, for others it may be a treasure trove of social history and context, some might see it as an architectural landmark, however what these buildings really reflect is an insight into our own issues, and letting us change our attitudes towards mental health. As beautiful as this building is, it still epitomises life at its most fragile state. Bittersweet.
“Look what they’ve done to my brain ma”
The corridors that once led to days rooms, Doctors offices and countless residential wards are now water logged, broken and decaying. Odd Victorian floor boards move under me as I walk over the cracked asbestos tiles that cover the Hospital’s skeletal form. The 1970’s refurbishment made sure most of the original features had been safely amended, and therefore the floors, ceilings and original doors were mostly covered over or replaced. Nothing is from it’s own time, strewn papers, personal belongings and light fixtures all from the past, but then lucozade bottles and cigarette packets decorate the hallway giving the corridor here, an anachronistic feel. It looks as if the Triffids had just invaded, crawlers, vines and creepers litter the walls and skirting boards. I walk over the charred remains of patient files and personal belongings as I get closer to one of the old wards that primarily housed young women. A green leather Suitcase with a tag, belonging to Miss Phillips lies open and empty save for an address written on the paper inside. Lost and found, like these people, and now like Canehill.
It’s quite soothing walking into the old Browning ward. The floral curtains and the soft pink walls are reminiscent of a respectable design. I can see why many people would have enjoyed staying on this ward particularly. The windows are tall and a beautiful light graces the room, leading out to a magnificent view of a courtyard with terraced seating. The piano on the far side of the room looks worn as if it has been played frequently. Though the metal frame beds, a trolley with leather straps and an old medicine unit is also present, decomposing and rusting into the ground. Again here, the juxtaposition of the place and indeed it’s inhabitants making the atmosphere all the more poignant. There is a pain that lingers in it’s decomposition, but a beautiful one. As if the building itself is now - ironically, calling for aid. The women who would have come here could have had any manner of mental illness, postpartum depression, schizophrenia or even medically triggered mental illnesses such as syphilis or brain damage. These women would stay residentially starting from 1 week then anything up to indefinitely, depending on their condition and progress. However this was just one of thirty-seven wards, each holding up to 20 men or women, the true scale of the place at full capacity, especially during it’s opening years in the 1890’s, is unimaginable.
The complex as a whole consists of more than 20 buildings all interconnected by the long tunnelling corridors. It is because of this, it is lucky it hasn’t burnt down fully. Vandals, arsonists and thieves often come to Canehill, leaving most parts of the beautiful building gutted by fire and subsequent water damage, but for the most part, the places of interest and intrigue have been left intact. The chapel still stands, almost brand new, the altar and cross still very much in place. Plaques surrounding it commemorate those who fell in the Great wars. It is in here that one can find a true sense of peace, in albeit a rather foreboding environment. High stacks of burnt wooden chairs have left sharp pronged pits and uneven floors due to flooding, are a prominent danger. But I can’t help but imagine that is what living in Canehill would have been like - foreboding and full of suspense. In the some of the case studies found in the admin blocks, nurses write about violent patients and those who were heavily sedated on a regular basis. It intrigues me to know - who was Miss Phillips? Why was she here? What did she do in here? Was she a violent patient? Was she a patient at all? All these unknown answers. But here, in this sanctuary, a living - or rather crumbling museum to the glory days of Canehill, the opportunities to find the answers are very real.
The closest I found myself, however, to empathising with the patients of Canehill, was through looking at the paintings and drawings left in the art therapy room. In such a vast Hospital, it was this one room that drew me back time and time again. The tortured mind is a creative mind, and the insight into what some of these patients were experiencing is a rich and absorbing journey. In a poem titled ‘Epitaph for Happiness (And Audrey)’ - written and left by a patient in 1969, it reads, “There is no equal power within the mind. Yes! Love’s happiness was hard to find”. The inference and subtle messaging that one can decode from the page makes the poem all the more poignant and represents truly what Canehill means to many people today.
For many Canehill Asylum is a ruin or a derelict playground, for others it may be a treasure trove of social history and context, some might see it as an architectural landmark, however what these buildings really reflect is an insight into our own issues, and letting us change our attitudes towards mental health. As beautiful as this building is, it still epitomises life at its most fragile state. Bittersweet.
“Look what they’ve done to my brain ma”