Over more than 25 years, starting in the mid-20th century, Bernd and Hilla Becher photographed water towers, blast furnaces, silos, cooling towers, and more across the industrial landscapes of Europe and North America. In their eyes, these metal structures, though not built by famous architects, became works of art. They nicknamed them ‘anonymous sculptures’, and they photographed them obsessively, amassing hundreds of pictures over the decades.
A similar obsession compelled me to document these drill towers. After I noticed the first one, set against the grey London sky, I couldn’t stop. I discovered them at every fire station I found: the same repeating structures, with small but recognisable differences. I mapped the city, taking note of where the drill towers sat, and I set out on my bike to photograph them with a 4×5 film camera. Like the Bechers, I waited for overcast, even light.
The Drill takes a deadpan approach to these straightforward, unassuming towers. My work has always tended towards honesty rather than romance, and my goal has been to capture the reality of these places, without judgment or embellishment. To that end, I am meticulous in my compositions. I find the best angle for each tower, and I shoot only one frame before moving on to the next subject.
While they often go unnoticed against the surrounding urban landscape, I soon came to see the drill towers as modern-day monuments, looming and larger-than-life. In practice, they’re used by firefighters during training to simulate high-rise buildings. But given recent history, perhaps they’ve taken on a more symbolic urgency. In 2017, the Grenfell Tower fire in North Kensington, West London, killed 72 people. It was the deadliest fire in Britain for more than a century. In May of 2021, a different apartment tower, with cladding similar to Grenfell, was the site of another fire; this time, 125 firefighters brought it under control.
In big cities and urban centres, we often take emergency services for granted, but national tragedies and global crises remind us of the vital importance of our first responders. The number of fire stations in London astonished me. Some might see my photos as warnings of potential disasters yet to come; others might take them as beacons of hope or a reminder of the people who protect us. Perhaps than anything else, though, I still see them as formal studies of anonymous sculptures.
The Bechers’ water towers, blast furnaces, and cooling towers no longer exist. In some locations, they were racing against the clock; as the story goes, Bernd planned to draw some of them, but he feared he’d run out of time. A camera was faster than a pencil and much more precise. Though the Bechers’ pictures are detached and formal, critics have long claimed to find touches of melancholy and nostalgia within those frames, hidden within the steelwork and shades of grey. Others discard this interpretation, seeing the photos as purely objective.
The Drill captures training towers throughout London, including newer and older structures. The modern towers have more individual designs, built to suit the station. The older ones are simpler and more homogenous; I came across the same designs several times as I moved from station to station. Although they won’t disappear as fast as the Bechers’ water towers, I know the drill towers can’t last forever. In 2013, ten London fire stations were permanently closed. The oldest station in Britain, located in Clerkenwell, was among those closed. It was 140 years old. I expect the stations I photographed to remain active for many years to come, but if and when they’re gone, I hope they’re not forgotten.
