Towers of Progress: A Photographic Journey Through Long Island’s Water Towers
Concept Statement:
Water towers stand as monumental relics of mid-20th-century America, marking a period when suburban life blossomed, optimism was boundless, and infrastructure was a testament to progress. This photographic series captures water towers across Long Island, NY, as symbols of a transformative era in American history—a time when people sought refuge from the bustling urban life of New York City and found opportunity, comfort, and a vision of the future in the emerging suburbs.
Rendered in black and white using an analog technical camera on 4x5-inch film, these photographs transcend time and place. The absence of color emphasizes the graphic, monumental size of the water towers, stripping away distractions and focusing on their architectural form and cultural symbolism. The uniform aesthetic unites the series, while the presence of contemporary cars provides subtle clues that the images are of today’s world, bridging the past and present.
One exception to the uniformity of these utilitarian towers is the Robert Moses water tower, located at Robert Moses Beach. Built of brick, it stands as a strikingly aesthetic and majestic structure, reflecting a deliberate departure from the purely functional designs of other towers. Its grandeur pays homage to Robert Moses himself, the influential figure behind the parkway highway infrastructure that enabled Long Island’s suburban transformation. A visionary and a controversial urban planner, Moses was a driving force behind the rapid urbanization of the region, and this tower stands as a fitting symbol of his legacy.
The Era of Escape and Expansion: Long Island’s Post-War Transformation
In the years following World War II, America underwent a dramatic cultural and geographic shift. Soldiers returned home ready to embrace the promise of prosperity, and with it came the urge to leave the congestion of urban life behind. New York City, while thriving economically, also posed challenges: overcrowded neighborhoods, rising rents, and industrial pollution. Long Island, with its open landscapes and proximity to the city, promised a fresh start for families seeking their slice of the American Dream.
Suburbia during this time became synonymous with stability, safety, and upward mobility. Long Island’s transformation from farmland and sleepy towns to sprawling suburban developments was swift and unprecedented. Developers like William Levitt introduced planned communities, such as Levittown, which featured uniform houses, manicured lawns, and modern conveniences designed for efficiency and affordability. This suburban boom was further fueled by the Federal-Aid Highway Act of 1956, which made Long Island accessible to the city while reinforcing its car-centric development.
Water Towers as Symbols of the Suburban Boom
As municipalities expanded to accommodate the growing population, their need for essential infrastructure grew alongside them. Water towers, with their distinctive silhouettes, became key features of this suburban landscape. They served not only practical functions, storing water for the burgeoning communities, but also symbolic ones, projecting a sense of progress, modernity, and civic pride.
Each water tower represented its community’s growth, standing as a visible declaration of a town’s prosperity. Often bearing the names of the towns they served, they became landmarks and emblems of local identity. For many, they were as integral to suburban life as the shopping malls and driveways that defined the era. Perched at strategic high points, these towers looked over their communities with a quiet authority, reminders of the collective optimism that had driven the suburbs’ rapid expansion.
The Robert Moses water tower, however, stands apart. Unlike the utilitarian design of most water towers, this structure was constructed with deliberate artistry, using brickwork that evokes timelessness and permanence. It reflects the vision of Robert Moses himself, who shaped Long Island’s infrastructure with a mix of ambition and aesthetic sensibility. Its majestic presence at the entrance to Robert Moses Beach anchors this series with a story of both functional necessity and architectural beauty.
The Photographic Approach: Capturing Timeless Monuments
To reflect their enduring significance, these water towers are photographed in black and white, using an analog 4x5-inch technical camera. This deliberate choice removes the distractions of color, abstracting the towers from their contemporary surroundings and highlighting their graphic, monumental presence. The analog process, with its precise detail and rich tonal range, lends the series a timeless quality, allowing the water towers to transcend their specific era and take on a broader symbolic resonance.
While the absence of color places the towers outside of time, the presence of modern cars within the frame quietly anchors the photographs in the present day. This juxtaposition bridges past and present, inviting viewers to reflect on how these structures remain part of our lives while subtly pointing to the changes in the landscape they once defined. By treating each water tower as a subject of architectural and cultural importance, the photographs elevate these once-utilitarian objects into timeless monuments.
Conclusion: A Narrative of Transformation
Towers of Progress serves as both a historical document and an artistic exploration, telling the story of Long Island’s post-war evolution. These water towers embody the dreams and ambitions of a generation that sought to create a new way of life outside the city. The Robert Moses water tower adds a unique layer to this story, reflecting not only infrastructure but also the legacy of an urban planner who profoundly shaped Long Island’s identity.
Through the lens of an analog 4x5-inch camera, the water towers of Long Island are recast as bold, graphic icons that remain as silent sentinels over a changed landscape. This series captures the essence of an era defined by progress and the enduring marks it left behind, offering a meditation on the complex interplay between history, identity, and the built environment.
Text by Carrie Ingolia
The first time I met Abdi—the first time many of us met Abdi—was on the radio. His voice was distant, tinny, affable. Smuggled on digital recordings from Mogadishu, Somalia.
Abdi Mohammed was featured on This American Life in a 2015 episode called “Abdi and the Golden Ticket,” and before that on BBC radio. We learned through those recordings that Abdi loved the United States. He learned to speak English by watching American movies like “Die Hard” and “Rambo.” What he may not have learned until he got here was that in those movies, and in America, the enemy is almost foreign. Different and hated for the perceived threat they pose to our very way of life. After his well-documented, years-long effort to get to the US, Abdi didn’t land in Washington DC, standing at the foot of the reflecting pool. Or in NYC looking up at the Empire State Building. Instead he landed an hour or so outside of Portland, Maine in North Yarmouth, a small, rural town of less than 4,000. He could walk a mile in either direction and not see a soul.
His first friends, his supporters, were the journalists who helped get him here and a few members of a small Quaker community in Portland. Sharon McDonnell worked for years to get Abdi somewhere safe. And when he landed in the States, she gave him his first home in Maine. It’s on the front porch of her home where I spoke to Abdi, interrupted by the same chickens he used to feed and the family cat, looking for attention. Every once in a while a car would drive by. But not too often.
“The perception I had of America was Manhattan. So I ended up here.” He gestured to the chickens and the country road, “This road is empty. Nothing happening. Standing on the side of the street looking on both sides - I could not see a grocery store, a bus stop. Nobody around. I walked this way ten minutes, one truck passed. Have you ever seen the Walking Dead? It was just like this.” ….
Photographer Jens Honoré and I went to Maine. Jens’s goal was to capture something about these new residents of Maine, something we as a nation have been missing. They’re strong-willed—you have to be. But what is harder to see is their drive, their lives, and just their regular old humanity. There’s a certain kind of grace and joy I’m unable to describe. A certain kind of passion and a tone of laughter that peels. It might come only from having fled for your life and survived. Or maybe these are the only kinds of people that do survive. As subjects, they are still. Cemented into a very specific time and unusual place in a divided country. It’s supposed to be safe for them here. A home where they can live and perhaps their children can thrive.
The night Abdi arrived in the United States he landed at Boston, Logan Airport where he would meet Sharon and her husband Doug who would drive him to his new home in Yarmouth. As he walked through the airport, the monitors tuned to CNN showing race riots in Ferguson, Missouri. It’s not hard to imagine a sliver of doubt creeping in. “They are shooting a black man, like me. What the hell is this? In my heart, I was not sure. Who is this family, a white family, taking me into their house—what’s going to happen later, are they going to kick me out of the house? All the excitement was overpowered by this nervousness.”
Abdi starting working almost immediately feeding chickens and splitting wood for Sharon and Doug. It was the first paid job he’d ever had. Then insulating homes—working with men who asked him if he was a terrorist because of his skin color, his accent, his religion. He worked as a translator, helping other refugees and immigrants navigate this new place where they may not speak the language, likely know no one, and are sometimes faced with hostility and fear. In the weeks before he spoke to us, Abdi quelled some tensions at the local Health and Human Services after a man in line shouted that he and his follow refugees should “Go back to your country.” According to Abdi, “I’m not the only one with stories. Every single immigrant has stories, some of them similar to mine. But the difference is they might not want to talk about it. Because it gives them bad memories or nightmares. Some people want to share, but they can’t. They don’t have sufficient English to explain.” Abdi’s story may not be unique, but what’s unusual is that he’s telling it. Abdi is whipsmart, passionate, communicative. His speech vacillates between a quiet tenacity and a more fired-up pulpit-style preaching. He often speaks at community events and at colleges about his story. When I met Abdi he was finishing a book. Yet he’s acutely aware that not all refugees are like him. Not as outgoing and boisterous. Not as intensely curious about human nature. And not, perhaps, in love with the high ideals of Democracy or the monuments we’ve erected to it. Instead these refugees have been solely dedicated to survival and arriving somewhere safe. Anywhere would do. “The refugees that America brings, are not based on how much you love America. They don’t ask those questions.” Abdi explains,“They want to know what was your life like.” He introduced us to Layla Mohammed, a mother of two who arrived here in December of 2015. Along with her family, she fled a small Somali territory in Ethiopia to Saudi Arabia. There her husband was deported and she continued on with her children to Syria. When civil war erupted there, they fled to Turkey—and eventually here. Settling in a small apartment in Portland, Maine.
We sat at her kitchen table while her daughter Manal, grade 7, and her son Mohammed, grade 8 watched TV and played games on their phones.
Abdi translates for her when we talk. I realize later her English is clear and, when she’s comfortable, she laughs easily. She’s finishing her High School diploma so she can study midwifery. Later she told me she’s learning to drive—something she knows her kids will learn soon enough.
We talked about making Portland home.“I want [my kids] not to leave their identity, culture, religious affiliation - I want them to keep that as strong as they can. But meanwhile, I want them to assimilate. Adjust as quickly as they can. I believe that they can do that. “ Layla didn’t know she would end up here, she didn’t choose this place. She just wanted her kids to be safe. When I asked her if there was a difference between being in America and being American, she said this: “You don’t necessarily have to leave wherever you come from, whatever identity you associate with to be an American. You can be an American—you can grow up here and be like everybody else, but you can have your identity. That’s what I’m looking forward to seeing with my kids.” As for Abdi, “I think it’s way in the distance to ‘be American.”
Eventually Abdi moved out of Sharon and Doug’s home into an apartment in Portland with several men his age. There are six of them in a small place, and some of them sleep on the floor. He’s used to that and welcomed being around people who understood where he was coming from. Though it seems they don’t necessarily agree with where Abdi is going. “My friends think I am too much. We’re not supposed to attract attention. Slow down. Don’t talk about politics, don’t talk about yourself.” His Somali friends don’t speak English as well as he does. And they didn’t want to talk to me, or get their photo taken, finding it easier to live here if they stay out of the spotlight. “As long as you stay low profile you are safe—people don’t know about you. But what I do is I talk about my story as a refugee. On the radio, in newspapers. And some people don’t like that. And what that means is you always have an enemy.”
After everything they’ve been through, I can’t say I blame them. In the last year or so, things have changed for Abdi and his friends. They’ve gotten a little more challenging. I asked Abdi how he felt after the 2016 election. If things had changed. “The first time I came here I thought that it was the end of oppression and the tough life I had faced in the past and that I [was] going to a place, the most Democratic country, the most welcoming nation. And then it turned out my color, my religion, my status [as a] new immigrant…people don’t like that. As for Abdi’s friends, “They feel like they’ve been betrayed, ‘America’s not supposed to be like this.’ It’s not the American ideal,” he explains. What that ideal is, is hard to say. But the aggression refugees are facing demonstrate no one here is living the ideal. Less than a year after Abdi’s arrival, then-candidate Trump said he wanted to ‘get the Somali’s out of Maine.’ “The four things I made of—Somali, immigrant, Muslim, a person of color—was the scariest things you could think of after Trump’s election.”
Despite all this, Abdi is encouraged. “I want to make more talks now. This is the moment…It took me years to get to this country and I want to do something great.”
FAST FOOD RESTAURANTS
The visual and cultural juxtaposition between water towers and fast-food restaurants provides a striking commentary on the evolution of American urbanization and societal values. Water towers, once iconic symbols of progress, practicality, and life-sustaining infrastructure, have given way to fast-food establishments that embody a new kind of progress—one rooted in convenience, consumerism, and visual allure. This transformation speaks volumes about how priorities have shifted over time, from the provision of essential resources like fresh water to the omnipresence of ultra-processed foods and sugary beverages that now dominate the landscape.
In my photographic exploration of these two subjects, I have deliberately chosen distinct approaches to highlight the fundamental differences between what they represent and how they are perceived. The water towers are photographed in stark, utilitarian monochrome or subdued tones, emphasizing their functional, almost industrial nature. These structures, often seen as plain and even monstrous in appearance, were nonetheless vital to urban development, providing communities with fresh water for drinking, cooking, and hygiene. The photographic treatment underscores their essential yet often overlooked role in the everyday lives of Americans.
In contrast, the fast-food restaurants are captured in vibrant, colorful imagery, often during the golden hour. This deliberate choice amplifies their allure, showcasing the bold designs and glowing lights that entice passersby. The rich, saturated tones mimic the marketing strategies employed by these establishments—designed to evoke warmth, nostalgia, and appetite. The golden hour further heightens the visual appeal, casting a soft, inviting glow that masks the deeper implications of what these places represent: a cultural shift toward convenience at the expense of health and well-being. Their inviting façades and cheerful palettes stand in stark contrast to the obesity epidemic and other health crises associated with their proliferation.
This transformation isn’t only about food and infrastructure; it also reflects a profound shift in how we live and connect with others. Water towers symbolize an era when meals were cooked at home, families gathered around the dinner table, and eating was an act of both nourishment and togetherness. Fast-food restaurants, with their omnipresence and emphasis on speed and efficiency, support a more solitary lifestyle. In an age where single-person households are increasingly common, fast food often caters to individuals who live alone and lack the time, skills, or desire to cook for themselves. The ritual of shared meals has been largely replaced by the convenience of eating alone, often in cars or on the go, with little thought to the long-term consequences.
The two photographic styles—utilitarian and colorful—are a deliberate reflection of the paradox at the heart of this exploration. Water towers, though devoid of glamour, played a foundational role in sustaining life and fostering community. Fast-food restaurants, with their eye-catching designs and sensory appeal, offer fleeting gratification but contribute to a cultural landscape that can feel increasingly isolated and disconnected. By presenting these subjects through contrasting lenses, I aim to provoke a deeper contemplation of what progress has come to mean and how the symbols of our collective identity have shifted over time.
This series is not merely a visual comparison but an invitation to reflect on the choices we make as a society. It asks viewers to consider what we’ve gained and what we’ve lost in this evolution—from the straightforward utility of the water towers to the complex, multi-layered implications of fast food culture. Through this interplay of imagery and symbolism, the series seeks to challenge our perceptions of progress, community, and the values we attach to the spaces we inhabit.
