Old water towers—especially rooftop ones—have become such a tired, cliched symbol of urban life that I’m almost embarrassed to publish these images. Almost.
By now, most U.S. cities have been scrubbed clean of any real grit, thoroughly gutted by cookie-cutter development companies, though their marketing teams often push to keep a few post-industrial vestiges as a simulacrum of character and a unique selling point—they’re anything but unique, of course.
If there aren’t some old machine gears lying around to refashion into abstract sculpture, preserving a relic water tower is a great way to convince clueless college grads from the burbs that their overpriced loft with quartz countertops and stainless-steel appliances is the epicenter of the new Williamsburg.
In vacuous cities with no tangible identity (see also: Atlanta), a developer can easily build their latest stack of plywood boxes around an old water tower and be praised by sycophantic members of the local press for historic preservation and “placemaking.”
Hordes of clueless transplants snap pics of the preserved tower to feel some sort of connection to the city—no matter how tenuous—and to lazily flaunt their cosmopolitan lifestyles on social media.
Meanwhile, their friends and relatives back in Bumfuck just roll their eyes—like rusty old water towers don’t exist in every possum hollow.
But screw all that. I just like the way old water towers look against a vibrant sky. Deal with it.
