Book of Abandonment – Artist & Author Joakim Lloyd Raboff

I realized the other day that I needed to add another project to my ever-growing list of book ideas – a book about abandoned places. I’ve been fascinated by these forsaken sites for a long time. Like many artists, I’ve been drawn to the haunting beauty of spaces that, for mostly unknowable reasons, have been deserted and left to decay.

I’m intrigued by the interplay of time and neglect that transforms these places, once alive with human activity, into poignant, gritty reminders of life’s impermanence. When the idea struck, I began to envision what such a book might look like – the themes it might explore, what stories it might tell, and, of course, what images I would want to include. Turns out that my archive was brimming with photographs of abandoned places captured during travels to the US, Asia, Africa, and Europe. Take, for instance, the image above from the outskirts of Lisbon, Portugal – a desolate structure slowly succumbing to the elements.

But why am I so entranced by these places?

Is it simply the adrenaline rush that comes with venturing into places others avoid – often at the edge of legality and potentially unsafe? There’s certainly a thrill to it: the creak of a collapsing floorboard, the way shadows play tricks in the corners of my vision, the sharp awareness of vulnerability. That rush is undeniable, but I suspect my fascination goes deeper. Perhaps it’s the soulfulness of these places that pulls me in. Abandoned spaces seem to possess an unguarded honesty, stripped of the polish and pretense of their former purpose. Yet, there is quite possibly another layer to my fascination, one I hesitate to fully confront. Could my interest in these forgotten places be tied to my own childhood experiences?

Growing up, I knew too well of abandonment and the scars it left me to deal with as an adult. The feeling of being overlooked, left behind, or not fully belonging is something I’ve carried with me since early childhood. When I step into an abandoned building, I can’t help but see a reflection of that same feeling: a place left behind, its purpose deemed obsolete, yet still standing. In some ways, photographing these spaces feels like an act of acknowledgment – of witnessing something that might otherwise go unseen. It’s as if, through my lens, I’m saying, I see you. You’re still here. You still matter. Perhaps in giving attention to these forgotten places, I’m also giving a part of myself the same recognition.

So, it appears that this book will be more than just a collection of images – it will also be a journey into the emotional terrain of abandonment.

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