Brooklyn Navy Yard's sanatorium hosts anti-war art designation by Bettina WitteVeen

War is hell.

For a initial time, a Brooklyn Navy Yard is opening a mysterious, ebbing pre-Civil War sanatorium to an artist.

“When We Were Soldiers … once and young” is German-born unpractical artist and amicable romantic Bettina WitteVeen’s site-specific designation of harmful fight photos she found in ancestral repository and sculptures made like crosses. There is also an tabernacle room with Bach personification on a sound system.

“We need to know fight in sequence to annul it,” she told reporters during a Thursday preview of a touching muster — that affords Brooklynites a singular event to go inside a overwhelming shuttered sanatorium building.

“I wish to uncover a long-term pang fight causes,” WitteVeen said. “We are not hard-wired for war.”

Douglas Steiner during Bettina WitteVeen's art designation in a Navy Yard's hospital.

The Navy Yard's ancestral sanatorium is stately yet decaying.

The sanatorium is a usually partial of a Naval Annex that will be open to visitors for a exhibit; a rest is fenced off.

WitteVeen, who grew adult in Mannheim, Germany, lives in a West Village.

The art installation’s name echoes a pretension of best-selling book “We Were Soldiers Once … and Young” by late Lt. General Harold G. Moore and Joseph L. Galloway about a Battle of Ia Drang during a Vietnam War.

Vines are creeping on a columns by a hospital's front door.

 Let There Be Light — during a hospital's front door.

In a calm of an aged sanatorium room, photos pronounce of war's anguish.

She told reporters she chose a pretension for her muster since of a “aspects of loss” pragmatic in it.

A print of famed Brooklyn producer Walt Whitman is enclosed in a exhibition, subsequent to a print of a Civil War terrain of Antietam.

“Walt Whitman is my favorite poet,” WitteVeen told the Brooklyn Eagle. Whitman was a editor of the Eagle before a Civil War.

To devalue a piquancy of a print above a grate depicting a bleeding soldier, a lady beside him is pregnant, Bettina WitteVeen says.

War is hell.

This cranky stands in an tabernacle room.

WitteVeen explained a bit of her artistic routine to the Eagle. She found photographs of soldiers, refugees and fight victims in ancestral archives, took cinema of a photos and reprinted them from negatives. Then she retouched a photos for “a very, really prolonged time to take out all a visible noise,” she said.

The exhibition, that is giveaway of charge, opens on Saturday and runs by Oct. 24.

See to make reservations, that are compulsory to benefit opening to a hospital.

Chairs mount like wordless sentinels in a tabernacle room.

One can suppose ghosts in this long, prolonged hallway.

It was America’s initial Naval hospital, assembled of Tuckahoe marble in 1838. The building is partial of a famed former shipyard’s Naval Annex in waterfront Wallabout, a cluster of 9 ancestral buildings that’s going to be renovated and incited into Steiner Studios Media Campus.

The ancestral sanatorium was used to provide soldiers from a Civil War by World War II.

“If a walls could talk, this is what they’d say,” Douglas Steiner, vocalization of a art installation, told the Eagle. “The summary is profoundly good.”

The sanatorium had to be stabilized and spotless up, and disabled opening had to be added, to get it into good figure for visitors, Steiner said.

Some of a first-floor bedrooms in that a designation is commissioned were studious diagnosis rooms, WitteVeen said.

This sanatorium was a place of pang — and recovering — in centuries left by.

 The spoil adds to a atmosphere.

This staircase is behind potion since it's too frail to used.

There are fireplaces in a rooms, and high windows to let in light pale by shade from soaring trees. The white walls are a small crumbly. The opening to a pleasing staircase that’s too frail to be used has been glassed-in so visitors can see it yet not enter.  

In a long, prolonged hallway, one can suppose a ghosts of nurses treading gently on nightly rounds.

The sanatorium groundwork has also been non-stop for a art installation. One of a many heart-wrenching of a photos hangs in an subterraneous room — of a soldier’s remains held in a barbed-wire fence.

Nevertheless, WitteVeen reminded reporters that yet there will be scars, a wounds of fight can heal.

“I’m an optimist,” she said. “Otherwise we wouldn’t do this stuff.”

Another pleasing staircase.

When one doorway closes, another doorway opens.

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