Exploring the Ampoule

Tiny bottles have always been an interest of mine.

If one considers a certain charm about versions of an object in a minute size, plus an idea (whether implied or factual) that a small quantity of a liquid is either precious in its rarity, of great potency, or both, then the appeal of small vessels is easily understood. A further asset is how easily small bottles are concealed and carried, be it for thrills, for fair purposes or foul!

In my youth it was perfume bottles, one of which whose cheap Disney-brand contents earned the nickname "Stinkerbell" after they soured into alcohol. I've since traded these mostly for the "serious" potions of mature adulthood, such as herbal tinctures, essential oils and hybrid magickal blends, but the interest is still at large.

So when I found a weird, fragile glass vial of exquisite size and beguiling light blue color in my workplace's trash can, I thought, "Well, now, who are you?"

This vial clearly had once been sealed, and now had a narrow broken top no wider than a pencil tip. Since I work around broken glass all night, I instantly saw the potential danger of the razor-thin tip, and wrapped the vial in paper towels to take home. Our society makes so much trash, and I'm a hopeless scrounger; Surely, I thought, these must be good for something.

I found that my little prize is called an ampoule, made by a company called Hach for "testing for the presence of ozone by the indigo method" in work zones and products. This includes for the beverage industry, in which I most certainly work at the moment: I watch thousands of vitreous amber vessels go by on a conveyor belt on any given night, to be filled with everyone's favourite Hefe beer.

But these ampoules are being used by our keg department. They're like tiny test kits, replacing a bunch of test tubes and such, and, most importantly, saving time. Instead of dicking about with a shelf full of lab equipment, it's "pop goes the ampoule" and you're finished.

How does it work? When broken, the liquid inside the ampoule is exposed to air and chemicals, and changes color. It's basically a capsule full of an indicator solution. I found my ampoules contain malic acid. This led me to an Internet surf-search, from malic acid to phenolpthalein and other indicators, to simple experiments and lab setups one can do at home, and more. Every potions enthusiast could use a good chemistry primer; I may end up combining the two in the near future, after all.

Ampoules are ancient. The word refers mainly to a vial, typically glass, that is actually sealed off, not merely stoppered.

Any liquid that needs to be kept protected from air and contaminants, inside of what's called a hermetic seal, begets the use of an ampoule. Historically, this meant medicines or preserved samples, but another common use was surprising: Blood, especially the sacred blood of martyrs or saints, was carefully sealed in small glass vessels.

Ancient catacomb ampoules

Early Christians placed a deceased martyr's blood in vials to keep as objects of devotion, but also entombed their bodies along with the vials in the catacombs of Rome, since the preserved blood was thought to aid the martyr's resurrection.

Portrait of martyr with relicquary vial

The practice of keeping part of a saint's body as a holy relic is common, and some of these take the form of blood ampoules.

The most famous of these is perhaps the one holding the blood of San Gennaro, or Saint Januarius, Bishop of Benevento, which is kept in the Cathedral of Naples. From the photo, the relicquary actually contains two capsules of reasonable size.

Relicquary of Saint Januarius

Every year on September 19th, the ampoule, thought to be made in the year 305, is brought forth in a holy procession and placed on an altar . . . and the dried stuff within magically liquifies, accompanied by much prayer and shouting.

This particular miracle I learned also happens on December 16th and the Saturday before the first Sunday in May, and has happened since 1389. If the blood fails to liquify, Januarius is trying to tell us that some seriously bad shit is at risk of going down, or so they say. (Dormi A Napoli reports 22 epidemics, 11 revolutions, the death of 14 archbiships and nine popes in that month span, 19 earthquakes, and critical events of evil during WWII, including its outbreak. This is no ampoule to hold lightly!) So, what happened on December 16th of 2016? Bluntly put, if the notion of Trump in office makes Januarius's blood stiffen, well, I don't bloody blame him.
 Awright, everybody: one, two, three . . . pray!

A funny twist on the Januarius idea came into my own life, when I found at Shadowhouse (now defunct) a bottle of some unidentified, clotted red potion, its upper half dried and solid, but with a liquid underlayer. Goodness knew what-all it contained (paint? blood? powdered mica? acetone? All the above?), but I felt drawn to it. I bought the bottle for cheap, stuffed it in my pocket . . . and the darned stuff liquified on the ride home. It resolidified later. Of course, I do have a sort of saint . . . and, obtaining his blood is impossible. Simulacrums, or representative imitations, are common where a person or faith community needs a link to focus on for prayer, healing, spirit journeys or other High Magick (though Christians may not call it that). Mine sits on my altar in pride-of-place, is programmed to act magickally like the real thing, and thus it has become an unofficial simulacrum.

Holy Ampulla being delivered by God

Another sacred ampoule is the Holy Ampulla, which contains an oil used during the coronation of French monarchs. It is said to have been discovered in the sarcophagus of St. Remi, holding a liquid that supposedly brought "fame, wealth and great honours" to those annointed with it. Legend holds it was first used to annoint Louis VII in 1131, and has been passed down since that time.

Ampoules have improved greatly since the era of early blown glass and plugged ceramics, but many of their uses remain similar to those of old. They quickly infiltrated the medical field, where you need lots of small, (preferably!) sterile doses. Before we knew better, chloroform was administered to patients as anesthetic via small capsules inside facial masks.

Ampoules took a great leap in the 1890s when a French pharmacist, Stanislaus Limousin, invented the first true hermetically-sealed, or airtight, glass ampoules for storing sterile pharmaceutical solutions.

Besides test kits, modern ampoules still tend to hold pharmaceuticals, especially the type for injection. (Ew.) Not all are tiny, but most are. There's now a trend for one-shot doses of cosmetic products, in which a sealed ampoule reduces the need for preservatives. (People . . . don't rely just on miracle creams, eat your veggies and drink water.)

Ampoules are also wonderfully convenient for sending samples to clients. Other types hold radioactive materials, or radio-frequency data used for tracking, in the case of domestic or wild animals.

1.4kg Caesium ampoule

Finally, what about glowsticks? People take this uber-common item for granted, but there's a tiny ampoule in each one. When you're ready, bust it, mix the chemicals and, voila! Light.

 Truly, a miracle. (I had quite a time of it when making a light potion years ago, breaking the vacuum-packed ampoule without buggering my whole experiment.)

Snap-ready glass ampoules, obviously, rely on a human agent. But what if you need a delayed action, for when you can't be on the scene? In some cases I can see adding a bioplastic or gelatin "ampoule" to a larger amount of a substance, where it then dissolves over time, infiltrating the batch. Say, a pot of stew, or municipal water supply. Bring on the Formula 86!!!!! (Don't worry, folks, just brainstorming here. I am a Slytherin.)

But what to do with these cute little things, the spent ampoules I'd gotten from work? Early on, my mind hit on the idea that these, immersed in water or another fluid, would look mysterious and lovely. But could I get them to actually perform a deed? It needn't be miracle blood, but isn't there an instrument like that, with floating glass bubbles?
 Ah, yes: The Galileo thermometer.

So, I can feasibly make a Galilean thermometer. Perhaps with ethanol or ammonia, some fluid more responsive to thermal expansion and contraction than water; I know for a fact that market Galilean thermometers do not use water as the suspending fluid.

Of course, my mind hasn't lost the freedom it had before it got redirected to the real possibility of thermometers: Early ideas included barometers and, likely thanks to my reading up on the Antikythera mechanism, some device that can sense planetary movements. It's where science bleeds into metascience. Mark the ampoules with symbols, maybe attach a planetary metal to each, dick around a bit and see if it works. Probably not, but why not? Even if it fails to work, it's a worthy attempt and it'll look cool. With the tops being broken, I can add coloured dyes to each one. Saturn gets the black one, of course.

The good news is, I've steadily collected about two dozen of these poor little ampoules that would otherwise be in a landfill. The blue dye fades as a reaction continues, but that's no matter. There's enough for a thermometer, a planetometer-whatever, and more. If I don't watch it, my room will degenerate into a mystical and intellectual playground of experiments and devices until it looks like Dumbledore's instrument-infested office, a la ampoules.

Taking things further, I'd like to try making my own ampoules from glass tubing, with a small torch; I learned a bit of chemical glasswork, briefly, from a friend who studied biology. Glass tubing comes in all sorts of fun: purple, yellow, milky white, uranium green. . . . Just one more project, for a day when I'm not sleeping, writing, or watching bottles race by.

One thing you learn with potions: Good things and bad things come in small doses. While my portable potistry arsenal seems to be shaping up mostly in terms of lidded glass vials and corked test tubes, I just know there's a place for ampoules in there somewhere.

The Horror Labs of Anderlecht

Note: Reader discretion advised. May disturb some audiences. (I'd be worried if it didn't.)

"Potions lessons took place down in one of the dungeons. It was colder here than up in the main castle, and would have been quite creepy enough without the pickled animals floating in glass jars all around the walls. . ."

When urban explorers first probed the depths of the neglected building, more than the reek of chemicals upon the air would have made their breath catch in their throats.

Dusty, vacant corridors led our persistent agents to room after room, each full of more disturbing stuff than the last, until they found themselves in the basement: The dungeon laboratory and storeroom of this forgotten place. It was a scene of almost deranged sentiments, to the point of outright horror.

There were ancient, hand-blown bottles of questionable fluids. Syringes and other rusty medical equipment of unknown vintage, scattered on blood-spattered trays. Pages of notes, fading in the light of spiderweb-hung windows.

But worst of all were the various animal heads, intestines, brains, and other assorted parts stuffed into jars throughout the basement of the building, in what surely was one of the creepiest labs ever to grace the earth. The stereotypes and fears that grow out of mad science most certainly loomed large over all who entered.

"It's like being in some crazed professor's laboratory, containing all manner of grotesque animal organs and body parts," reported one urban explorer, a Brit known online only by the pseudonym Chaos. His name is fitting in this instance, yet even it paled in comparison to his findings here. "At any moment you half expect the professor to come bursting through the door to punish you for invading his laboratory."

Such were the Anderlecht Horror Labs, more properly known as The Veterinary School of Anderlecht, in Brussels, Belgium. Chaos and other self-declared expert building-probers crept inside, braving horrific artifacts, toxic residues, and dangerously heavy formaldehyde fumes to capture these last glimpses of the gruesome, decaying evidence of endeavour in physiological veterinary science.

In the so-dubbed Jar Room --- we could also call it The Stash --- we might find the closest real-world match to Snape's fabled dungeon of doom; and since Snape strikes me as a sort of strict, tidy person, Anderlecht would likely surpass his haunt in terms of chaos and random creepiness.

Shelves in here were lined with jar upon jar of animals, or at least parts of them. Some parts were recognizable: a brain here, a colon there; a rotting dog's head, sans nose, a bear's brain, and a sheep's lung; piglets stared through one glass vessel, while a kitten pined in another. Snouts, muzzles and jaws loomed out of rancid soups fermenting in tanks and beakers open to the air.

Other parts were undefinable, merely mysterious and grotesque; particularly when different creatures’ remains were made bedfellows in death: Some were jammed into larger jars, species combined, while others were actually sewn together --- a calf's head connected to a cat's leg, in one instance --- and anyone save for sicko seekers like me would absolutely not want to know why. Chemicals, spilled or leaking from vessels, crusted some of the shelves, along with mold.

I think a lot of us wonder, from time to time, how many places like this actually exist; and of them, how many are actively used and monitored. Urban explorers dare to venture right past "No Trespassing" signs, at times practically heedless of life and limb for the sake of discovery. A few people were spotted, and told off by local authorities, for poking about this location.

And that's without the overall vibe of the place: Here at Anderlecht, you could easily and justifiably worry that a deranged scientist might leap out of the darkness of the basement to punish you for invading his secret laboratory. The punishment? Best not to speculate.
“This," as Chaos said, "really is bad dream material."

Despite its sinister appearance, the lab existed for a positive reason --- to improve medical treatments for animals.
"Strange as this place seems, it once served a crucial purpose, a school dedicated for the training of veterinary surgeons," Chaos said.

The center for experimental animal science was abandoned in 1990 when the institute moved into a new location. Administrators clearly decided that much of the original contents, including the stash of specimens in the basement, would be more trouble to move than their worth.

After all, with the school opening in 1969 and operating in this location for three decades, it's quite possible that some of the specimens were as much as 40 years old. After years of neglect, the formaldehyde that preserved these parts of anatomy was yellowed with age, even partially evaporated, leaving the specimens themselves to slowly disintegrate in grim stages. Garish hues of various organs mingled with a patina of decay, producing a dismal palette reminiscent of a Gothic novel.

The Anderlecht site comprises 19 Flemish neo-Renaissance style buildings, constructed in the early 20th Century, which were later incorporated into the university of Liege in 1969. In 1990, the buildings became derelict and were listed.

Thankfully the structures were slated for restoration. The building of interest here, in which the veterinary school was located from the late ‘60s to the early ‘90s, was inaugurated in 1910; its handsome Flemish Neo-Renaissance style roofs and stonework façades were given protected legal status.

Whether happily or not (depending on one's view), these buildings, like so many other historical architectures, were destined to be transformed into luxury apartments. One by one, they were converted into executive homes, until only the final building remained undeveloped, hiding deep within its bowels the grisly secret of the laboratory.

Unfortunately, I missed my chance to test my mettle with a personal viewing of this unusual, if unsettling, gem of an offbeat tourist location. In 2014, the final holdout of Anderlecht's past --- the surgical school building with its mysterious lab --- was swept clear and rennovated into apartments.

One can only imagine that heavy gloves, even body suits, and gas masks were the order of the day for those who got the unfortunate job of hauling out and detoxifying the Horror Labs! Should the work be done poorly, future clients may find their noses plagued by the sickly sweet, tickling odour of formaldehyde oozing from the walls.

Now, only pictures and memories remain as monuments to the sublime and exquisitely chilling aura of this infamous house of science.

Where once students and professors left behind flasks to gather dust forelornly on windowsills, the rooms will again be bustling with activity, and those who look out from their new home on a fresh landscape may have no true reference for the greatness and horror that was Anderlecht.

And just look who we caught skulking down there, before his innate power drew close enough to disable our electronic camera, set up to tally intruders!

Perhaps having heard of the abandoned lab's imminent demise and making a cursory search for any viable spoils, Snape seems to cast a scornful eye over the jumbled ranks of pitiful specimens left to rot in their sorry methods of preservation. Spoils is about all he'd have found here.
"A bit of fox fur and some vitriol," he was heard to remark a short while later, "very little else remotely viable. . . . These damned Muggles commit crimes against perfectly good resources in their complete ineptitude."

Thanks to the many who contributed these amazing photos, webwise (some are marked as such), for the benefit of this not-for-profit blog and for those of us unable to travel at the critical time to witness this and other places.