Earlier this year, I bought another old, lifeless building in Colonial Heights — the kind of place that makes most people turn the other way. The roof sagged, the walls were tired, and every square inch whispered a story of decay and neglect. But to me, it felt familiar.
This is not the first time I’ve taken on a forgotten property and tried to breathe new life into it. I’ve learned that restoring old spaces is a lot like rebuilding yourself — slow, uncertain, and often full of surprises.
This one, though, feels different.
This one feels personal.
You might say this place was in the grave when I found it. Boxes of ceramic teeth and dental molds were stacked inside — relics from a failed dental office that never quite came to life. The previous owners planned to bulldoze it and start over. Instead, I decided to bring it back.
This, I realized, wasn’t just a renovation. It was resurrection.
I call it The Frankenstein Project — part restoration, part experiment, and part reflection of my own life stitched back together after a long season of unraveling.
From the Grave to the Studio
When I first stepped inside, there were no lights, no working plumbing, no insulation worth saving — just brick, concrete, wood, and bone. I stripped it all down: ceiling heat, air units, old wires, everything. What’s left now is the skeleton of something that might have been — and something that’s about to become.
Over the past 11 months, I’ve poured nearly every spare thought (and dollar) into rebuilding it. Piece by piece, the structure has begun to take shape: a European-inspired media studio with a grand piano waiting in the main room, a podcast corner, video walls, and digital workspaces wired with the latest tech.
It’s becoming both my business and my home — 201 Studio, the new headquarters for Volume Interactive — and the creative laboratory where I’ll spend the next chapter of my life.
A History in Shadows
This building has lived more lives than I can count. Built around 1950, I’ve heard rumors it once served as an early office for Vulcan Materials — which would explain the gravel-heavy lot and bunker-like construction. Others say it became The Yard Shop in the 1970s.
Rhonda stopped by during construction one day and said, “Oh yeah, this used to be my Yard Shop.” Another visitor swore it was once a bike store or a kayak shop. When I tore off an old piece of siding, a faded sign underneath read Data Systems.
I’ve come to realize that this property, like me, has lived through multiple versions of itself — never quite finished, never quite done.
Reanimation
Maybe that’s what draws me to it: the imperfection, the mystery, the chance to breathe life into something that was nearly gone. Like Mary Shelley’s monster, this place is being rebuilt from fragments of the past — stronger, stranger, and more alive than before.
As I near completion, I can feel the pulse returning. The lights hum again. Music echoes off the new floors. It’s not just a studio — it’s a statement.
And yet, I still wonder: what was this place before I found it? Who built it, and what stories were written inside these walls long before I started tearing them down?
If you’re a Colonial Heights historian or just someone who remembers this corner of road before I did, I’d love to hear your stories.
This isn’t just a renovation — it’s resurrection. And every good resurrection needs a memory.
To be continued…
