Took a few pictures down at Upfest on Sunday (Europe’s biggest street art festival). It’s generally quieter than the Saturday, which I prefer because it means more opportunities for less crowded shots.
I’m not a huge street art fan necessarily, but I always pay a visit to this event, as the artwork seems to help create lively and interesting photos. That goes for graffiti, in general, and it’s something I often try to incorporate when I’m out taking pictures.
In March, I headed down to Putsborough in North Devon for a short holiday. On the way there, we took a wrong turn and ended up driving through Braunton Marsh, an area of ancient farmland close to the sea.
I was immediately struck by the tranquility of the area, particularly at sundown. There was hardly another soul around and the long empty roads and bleak landscape felt like we had stepped out of the world for a while.
Click here for a soundtrack or feel free to view without.
I was recently given a series of books on photography published by Time-Life in the 1970’s. They feature work from some pioneering photographers who were pushing the boundaries of their practice at the time. One of them was Ernst Haas.
As soon as I came across his pictures I felt I had found a photographer with whom I shared similar eye. Shadows, shapes and reflections all feature heavily in his work and his desire to ‘create’ rather than ‘take’ a picture is a notion I can really relate to. In an interview he stated that photography “grew out of the compromise of a boy who desired to combine two goals—explorer or painter.” This certainly shows in the images that he created.
When you find familiarity in another’s work, it can be greatly reassuring to know that there is another who shared your artistic point of view. Without this reference, it’s easy to doubt if what you’re trying to capture is relevant or interesting. While everyone else seems to be following a particular trend or theme, you can start to wonder if perhaps you’re missing the point.
He took photos of many subjects over his career, but its his work on New York that really stands out for me. I’ve been steadily building a collection of my own abstract images centered on the urban landscape over the years. I’m hoping to put together a series one day although I’m not sure yet what format it would take. For now, here’s one that I took on a recent visit to Newcastle that I feel reflects my interest in his work.
I recently came across an interviewwithKen Schlesabout his photographic projects, Invisible Cities and Night Walk, in which he gives a visceral and eye-opening account of reality in downtown New York in the late 70’s and 80’s.
Well worth a read for photographers, urbanists and city-inspired artists.
I was used to seeing abandoned buildings around London; every borough seemed to have them. But most were tantalisingly out of reach, separated from the street by security fencing adorned with threats of CCTV and round-the-clock security. So I was both thrilled and taken aback when I saw no such barrier to the blocks of boarded up social housing that sprawled across a corner of New Cross in south-east London.
I had only been living in the area a few days when my housemate mentioned the place, adding that she liked the way the sun glinted off the sheet metal that covered the windows and doors of the flats. It was an image that lodged itself in my imagination and sparked off a month-long obsession with the grisly estate and its ultimate demise.
My first visit was on my way home from work. Autumn was in full swing and a bite in the air accentuated the savage decay that I saw around me. Beside the entrance to the first building, bins were overflowing with clothes and shoes and other possessions. Rotting mattresses were laid out on the grass and rubbish was strewn across a concrete courtyard as if the tenants had suddenly become disgusted with their belongings as well as their dwellings and made a hasty exit.
I walked gingerly up a flight of steps and into an entrance hall. It was dark. Power lines had been ripped out of a wall casing. From here, corridors led off to various landings where rows of sealed up flats stretched out. As I passed down them I could see that a number of attempts had been made to gain access. The metal screens were torn open to different degrees, some easily high enough for a body to pass under. I peered inside a few to find indiscriminate mounds of rubbish and furniture piled up with no indication of what might be the remains of previous occupants or the personal articles of new ones.
I made several return visits after that, sometimes scouring the outside of the buildings to examine former back gardens that had turned into overgrown refuse grounds. A number of metal screens were ripped open here too as though some crazed animal had finally broken free of its compound. One in particular had been entirely removed and a curtain covering the open doorway rippled eerily in the breeze. A shattered pane of glass bordered the porch and mounds of discarded clothing covered the vegetation outside.
Only once did I come into contact with anyone living on the estate. I was passing by the entrance to a flat when I heard voices from inside and to my horror, a figure began to crawl out from beneath a gnarled screen. I was met by a hooded and hatted man of Eastern European origin who seemed less interested in my presence than I was in his, except to discover that I was English and that I had somewhere to live. For him, this was home along with two other men who followed him out. At one point, one of them cut his hand on some glass and politely asked me if I had a tissue. I hadn’t and we carried on talking as we walked down to the street at which point I went on my way, not wanting to tempt fate with another, less congenial encounter.
Soon, the buildings started coming down. I made it a near daily ritual to wander past the destruction and see what shapes the diggers had moulded out of the crusts of concrete that were still standing. Obviously, there was no hope of exploring these any more, but other blocks still remained open and I continued to look around them as often as I could. Aside from all the grit and atmosphere, what fascinated me was how seamlessly I could pass from a civilised, active and ‘normal’ part of the neighbourhood into a feral, seemingly lawless zone of chaos and detritus simply by crossing the street. Was anyone concerned? Did anyone even notice? The only other people I came across who showed any interest were a team of Council officers who appeared one day while I was taking pictures of a reflection in a large puddle.
“You’re not from South London, are you?” one of them asked. “Yeah, I live just round the corner.” Then, seeing his bemusement, I added. “I like this kind of thing.” “Whatever floats your boat,” he replied.
I made only a couple more visits after that. By now, one block remained, while the rest of the site had been reduced to a sea of dirt and rubble. A police dog unit had shown up, presumably to deter anyone looking for some short-term accommodation. However, there was still a side entrance accessible from the main road and I ventured in to take one last look around. As I turned a corner, a view opened out from a balcony overlooking the rubble where two giant dogs resembling a cross between a Rottweiler and a Great Dane, prowled the space. Before I knew it, one of them had spotted me and, with a growl, he came lumbering over. I would liked to have had the intestinal grit to point my camera over the edge and take a snap of what might have been a frightening yet memorable picture, but the thought of unleashing the fury of these two monsters not to mention attracting the attention of the police officer meant I hurried back to the safety of the high street instead.
My other visit was just before they erected barriers around the block prior to its demolition. While I was there, I caught sight of a solitary woman watching me from a corner window, the last of a tribe presumably about to leave her dwindling habitat. I gave her an awkward smile before turning my camera to the jagged facade in front of me and attempting to capture it as best I could in the fading light.
I feel like a proper adventurer as I emerge from the scrub following my conquest of the tunnel.
The sun breaks out again and I hot-wheel it down the pavement, the bridge flickering through the trees above. The end of the gorge is in sight now, rock giving way to Hotwells and the unsightly tangle of the Cumberland Basin octopus junction.
But its not over yet. This place still has a few surprises and the next one is perhaps the most surprising of them all. Set into the cliffs like a lost temple to transport is Clifton Rocks Railway, a Victorian construction that once saw a funicular train carry people up inside the rock to the top of gorge. The last I heard, there were attempts to get it running again, but as I cross the road for a closer look, there are no signs that this is the case. In fact, there’s not really much to look at apart from the bath-stone carved exterior and a gate, through which a glimpse of a tunnel is shortly consumed by darkness.
In case you’re wondering why so much effort went into ferrying people from bottom to top and back again, an answer lies in the adjacent buildings of the Colonnade and Pump Room, part of the Hotwell Spa that once existed here. They are a grand set of buildings, and at one time would have attracted a very grand class of clientele who came to benefit from the water’s health-giving properties. But much like the railway, they are largely ignored these days, except by the occasional rambling tourist or some commuters who happen to get stuck alongside during a traffic jam.
Opposite, is an old landing pier for steam boats that once graced the river and dropped off out-of-towners to the spa. It’s now rotting away in spectacular fashion, with great bows of wood bending or broken and gradually sinking in the merciless mud. It runs for 50 metres or so until a newer, concrete version replaces it, before the Brunel locks open out and the New Cut begins.
Looking across from 200ft up are the houses on The Paragon, majestically clinging to the very ends of the gorge. Then the rest of the neighbourhood sweeps down into Lower Clifton and beyond. I turn off here and negotiate the obstacle course-of-a-cycle route that cuts across a bridge and two locks, seeking out that waterside pint.
Since I can remember, the garage has always been full of junk. My dad, who was its main inhabitant, was somewhat of a hoarder when it came to things that may or may not be useful and over time, content grew steadily. In his later years, however, my dad became less interested in the usefulness of things and more concerned with an object’s artistic merit (a highly subjective matter) and was partial to using various odds and ends in some of his more abstract photographic work.
About this time, he also started opening up the garage to people who were following the North Bristol Art Trail as our house was a venue for a number of years. Things were (vaguely) arranged into displays, wording was added and a few of my dad’s photographs were slipped into the gaps.
It only featured for a couple of years, though, due to his reluctance to maintain his membership of the organisation and increasing ill-health.
After a brief fling with notoriety, the garage went back to being what it always was, a smokers den for my dad and a few friends. Lastly, it served as a welcome change of scene from the living room sofa where he lived out the remainder of his days.
While there are many things I could say about the recent loss of my father, I decided to let pictures do the talking. So here is my ode to the garage, a place that speaks volumes about his character and personality and made for a fascinating photo project too.