BackLog ghosts from brooklyn

 Remembering New York in august.

“If I close my eyes right now, I thought, I will feel as if I were there again..” . Recently, I had a strong sense of actually being somewhere else, whilst sitting on the tube, reading, in my own world. But then.. out of the blue, comes a combination of things; senses – and together, they bring me back, for a slice of time, to Bedford Avenue, Brooklyn. I felt it, smelt it and thought it. All of this, suddenly, as the doors opened at Westbourne Park.

Then, just as quickly as it came, it disappeared. Perhaps there was a ghost on the platform at Westbourne Park, waiting to take a peep and stick itself to me, knowing I was a magnet..? What made me feel this there and then? I had other things in my head, between the lines of the book of course. I was reading ‘Raptures on the Architectural Grid/Houses and other Models of Inhabiting the ‘In-between’’ (Candice Hopkins) and getting quite deep into this.

So, hello, New York, hello fabulous memories and welcome! I started taking notes from the experience as again I felt an urgency to document this feeling, this belonging and total [virtual?] existence in another place (perhaps an in-between space in itself, perhaps I was unconsciously connecting, rewinding and controlling…a desirable thought and belonging?).

I felt like that woman who has a lot to do, in a black and white film, where someone comes to her door, rings the bell, gets let in and the woman puts away her duties and becomes the hostess. This guest, however insignificant, comes over as very important, an impulsive and unexpected event in the middle of the daily routine. She changes, automatically. She enjoys the company. I enjoy my memories of the chair I sat in. The food I had, but more so, the view and the people I observed and recorded. Recorded their route and their behaviour, analysing their place in this space. What took them here and where were they heading? The girl with the staged hair and outfit over there at the bus stop. She looked over and then over her shoulder. That moment plays in slow motion in my memory. So does the woman who comes out of the thrift store with the small dog, so small for a woman who walks so fast. Poor dog, tagging along, exhausted. Where are they rushing?

As I sat there, and indeed, as I sit on the tube, I felt like a hovering journalist, taking notes, writing, drawing, observing. Almost in need of tools to document the moment and the part I play in the story. Old notes and photos bring it all back. But some moments are somehow more important than others. That was one of those.