BackLog StA

SaintA

Today I am recollecting ideas and memories (again) from a time that seemed to stand still. In fact, this time too, time stands still.

Early morning, cool late summer breeze in the air. I could smell the seagulls and the sand circling just above the surface of the beach; in between the pebbles and rocks, quietly, in a playful manner as if dancing, just for me. I seemed to walk slowly, in a haze but, as I often do, in this mood and mode, that seems to determine where and what is about to happen. It’s a great state to be in, as I feel totally distracted yet disconnected from my own motions.

My old black wellies, the ones with the heel, kept my feet dry and interesting. Perhaps the whole thing had to do with the boots? Well, I am no longer too concerned as long as this mode and mood and motion keeps coming back to take me with it.

Everyone else, the few people who had, like me, gotten up at this early hour, did not seem part of the same ‘play’ as I was in. Somehow, like layers of tracing paper, or digital document layers, I was in one and they were in another (or several layers of their own, perhaps – now that is even more interesting! Have to explore that one, visually. –“ Where’s my pen…..” ). Ok returning..

The sea was all over the place, hitting and crushing as it stormed towards me and then teasingly retreating. And again, and again… I walked further and further out, to meet it, to feel the water brush lightly against my face and body. Mostly, of course, I enjoyed the risk of this, I could not trust the waves, so I played along and walked closer and back again, trying to determine the pace that the sea had programmed itself for that day.

Standing there, I felt free. It is a cliché, but oh how wonderfully clichéd it is, that feeling. Or is it always the same? That day my ‘suitcase’ was packed differently, and yes, I packed it myself. But often, I have been standing there, walked on the beach with a different story in my bag. So depending on the history prior to that day, my mood, my energy and what lies beyond all that I can control, the waves speak to me in different ways, in different languages. Just like the sea, I speak and act according to similar rules. I may not be aware of the rules, until, now, much later.

It all started to make sense when I looked at the photographs. I remembered and felt. The same, or similar. Can you ever feel the same?

This is added later.. as I found these still images of a beach performance I did in the same place a year later..

Performance '5 minutes at 5am'
St Agnes beach, Cornwall

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.

BackLog memories from travel to alien places

my friend, I hope you found food again

places of untold stories

derelict beauty

grey spring metropolis

19/4/2007
Memories from Moscow (draft script accompanying short film, not shown here)

Coming back from Moscow, I felt really quite exhausted but inspired – and not so negative as I had been before I left. I think I need to be busy to feel good.

Anyway. Moscow was great. I enjoyed the whole trip, from beginning to end. It was great travelling alone; I always enjoy the buzz it gives me. No strings attached. The flight was good; 4 hrs, so a bit long, but I had all reading and research to do so this was a good opportunity I couldn’t ‘escape’. I did that, slept a bit and woke up in a very cold Moscow. Well, it was only –10°C or so but seemed such a difference to London, where a heat wave was going on when I left.

I took a yellow cab from the airport with a very nice man who played music for me - and after a 40-minute journey, listening to Russian music and filming the passing landscape, I arrived at Belgrad Hotel. I didn’t know what to expect so all I hoped for was a warm room and a decent shower. I was indeed pleasantly surprised when I saw the hotel. It was so me! I had butterflies and felt like I always do at the beginning of a great adventure. It was 70’s worn retro, 25 floors or so and a fantastic chandelier greeting me as I walked into the lobby/reception area. People mingling, drinking vodkas in the back ‘bar’ area and immaculate receptionists smiling politely at this tired looking foreigner with the yellow suitcase..

My room was on the 11th floor with breathtaking views over this ‘wedding cake architecture’ Stalinist building (Ministry of Foreign Affairs) right opposite my window. This became a good and faithful friend throughout my stay. We had many moments together amidst its dancing sweeping neon shadows.

I arrived at night so the city was lit up in the whole spectrum of colours, advertising, street lighting, cars and whatever else could be lit up, was. It was a real culture shock. I had expected a lot less ‘Las Vegas’.. As I later found out on my regular midnight walks, there were casinos everywhere, Prada, Dior, Hummer, Mercedes, Audi – you name it. So – throughout the week I was searching for ‘real Russia’ or rather ‘real Moscow’, but couldn’t find it. It was there in the Metro – architecture, echoes; traces of the past.. I will return to this topic later, in a different story.

My room was basic but great. Worn carpet and furniture, but I like that. I like to see life through objects/space that have been used. I could re-trace the movements of long gone footsteps. I felt at home. Who else has been looking in the room’s central smoky mirror? I could not help talking to myself, the mirror acted like a roommate. We had many good conversations.. I thought about all the past guests… Dreams; people have slept here, just like me, in this bed, under this blanket, on top of this mattress..
What did they look like? Who were they? There have been conversations in this room; there has been business and love here too, no doubt. Perhaps betrayal and fear.. But there was a good vibe overall.

It really was the perfect setting for anything – high enough up above the ‘street life’. I washed in the small but adequate bathroom with a beautiful sit/stand bathtub. The shower was really good. I have always struggled having a decent shower on my travels, either something is wrong with the temperature or the water pressure – this shower was fabulous. I could have had a shower all day it was that good! Who else has been enjoying the water pressure and temperature here?

So, anyway. I woke up to sunshine and the bluest skies one could imagine. Great colours, even the drabbest Russian pavestones looked amazing in this light. I had the breakfast buffet – all sorts, really good and tasty stuff. Cereal, hot and cold breakfasts, fruit, veg, juices of many kinds, coffee etc. Really impressive, and marionette-like waiters running around everywhere cleaning every last little breadcrumb from the tables as guests left and arrived. That in itself was amusingly entertaining. They were moving around in a chaotic choreography, trying hard to appear calm.

So – back to reality. I set off to go to work on the project. Felt weird, but I did feel ‘at home’ in some bizarre way. It took a while to work out the Metro as no signage is in English and few people speak English. The Metro by the way, is amazing. Beautiful, majestic and stylish. Each station has its own ‘theme’ with bronze figures showing ‘the people’ on the farm, working etc. Most stations had chandeliers of some kind, carvings and signs and images of Lenin etc. It was really beautiful. London Underground is like the pits in comparison. It was extremely busy in the morning and at night when all the masses returned from their jobs (which mostly pay very little apparently). I couldn’t believe the amount of people coming out of there each day. I filmed people on the escalators – they looked great, real characters.

The last day I was off and spent running around with the camera, camcorder and audio recorder (!). I felt like a spy with all this recording equipment, but had decided to do a Moscow audio/visual piece afterwards. We’ll see how this will happen as now I have so much footage I need about three weeks solid on that.

I saw Chekhov’s house (where a really grumpy old woman eventually scared me away as all she did was speak Russian to me although she must have realised I didn’t understand a word and kept saying ‘money, money’ pointing at my camera. I had already understood that photography cost extra everywhere and I weren’t going to take any bloody photos there anyway. She just kept following me ‘money, money..’. So I left. I wanted to see where Ivanov was written.

I visited this other amazing house, Gorky House Museum (1900), where I was greeted with much more warmth. I took lots of pictures and really enjoyed the visit. It had this enormous polished limestone staircase. I also spent some time with the stray cats that sneaked about in the house gardens. Outside, by the railings, I photographed shadows.

The night before I left my colleagues took me out for a meal. We then walked around the Red Square, Kremlin, Lenin’s tomb and all the tourist stuff. (I only looked at it from the outside. I had no time to go inside to any attractions). It was really beautiful, St Basil/Red Square at night in the rain with all the lights everywhere. Red Square was empty and deserted, snow had been falling. I went back the following day as I was checking out something else in the area – and it was full of tourists and not quite as beautiful as the night before.

I tried to find something Russian to take home but that was almost impossible. Everything was over the top and could easily be found in London (well, most things). So I ended up buying very little. I bought a very small bottle of vodka, which I have now almost finished. I had a few last night, and a bit of a headache this morning..

So – then I had to leave the lovely hotel that I had so enjoyed going back to in the evenings. I had a coffee in the bar and left for the train. It was interesting to travel through the suburbs and see all the social housing in the outskirts next to large industrial estates and other development.

When I arrived back in London, I felt a complete sense of displacement. I had so enjoyed the freedom of travelling, walking and moving around in that really alien and odd place that Moscow is. I loved the strangeness the place offers, I love the risk it also involves; the fact that you are not understood, you have to learn to become understood, by learning the language or some crucial words. It is big place and I have travelled to many places. This one, I cannot quite put my finger on. I think there is no communal sense of ‘place’; there is history and contemporary politics adding to the every day scene, and to the backstage too, I am sure.

So when back in London, waiting for the bus, someone immediately approached me, asking me to ‘spare a fag’ or ‘some change’. I knew I had arrived back in London..

Link to short observation in the Metro

ToDay 8.01am

Having read the papers and drank some tea - then finding myself observing the outside, the world that goes by outside my windows. Spin me Round, [Roxy Music]. Here I am covered by the skin of this building, the skin that keeps me safe and warm(ish) of the elements. The skin that separates me from the rest of the world, from the people over there, walking along the other side of our road. People walking slower than usual, Sunday strolling. I start to think about the many different scenarios that all these strangers are part of; where are they going, what are their plans. Mostly I am curious about the trace that they now leave for me, here in my room, in my morning, in my memory. I remember myself walking on autumn pavements, kicking the leaves to the annoyance of the street sweepers. Where was I going?

I was going home, whilst looking forward to the next time I could walk down that same pavement, in the other direction, again.. 

'now the ballroom's empty

everybody I have known

has been and gone

with the music over

here I am

a shadow echoing on'

spin me round roxy music

Cold, wet, dark, empty in here. Yet I wake up wondering what is pulling me out so urgently. I set off on my bike and take in the wind and rain and everything that comes my way. It's like I am on my way to an appointment. My whole existence feels alive and, again, some mechanism seems to be pulling me somewhere.. 

On my way to whatever adventure awaits I take in some sights, I stop to look at what normally is very rather ugly and too familiar. These sights and places I usually take for granted 'they just exist, they're just there, I know that'. 

Sweeping through this Sunday morning ghost town, I nod at a few fellow cyclists and flaneurs, out and about discovering, watching, observing, participating... It's strange how at this time of the day, and this time of the week, and this time of the year; everything seems to just stop and stand still for a while. Like that film still, the one I can't get out of my head. Why? I don't know why it made such an impression. It was spatial, it was alive, although stop motion; that usually satisfies the beginning of my curiosity. More to follow, I beg!

 

Connecting and securing. Holding on and making one. 

Empty trolley, ready to be filled. Thankful, grateful, for the idea. More later..

'a nether world dancing toy

I'm wired for sound

does it matter to me

who turns the key?'

spin me round roxy music

BackLog Dear A

Extract from 'ghosts and marionettes'

This is an extract from a series of essays on memory captured from random interviews, stories and between-the-lines...

"21st October 2008

Dear A,
So many letters later, so many years later.. Where are you? How are you?
I am here! I have been here all along! This week, I have been living in London for 25 years. And not until now have I found you. But I can’t see you, I can’t make myself known. I will remain a ghost and a marionette. Only, this time, I know you were not a dream, a stage set that was taken down at the end. How weird and how peculiar, I know you may not even remember me, know me, probably not..
‘It’s for the best’. ‘Let sleeping dogs lie’. That’s what they say, isn’t it?

So I have started, my first letter to you in 25 years. I was writing by hand then. I used to love sharpening the pencil, or using a good ink pen. Sometimes I think I must have made several drafts, before the final, brilliant letter started to emerge. Then I polished it, checked and double-checked. It had to be right, every word, and sentence, even the in-between-the-lines. Isn’t that the most important part of a letter anyway?!

I remember feeling totally exhausted afterwards. I was writing in a foreign language (a language I came to love thanks to you and our letters) and my dilemma was to make my life, through my letters, sound and seem interesting enough for you to continue to read, and, of course, to continue to write back. I waited for the reply and it always came. It always came on a day when I had a feeling it would come. I could hear you writing, I could hear your mind as you were sitting there, somewhere far away and alien, I really could. Do you know that?

In my room, I had yellow wallpaper. I used to wear a yellow velour jump suit. I always sat by the window, looking out through the dense vegetation of the large oak tree looming outside. There I sat, thinking of what to say in my next letter to you, staring ahead after having read your letter. All that news you sent me. I could see you running around, where you lived, nearby. I could imagine you working and preparing for your performances. I could hear you practice and play. I could feel you breathing, as I lay in my bed at night. I could feel you near me, sometimes, this feeling was so strong that I was sure you felt it too. When I looked in the mirror, I could see you.

Did we develop sister souls, brother souls? Maybe it was just me, but how come this feeling is back again? Now that I have found you, I don’t know what to do. How to feel, how to take the news, all of this has been overwhelming. I must write to tell you, that this letter will not be sent, but I will tell you anyway, as I hope you can hear me, I suspect you can. If I think hard enough, you will come across something on your travels through the seaside town where I think you live. You will see something, something vague that you can’t quite put your finger on. It will tickle your mind, your tired mind, by now. It will be me saying hello, nudging you, ‘why did it take so long’.

Back then; after I had received your letters, my walk to school, to the bus, was easy. I felt taller, stronger and closer, again, to you. I danced my way through the day. I made a ghost out of you already then, see. I knew I wasn’t ready to be with you, I was too scared, young, naïve, no, I wasn’t naïve. But I was afraid of becoming hurt and more afraid of becoming disappointed in this dream, this huge imagined fantasy I had created. It was special, too special to break. How can I ever say it wasn’t? It still is, which is why I was so shocked at my own reaction, when I sat here getting closer and closer to information about you. Like a sleuth and then I almost didn’t want to know. But how could I not look, I had made it this far, my journey of 25 years of every now and again turning away tasks and the constant activity routine that my life has become, just to see, just in case, you had posted a message somewhere out there. Nothing, until, suddenly, I started adding the obvious together, and I guess, like always with you, I just knew. I stopped and froze at the fact that you are in this country, have probably been for some years. I envisaged you far and away from any western shores. My imagined you had become someone, someone else. And here you are, on the coast, near my beloved birds.

When I found out, I wanted to drive there, straight away. I wanted to see you, talk to you and just meet you. Then my sensible side took over and I started doubting my behaviour. This impulsive behaviour of ‘having to get there fast’, by the way, had no planning attached to it. I was not in control of that, amazingly.

But I then decided to let the sleeping dog lie. What if he bites, what if he is rabid? You gave me the independence, strength and hunger for adventure. You also, inevitably, gave me the quiet side that comes and goes. The thinking. The incompetence to love others like I loved the ghost of you. The failure to build a life as I struggled through the jungle of relationships mixed with unfinished business. You gave me all this and more. You gave me the ability to believe that dreaming is ok, but I actually never believed you, although I am still living in the land above the clouds. Do you remember that poem I wrote?

I have been building strength and stamina for body and soul ever since your last letter. I remember it well. It was angry and disappointed. They say, never go to bed after an argument. I guess we did that, and you were right, honesty is the key to success.

If I don’t get to meet you again. Goodbye dear A. I hope life has treated you well. I am happy here, where I am today. But I think you should know that I sometimes think of you in that in-between-space I so enjoy.
All my love, ADx"