We sink and we rise: Happy New Year to those within the M25

Here are some facts about London: it is old, and it is new. It is disgusting, and it is powerful. These truths are interlinked; foul industries, dirty water, a shambling stream of corpses and fire-halted epidemics give rich foundation to the quasi-religious veneration of our one true God, the golden god, and our old and all-conquering vice: Avarice. Bawd and ideal may be plentiful but the muddy, bloody swamp of a city sinks or swims on its venal lawlessness and nearly two millennia of proof can be dredged up for it.

London creates cultures like a loaf of damp bread. It generates saints. In Camden Town the long, sorrowful face of Amy Winehouse appears in smeared black on buildings like the Madonna on American toast; sheer will supersedes finger-wagging press to create her a modern, Jewish saint; “Don’t venerate an addict” and dire warnings of her moral character fall short and miss the point – Amy is an icon because of her flaws, not in spite of them or in their ignorance. Like Marilyn and Billie Holiday before her, the locality bears witness to struggle and pain paired with eloquence and skill, and raises a broken woman to the status of a divinity. It is a black paint backlash against the madonna/whore dichotomy; let her be both, let her be both.

We have hopes for George Michael, but it’s early days yet.

London makes saints of the ordinary, too; not far from my home there is a shrine. A man, 22, whose name I know but won’t share, died violently in the street in November. In a turbulent time these things go unremarked, but the shop across the street remembers, and his loved ones replenish flowers, candles, photographs, empty whisky bottles. Offerings to somewhere or something, to keep him from fraying in their minds. Devoured by the city, he becomes part of it.

Do the rules of urban sainthood cover the man I saw die this week, his vast white belly unthinkingly exposed as he lay surrounded by green-clad paramedics

and stony-faced on-lookers, spread-eagled by an unsuccessful defibrillator on a cold station floor? If he is canonised by the fleck-marks among the grey, how long for?

But it is a morbid time; it is Dead Winter. The time of year when I am quite grateful to find mould growing on my sandwiches because it proves that something can still grow in this hellish twilight. Past the dimple of midwinter and the instinctive bonfires, this frozen endless coda between the solstice and spring equinox is the time I give real and visceral consideration to the possibility of human sacrifice. At 3pm, already dark, on a night-shift week, I drag myself to he gym to treadmill the black despair into aches via the media of glowing orange numbers and participation in a nationwide detoxification – purificiation – fast-and-atonement ritual as we try to apologise the spring into happening. And I think, yeah, I’d kill a child to bring the sun back right now. Why not? Shit, let’s kill ten and have a nice summer this year.

London is a ritual city. It has no pomp nor splendour, no matter how much gilt we pour on the remaining high traditions or crenellated and NeoGothic excesses we defer to – the rituals are modern in age and pre-Enlightenment in character, private or primal: the weird, carved fish of Guild processions, the prescient and personal libations to a Bacchus tossed in the Fleet in the fourth Century, the roadkill funerals, the furtive wishing coins, knuckles to the window of the London Stone and prayers to the known monsters travelling in the eternal dark beneath the city. From the dank earth we came and shall return; we are filth, stains lapping at the feet of our unsecured glass skyscrapers – we are ugly, and let us remain pox-disfigured grasping mollies, roaring over newsprint…

One could weep for all the histories lost in the foundations of raw progress – the temples destroyed by railways, the birthplaces by bombs, the memories by meretricious, mercantile greed, but London does not stand still and it does not stop – a fossil city is a dead city. Better to build on top of our own sinking rooftops, lay roads over

rivers, and let future archaeologists marvel at our litter as we now paw over the plague-pits Pepys and Defoe’s peers did their best to cover.

Buddleia reaches for the sky, whole trees hanging out of brick cracks the size of a thumb; black mould marches over my bedroom ceiling; five mice quarrel in hypersonic territorial fury between the rails of the train to Cockfosters and somewhere in those miles of 19°C subterranean veins, rippling through clay like bands of a new composite mineral, we are evolving a new species of mosquito at light speed. The Tube Parasite. Our very own blood-sucker —

— London is a ritual city. We revisit our haunts. We pay our respects. We set our habits like heartbeats, not clockwork. Environment rules apply: the same man who moved me gently out of his path in a crowded, convivial nightclub in Vauxhall by placing the tips of his fingers on the angel tattooed on my neck kept to the etiquette of the Night Tube afterward, hunched up at the far end of a carriage with his eyes locked to his phone, a dozen empty, newspapered seats between us. Courtesy in both worlds: in the sweat and strobes the pressure of his cock on the waistband of my jeans is simple and unimpeachable neutral manners, too.

Condensed, London is a highly-charged space. Widely-spread souls mistake this hyperreal interaction for hostility instead of the hallucinogenic endgame of compressed human interaction. In the countryside I grew up in, friendliness is a two-hour chat with a grinning death’s head stranger; in this hive it is the quick smile to a bus driver from a passenger who has been on this route a decade. It is the small rituals with speed-ravaged 4am shopkeepers. It is catching the eye of the tired passenger who is watching the same pigeon fight that you are. In each of these seconds a week of intimacies unfolds in its own sweet time.

Do not be so quick to hate the ‘bubbles’ in which we dwell. They are beautiful and we have chosen them for a good reason.


100 Works of Art: (Visual) IS.Akureyri 10.03.05, Adam Jeppesen

For details on what this series involves, please see the first post.

5. IS.Akureyri 10.03.05, Adam Jeppesen

This photograph comes from a rather beautiful book I bought in Magma on Longacre in central London, and which I bought pretty much by accident, or rather on a whim. The 100 Works of Art (Visual) section may give the impression that I tend to find the things I love by falling over them, and this is largely accurate. I do also find things by having them thrown at me by friends shouting “YOU WILL LOVE THIS, DELILAH!”, but Wake, the book which contains this photograph, is one of the beautiful accidents.

IS.Akureyri 10.03.05, Adam Jeppesen
IS.Akureyri 10.03.05 by Adam Jeppesen

The rest of the book is also fascinating, with a particularly haunting shot of tire marks on a headlights-lit patch of snow hinting at some terrible accident, and an aerial shot of a car park in Roskilde evoking for me at least (as someone who was involved and interested in alternative musical festivals at the time) the events of the eponymous 2000 festival at which nine people died in a crowd. Especially alarming to me at least as the following summer I nearly ended up joining them in a similar manner (bad crowd management at Reading Festival 2001: oh boy was there ever).

The reason that this photograph of all the strange and haunting shots in this “monograph” struck me is also quite personal, which is what I believe all reactions to art should be in some way.

I grew up in a number of places, but after some fairly mobile early years (Nottingham, Frome, Plymouth, and a smattering of places in Sabarkantha district, Gujarat) we settled in West Devon, and in order to get anywhere usually took a train out of Plymouth, leaving the car there. This meant that on the way back, getting home involved driving away from the meagre city lights of a small city widely regarded as a post-apocalyptic hell-hole by touring comedians and bands, and into the pitch black of unlit moorlands. For various reasons this really never set well with me as a child, and if you’ve ever had an apparently suicidal sheep try to fling itself in front of your eggshell-fragile and freezing-cold Citroen Diane you will understand why streetlights are wonderful and so are fences.

The lights of the city would disappear from the horizon like a great glowing jellyfish on the surface of some dark sea, and I would be swallowed by the moors for a few miles.

Now I live in London, and have done for more than a decade. Few things say “home” to me quite as much as seeing the whole vast configuration of city lights growing ever-larger in the shrinking distance. It is the most welcoming thing I can think of in the glowering dark; even flying into Seattle, a city I had never visited before, after an unconscionably long time travelling in the winter dark, seeing the lights come up below me gave me the most primitive feeling of relief. I am sure it relates somehow to campfires and the safety of the tribe, and that is just fine.

This photograph brings back all those warm, fuzzy feelings of homecoming: it says “you have been on a long and exhausting journey, but the end is in sight. Here is the light, the lights at the end of the seemingly relentless tunnel, and they are the lights of home. You don’t have far to go now”.

A homage to this shot also makes up the cover of Pass the Parcel.