yet no sounds of imminence; no murmur of new arrivals in this barren stretch
The concept of choreography; of embodiment; the body which imbues to society the weight of its history; the journeys in and out of the city; the body as form seems somehow absent; yet these landscapes impress a sense of presence; much heavier than notions which I cannot somehow escape.
With a fervour to escape the rushes through the capitalist compounds, past doors with cemented entrances; to spaces which contain trails from the centre; as debris on the river bed; reigning in them a history the river will contain now as dissident molecules.
There is still weight of construction; yet no sounds of imminence; no murmur of new arrivals in this barren stretch; we are allowed here to pause; in certainty; in poignancy and determination to escape somewhat the clutch of instability.
The debris somehow becomes celebration; phenomenon in apparition; the concrete becomes a display cabinet for marvels; the languid liquids unnamed; discarded plastic glass for such poisons; a rats temperament. There are signs that our consumerist demands are already overlapping; ikea lamps now lay in this playground for the disaffected. The crochet, once a favourite item; now rests in mildew; costumes for the late night menageries.
This landscape is not yet owned; it bears signs; “to rent” but these are weather beaten now. These spaces become profile for the realities of the metropolis; theatre for silent acts which are passive in their pain; broken voices of ill ease; where we should fear to tred; yet are constantly compelled to do so; a symphony of repetition; only this is not the same space; this is a vision anew; yet the same presumptions are applied to the fragments.
The voices of children in these spaces seems somehow erroneous, yesterday’s colourful plaything now lies in the dust; but where did such footsteps wander; the narrative of such objects seems inevitably pain ridden; or muddled with innocence.
There is a ship; “the world” I stand beside an old man in the rain as we watch it; still in the calm water; a rich playground; quiet different from the fetishes of the last scene; they are noisy behind closed doors; I have no desire to hear their narrative
This is the tourist haunt; where endless seas of maps and drink cartons litter the cement which has grown dull with its own discontent. There is a pigeon feasting meagrely on a plastic bottle. Some how on this summers day; the shore line reflects its own departure.
Retreating to spaces which are polite in their desolation. spaces which allow the city to be seen at a greater distance. these are the spaces on the fringes; the motorway can be crossed; the table awaits, the broken poets desk.
Yet construction looms; we cannot hide from such towering imminences. to be a peace with the seas of grey, to sail the skies of formidable lusting; I wonder when in such spaces; what future beckons us softly on its sails.
( all images taken by Beatrice Jarvis and must not be reproduced without permission)
Urban re:passages 