Tuesday, 22 February 2011

>>>LONDON 2013.....

Walking along the Northern outfall is a melancholy experience. The phantom of an invented, slickly choreographed future haunts the landscape. Photoshopped families, the joyful inhabitants of the new yuppiedromes are not here yet, but their avatars stalk us.

Amidst the rubble and chaos, Polish construction workers in luminous garb bundle in and out of vans for papers and fags.
 Oily leatherskins deconstruct the rusting heaps.  
        Sometimes there’s a group of kids with a nicked scooter, always the same, taking apart, a destructive urge;  sections examined and strewn across the Greenway path.
 The area is cut, scrutinized, destroyed, not rebuilt but cast off as parts hurled across a flat expanse. 
                       The sewage pipe is the conduit, it slices through the wreckage and gives a Gods eye view of the marshes.

Drawn East, the marshes, footbridge over the Lea.
 Mounting excitement, intoxicating dizzying syntax, endless architectures. Red lipstick smeared across face, eyes flashing with the thrill of an encounter. We pick through ruins, an abandoned rose garden, bleached landscapes;  we roam under motorway flyovers, towerblocks cascading down embankments.
    Time, multi faceted and crystalline. Language shifting. Heaps of tyres smoulder, nuclear bunkers echo beneath soft ground.

 Sky glowing violet. Beyond the heaps of dusty bricks, the crumbling walls a huge steel structure rises ,spanned with ivy and graffiti traces. This is the abandoned Olympic stadium, this is London 2013. 
 A chance encounter, in the midst of a heat wave, London burns.
Taking off. Occupation of space in multiple temporal zones. Projections into a dystopian future, harking back to a romanticised past, carving out territory in the present.

..stranded in the midst of  abundant vegetation.
    The air is perfumed , the sky pink. My hair is loose, unkempt, I am in a red dress  descending into the chlorine scent of a  disused pool.
Riot season begins.

Wednesday, 16 February 2011

2012/// Death to the Gods of Mount Olympus////.......

…. little two storey houses next to crumbling tower blocks, a cluster of pawnbrokers next to a crop of adhoc churches. 
 The Beaumont estate under threat of demolition. 
The Lea valley and its peripheral enclaves are an embarrassment to the moguls and ministers of Whitehall. Leyton is the stuff of Foster and partners worst nightmares, they look and fail to see themselves reflected back, their architectural sovereignty  eroded in the entropy and murk of the marshlands. If it seemed increasingly possible that middle class fools with no imagination could make a sanitised sweep across the whole city one must look to Leyton for a last shred of hope. Leyton defies it, even if the Beaumont Estate and its three majestic towers lie in dusty heaps Leyton will never become the gleaming vision of their plans. Look at Temple Mills, millennial mediocrity, weak parodying of the International style; corrugated curves,  post modern hangars, yellow brickwork and Burger king with spongy playground all drawn irresistibly back to the dirt, back to the sucking bogs and greedy marshes. The landscaping has become a tangle of coke cans and crisp packets, the walls striated with the black silt of exhaust fumes. Saplings are snapped in acts of vicious boredom and the shrubs and weeds are coated in a film of ash. The flimsiness of these buildings, these sheds, are thinly disguised, a furtive glance into the loading bay exposes the hastily thrown together service tunnels, rigged  meshes of breezeblocks and plywood. The vistas of pylons and motorway flyovers cannot be eradicated here as they were on the planners board.
London 2012, who wants it except middle England pricks in their executive homes, WPCs with names like Sally and Gaynor and a raft of deluded idiots who don’t realise local opportunities means shit jobs in the service industry. The Golden Arches loom large over this grotesque scheme, another gateway, another fucking Gulag.
Leyton will resist because there is an undercurrent of psychick viciousness. From Hitchcock to the colonial savagery of the regulars of Zulu’s bar , the violence is always simmering under the surface.  The rage and the manic kick offs, the punch ups to disrupt the boredom will be channelled into class hate.