Has The Cycling Industry Lost Its Way? [trans_scribe]

 

Photo-Manipulation: March 2024

[Adjusted Video Transcription]:

Elite professional cyclists are often held up on a metaphorical and literal pedestal as an example of what all cyclists should do basically if the pros do it so should you however I'm gonna go counter that flow and give you three reasons why you shouldn't do what the pros do why are you tearing the bike community apart why and to be clear this isn't a knock against pro-cyclists or people that light that kind of writing I'm just simply staying that one particular style of writing shouldn't be the default lens through which we look at all of cycling the first reason you shouldn't do what a pro-cyclist does is they basically have different goals theirs is to compete in when races and bring home a pay cheque and make their sponsors happy and if that isn't your goal then you should probably take what they do with a grain of salt if your goal is to drop your kids off at school pick up some groceries go on a long and lazy meandering tour then it goes without saying you don't need to emulate what they're doing you don't need a carbon fibre bike you don't need to wear some crazy arrow helmet or a skin suit a lot of that is an unnecessary expense that's not going to benefit most cyclists and if anything it just acts as a barrier furthermore advice in training videos that information is great if you want to race and want to participate in that kind of writing but it shouldn't be the received wisdom for all people on the bike if your goal is to just ride around riding a bike shouldn't be like school where you work your way up to some kind of vague ideal and you graduate to a real cyclist and they give you an arrow helmet and clipless pedals just like how everyone who drives a car doesn't aspire to be an F1 racer to be a real driver some people just drive to get around to move their kids to do daily tasks this dovetails into another reason why you shouldn't do what the pros do in particular using the same equipment pro cyclists are train athletes that way like next to nothing they’re super flexible and what suits them so they can accomplish their goals doesn't make sense for a lot of people so don't feel that pressure to slam that stem right on super narrow high pressure tires unfortunately today you know most road bikes are actually road racing bikes or pretend racing bikes again to use the car analogy a lot of people are looking for an event or that affordable you know bare bones pickup truck to do tasks but most bike shops when you walk in there they're basically selling you know the equivalent of Formula One cars or Formula One car light give me a bike with a comfortable ride with tyres that aren't optimised just to go around a closed circuit track and whatever the bike equivalent of cupholders is that might be brazen for adventure nipples more cup holders and more better and the last reason why you shouldn't do what the pros do is because it's their job and it's not yours you don't want to turn something fun into a job do you just like any job cycling has a uniform and tools to accomplish that very specific task aero clothing and funny hats make sense in that context but if it's not your job and your pay cheque doesn't rely on your your cycling performance then don't worry about it again not knocking anyone that does this kind of writing or enjoys this kind of writing or wants to do this kind of writing but there is a big wide world of people that ride their bikes or want to get into cycling that are just kind of put-off and intimidated by this constant messaging it's a way we're able to keep the lights on quite literally you know we're not sponsored by any big cycling brands if you appreciate this independent voice.

Original Images: West Leicester, March 2024

Transport Update

 

Both Images: Bracebridge Heath, Lincolnshire, July 2023

Summer continues to dribble by in a somewhat underwhelming manner, and the supposedly productive school holiday interlude is already halfway done. Creatively speaking, work continues - but we're definitely in another of those 'not-too-much-to-show-right-now' phases. As was ever the case, too many projects vie for my attention simultaneously - but that is, of course, so much better than having no ideas or inspiration at all. 

That might also explain why my social media communications have definitely thinned-out a bit of late. Perhaps I'm just experimenting with the idea of not chattering away so much, unless there's actually something interesting to report (you know - like how we used to behave in previous, more analogue times). It may put me slightly at odds with twenty-first century habits, but it does at least free-up a little more time to prioritise more important stuff.

I'm not sure if this update on my personal transport options counts as exactly 'interesting', but it does at least have a bearing on my artistic endeavours in a fairly obvious logistical sense. Pretty much everything I make has its origins in the urban (or sub-urban) landscapes. That necessitates either putting myself into specific locations, and/or deliberately losing myself within a variety of cities, on a regular basis. Realistically, public transport and my slightly dodgy knees can only facilitate so much. Cars and bicycles therefore remain the most efficient means of accessing those moments of urban revelation on which I depend. This is the year I decided to update my existing options in both respects.

Like any un-garaged fourteen year-old vehicle, my previous car was starting to show its age a bit. Overall it had given excellent, economical (and mostly reliable) service, for what was once at the very bottom of Skoda's product range. Nevertheless, it was inevitably starting to cost more to keep on the road than the meagre resale value could really justify. Hence, bye-bye, old red Skoda Fabia - hello, much newer red (and black) Skoda Fabia. Ultimately, I'm not interested enough in the complexities of modern motoring to shop around different makes and models -  'stick with what you know', is my motto. The fact this is my third red Skoda hatchback in a row is purely coincidental, but it might suggest something was meant to be (if I was superstitious). Mostly, I'm just hoping this new one proves as dependable as the previous two.

Much as a car is valuable for covering the big miles, I maintain that a bike is really the most involving way to experience the urban landscape, once one is actually immersed within it. My existing mountain bike has proved a much-valued tool in that respect, and will even (at a squeeze) fit into the back of a Fabia. Nevertheless, a certain amount of scuffing (of both vehicles) as well as repetitive seat-folding, is inevitable in the process. What better excuse for a new  folding bike, to preserve the new car's interior? It's a bit of an indulgence, I'll admit - but I've coveted one of these funky little Bromptons for quite a while, and this one will just fold-up and fit on the back seat (or in the boot) far more easily. Theoretically, that should encourage me to drive to one city or another, then explore it more immersively on two wheels, on an even more regular and spontaneous basis than I can now. The resulting health/fitness benefits can only be a bonus too.

In reality, the mountain bike will always remain the preferable (and more comfortable) option over longer distances or uneven terrain, but these 'Brommies' are had to beat when it comes to compact portability. Either way, I'm choosing to regard it as an essential artistic tool, and thus -  far more than just an urban hipster's plaything. The fact that I am seemingly now also the bloke who only rides white bikes is also purely coincidental. It's the cheapest one they do - and they only come in white this year.

Finally, if you're wondering about the incongruously leafy venue for this photo-shoot (after all this talk of accessing urban terrain) - one terminal of Lincoln's Eastern Bypass is literally just round the corner. The Brompton had just carried me on another little expedition to document its upper reaches, before being folded back up and whisked-off home to Leicester.

'The Annihilation Of Time And Space'* 1. (Starting Somewhere)

 

All Images: River Witham Walk, Washingborough, Lincolnshire, April 2023

It's fair to say that all the art I've produced in recent years has shared a clear urban focus. My entire life has been spent dwelling in cities of various sizes, and that has clearly shaped my consciousness (and tastes) in numerous ways. As has become customary, the pieces I have shown here in recent months (and which are still very much ongoing) all found their genesis in a fairly tight sector of densely urban terrain close to my Leicester home. 

However, as I have also periodically acknowledged, the less concentrated territories at the fringes of any conurbation, or those somewhat eerie interstitial sectors which may coalesce between closely-adjacent cities, can be as fascinating in their own way as any urban centre. These are commonly referred to as 'The Edgelands', and artists, writers, musicians, photographers, film makers, and the rest, have increasingly come to appreciate them for their particular (and sometimes paradoxical) qualities. J.G. Ballard noted long ago that such zones may well be where true futurity dwells. As our post-industrial economies mutate - and our grasp on a physical (built) reality dissolves ever further into the digital hive-consciousness, I find little reason to argue with his prophetic observations. In the twenty-first century, residing in a state of  transition, seepage or becoming, often appears to have replaced any idea of lasting connection to a single, identifiable location. That seems to be the case, both physically and psychically. Perhaps the real dilemma is whether one is bourn along with urgency, or instead chooses to drift.

In the event, my own relationship with such peripheral places is often tied-up with social or family visits, and that's certainly true of the landscape referenced here. Family commitments regularly take me to the dormitory village of Washingborough, just beyond the southeast boundary of Lincoln, where I grew up. The connecting road is punctuated by a crematorium, a bowling centre and a sewerage treatment plant - which certainly feel like classic edgeland features to me. Certainly, at little or no point does the traveller feel themselves to be properly 'out in the country' here. The River Witham Walk foot/cycle route, which follows a disused railway parallel to both the road and the river, also binds the village to the city. That way in particular, has come to symbolise a potential doubling-back to a much earlier chapter in my autobiography - one that can be comfortably pedalled in under 30 minutes.

However, in recent times, another, significantly more emphatic, intervention has been made across this landscape. This is the (decades-in-the-planning) Lincoln Eastern Bypass. Cutting across footpaths, waterways, rail lines (both current and disused) and intersecting with various pre-existing roads - the bypass represents a major feat of civil engineering, punctuated by bridges, roundabouts, embankments, and all the other accoutrements of modern road construction. More notably, and perhaps because of the very raison d'etre of any bypass, it has created its very own zone of highly palpable Edgeland terrain, with all that may (or may not) imply. 

In accordance with its avoidant function, the new(ish) road aims to process traffic through the landscape with high efficiency. Admittedly, a fully dual carriageway might have fulfilled that purpose even more effectively. Nevertheless, it is still a byway even more on its way to somewhere else than most roads - and one designed to negate any need to enter the city or surrounding villages, unless as a deliberate visitor.  Setting aside the routine necessities of commerce and industry, 'visiting' has become a clearly defined and marketable leisure-time activity these days - and one served by its own highly regulated infrastructure. As such, it represents just another option on a menu of approved activities - rather than something that might occur organically or on a whim. Naturally enough, the bypass signposts the designated access points to some heritage-based brand of alternative reality (as well as more workaday targets) for those determined to travel inward. However, it was clearly never intended to become a destination in its own right. The area surrounding it has consequently become one of those non-places, as a result of its superimposition on the map. What more reason could I need to loiter amongst its footbridges, verges and signage - and perhaps to travel 'inward' in a very different sense? 

There are no lay-bys - and very few feasible places to park within easy reach of the Eastern Bypass. However a network of adjacent bridle and footpaths, both new and old, do accompany it across the heavily remodelled landscape. Consequently, my bike has become the logical way to explore. For the time being, the River Witham Walk is currently less of a conduit to personalised urban memory - and more the gateway to a fascinating, alienated land that is simultaneously somewhere and nowhere. Just as one thing always leads to another, repeated visits over the last few months have revealed an ever-expanding range of possible subject matter - along with the attendant rhizome of potential associations and connecting ideas. And so, (without wishing to depart from the work I already have in hand - which does seem to be flowing quite nicely right now), it appears that another little sub-project is born. Honestly, I really should know better by now! However, rather than ring-fencing it as a competing distraction - perhaps I can simply regard it as just another, slightly removed tract of the same extended rhizomatic system. Ultimately, there really is only one map, after all.

I've yet to determine how this little phase of new activity might ultimately resolve itself. What began as a few speculative photos - opportunistically grabbed on a summer's afternoon in 2022, has now expanded into a significant archive of still images and associated video footage. I have already returned several times - documenting a new section of the route between its various bridges and junctions on each occasion. I'm wondering about the possibility of an artist book/photo essay-type thing at present, but we'll see what begins to solidify as I move beyond this current exploratory phase.

For now, there's no harm in presenting a little introductory pictorial evidence. Appropriately enough, these images were recently captured en-route to the bypass and without actually revealing anything of the main event. What they do indicate however, is that found texts, as usual, play an important part in my relationship with any environment I might fetch up in. Equally serendipitously, the signed information shown here relates to the replacement of one form of historical transport infrastructure with another. Clearly, the way we move through the physical environment, and how that interfaces with our perception of time, were as much of an issue in the nineteenth century as they are today. The archaeology of what once felt like the future, now decays serenely within earshot of the speeding traffic, just a few hundred metres away.

Perhaps most importantly of all - I seem to have found my title...

* The Stamford Mercury. Author & Date Unknown.

Look Again, Again

 

All Images: Digital Photo-Manipulation, 2020 (Original Photos: Northeast Leicester, August 2020)

My two most recent architectural meditations (entitled 'Look Again 1 & 2') both dealt with the moments of spontaneous revelation that often cause some habitually disregarded or over-familiar landmark to take on a sudden resonance, from which more considered thought narratives may subsequently flow.  I've frequently reflected on this in recent times, coming to recognise that - however much I may try to cultivate or facilitate multiple strands of potential meaning within my work, the initial spark still comes from something experienced in the moment - out there in my immediate environment.  My own instincts will never be those of the true Conceptualist, it seems, for - important though they may be, the ideas come second to the subject (a close second - but definitely still second).

Both of these recent instances featured overlooked examples of 'forgotten' Modernism hiding in plain, everyday sight, within the local landscape.  As such, both provided obvious portals to a fairly standard hauntological reading - forging connections between a discredited set of aesthetic conventions, the societal assumptions they might have once represented, and - by extension, a soft philosophical/political meditation on the idea of 'lost futures' or misplaced utopias.  Others have written far more eloquently on those themes than I could ever manage - and constructed accompanying artistic genres and aesthetic tropes, to boot.  That's not too important here though, for it now seems that more specific or topical connections may have also emerged from my modest little deriviste explorations of urban territory, and by sheer coincidence.

I've made no secret of the fact that, whilst this slightly aimless exploration of the cities in which I live or visit, is a long-established habit of mine - they have ramped up significantly during the recent months of lockdown and general Covid-19 conditions.  Indeed, my attraction to the two sites under discussion, was as a direct result of encountering them from an unfamiliar direction, or under particular conditions, whilst out on one of the numerous extended bike rides that characterised the lost summer of 2020, for me.

It's also no secret that the situation has been a little different for us here in Leicester, than for the rest of Britain - for a few weeks, at least.  As has been widely reported, we gained the dubious honour of being the first British city to be subjected to stricter local lockdown restrictions - even as the rest of the country appeared to be enjoying a somewhat more relaxed situation throughout July and much of August.  Reports of dramatically spiking (if ineptly recorded) incidence of infection here, were accompanied by darker hints that this may be partially a result of inadequate safety standards and otherwise substandard working conditions in many of Leicester's clothing factories.  It's clearly dangerous to draw crude parallels between high infection statistics and the areas of highest economic deprivation, population density, or immigrant demographics, without proper, locally-informed analysis.  However, in Leicester, as elsewhere, it does seem that at least some of those dots may join up.  Further investigation - not least by The Guardian newspaper, has shed light upon some of the problematic working practices common amidst the 'grey' Fashion economy, that have long been Leicester's 'grubby little secret'.  That the vast majority of the contracting and sub-contracting garment businesses active in the city (and particularly in East Leicester, where Covid-19 numbers have been highest) form the supply chain for the Boohoo stable of fashion brands (also locally-based), raised eyebrows yet higher.

The long-term damage which may have been inflicted on the economic and social fabric of Leicester by an extended (and continuing) lock-down, and the degree to which the abuses and conditions which may have fuelled the situation, will become evident in the fullness of time.  Doubtless, should Boohoo seek to restore its share price and PR standing, by relocating its activities offshore (perhaps ducking adequate inspection/auditing of standards yet further) it will have a direct impact - not least on many of the city's most vulnerable families.

Of more selfish relevance to my own practice is the depiction of one of my own 'Look Again' subjects - namely, Cobden House, illustrating another investigative Guardian article on the matters above.  As I mentioned in my post about the building, it currently houses a number of businesses - one of which it now transpires, is linked with the payment of below-minimum wages to an exploited workforce.  Indeed, the paper has named it in a list of local companies at the heart of its investigations.

I guess it all goes to show that - for all that I might often feel like I'm simply pedalling around in my own, self-absorbed and slightly eccentric little art bubble, I can be stumbling upon a locus of significant events, without even knowing it.  If the initial encounter remains an essential singularity at the centre of my practice - the subsequent network of connections and potential readings, radiates out in many, unpredictable directions. 

https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2020/jul/03/leicester-coronavirus-lockdown-is-no-surprise-to-its-garment-factory-workers

https://www.theguardian.com/business/2020/aug/28/boohoo-leicester-factories-went-to-war

https://www.theguardian.com/business/2020/aug/28/boohoo-the-audits-and-an-industry-under-the-spotlight

https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2020/aug/30/revealed-shocking-lack-of-regulation-at-leicester-garment-factories

       

Dredging

All Images: North Leicester, November 2019

The rain's been so relentless this Autumn, and my virus-depleted energy levels - so reduced, that I've failed to 'own the conditions' on two wheels very much at all.  Thus, when the precipitation abated for a weekend, and my personal snot-fest finally dried-up - it felt like a real novelty to get back in the saddle for an hour or two.

Whilst the raindrops were largely absent, the ground is still thoroughly saturated - making a degree of splash-back and mud-splatter inevitable, as I traversed the banks of the river Soar through Leicester.  It was an enjoyable enough diversion, nonetheless - and nothing my own cycle sustained could match the ravages wrought on these bikes dredged up from the river bed.

The seemingly freelance, magnetic salvage of such debris seems to be a popular activity, these days - with similar tangles of corroded and befouled metal punctuating the riverbank at increasingly regular intervals.  I chatted to a passing river-walker about that, just as I finished taking these shots.  She expressed concern at the perceived eyesore - but that mostly just served to remind me that, one person's eyesore is another's intriguing subject matter.  I'm long past such conventional distinctions between the 'ugly', and the picturesque, in any case.

Anyway, in the long-run, I think I should be grateful to the dredgers - whoever they are.  Given the ever-rising water levels - anything that aids the water flow - keeping the river between its banks, and out of people's houses (including my own), is to be applauded - I suspect.

Birmingham Canal Ride: Broad Street To Dudley Port (Retrospective)

Birmingham Canal, Central Birmingham, August 2017

Introduction:

Writing my preceding post, about David Byrne's cycle-based approach to exploring cities, reminded me that I'd been sitting on this post for far too long.  It was actually written last August, in the immediate aftermath of one of my own occasional Birmingham canal rides - but delayed under the pretence I was going to edit and include some of the video I shot on the day.  That never happened, and is unlikely to do so right now - so let's just dust off the post anyway.  It does feel like it's in the spirit of Byrne's 'Bicycle Diaries' [1.], if nothing else.  Better late than never, I guess...

  

August 2017:

It’s been quite a while, but I recently got back on the bike to cycle another stretch of Birmingham’s extensive canal system.  This time, my companion was my friend and work colleague (Boss, actually), Tim.  Our route was one I’d been intending to take for some time - taking us from Broad Street, in the city centre, along the Birmingham Canal - through Smethwick to Dudley Port.

Birmingham Canal, Old Line (Soho Loop), August 2017

The Black Country, to the west and north west of Birmingham is famously a cradle of the Industrial Revolution.  Indeed, as the name implies, coal mining, metalworking, engineering and manufacturing of various kinds once combined to create the region’s reputation as a reeking, poisoned hive of industry.  As Tim pointed out, it’s even credited with inspiring Tolkein’s vision of Mordor – that nexus of sulphurous evil from ‘The Lord Of The Rings’.  The nature of commerce and industry in Britain has, of course, shifted focus from those core activities since the nineteenth and early twentieth century, and these days, the remaining factories and occasional once-grand Victorian edifices rise largely from a lower-level landscape of lorry parks, transport hubs and trading estates.

Birmingham Canal, Smethwick, August 2017

In fact, I was mildly surprised to discover just how verdant was much of our route.  The reality is obviously that, what would have once constituted a major commercial artery between central Brum and the towns of the Black Country, long since gave way to the preeminence of rail and road transport.  It has become instead, both a green corridor and a thread of industrial architecture punctuated by overgrown colliery workings, disused quays and the occasional canal museum.  As our own presence proved, and as I’ve noted before - the real appeal of canals nowadays is as places in which to dawdle and reflect, or even as conduits for our dreams.

Birmingham Canal, Smethwick, August 2017

Whilst some industrial facilities do still rear up on either bank, two of the most memorable examples from our ride remain the partially demolished and burned-out buildings along the Soho Loop (at the Birmingham end), and the large, partially cleared site, were the canal separates into two parallel branches, at Smethwick.  Elsewhere, we noted how much new housing and recently landscaped parkland is now lies along our route.  The reality, I think, is that one needs to come back up to street level to fully experience the current industrial/commercial flavour of the region – something I certainly intend to do in future visits.

Birmingham Canal (South Branch), Smethwick, August 2017

The depth to which we were actually sunk beneath the contemporary surface of the world was emphasized by the sheer height of the cut’s embankments, particularly along the Smethwick section, and especially by the parallel tunnels and soaring bridges through which we passed just there.  This is, of course, largely a consequence of topography (and testament to the fortitude of the Navvies, who dug it all out originally).  Nevertheless, I’m always also struck by that sense of passing vertically through time, as well as laterally in space wherever such manmade landscapes stack up multiple layers of infrastructure (and by implication, technological advance).

Birmingham Canal, Central Birmingham, August 2017

The most dramatic and resonant example of this, and one of the major draws of the excursion for me, is the elevated section of the M5 between West Bromwich and Oldbury.  Just as at Spaghetti Junction (to the north of the city), this provides both vertiginous concrete drama - with huge columns and supporting piers actually sunk into the canal bed itself; and a multi-layered environment of road, rail and water (including a splendid aqueduct, to carry one canal branch over another).  Long time readers of this blog will know I’m a complete sucker for this kind of thing.

Beneath M5 Motorway, Oldbury, August 2017

They will also recall that this is the same location from which many of my fellow artist Shaun Morris’ paintings emerged in recent years.  This is indeed, the ‘Edgeland’ landscape of Shaun’s childhood, and the one to which he turned for his memorable ‘Stolen Car', ‘Black Highway’, and ‘The Lie Of The Land’' cycles of painted nocturnes.  Having waxed lyrical about that work on so many occasions, it was a delight to find myself finally sampling, at first hand, the resonance of the place from which they sprang.  I also amused myself by trying to spot one or two specific locations from the paintings as we passed.  There can’t be too many piles of wooden palettes quite that big - can there, Shaun?  I think I spotted the big green transport depot from ‘A Minor Place’ too.

Shaun Morris, 'A Minor Place', Oil On Canvas, 2016

However, nothing stays the same for long.  Since Shaun depicted them, many of the motorway’s monumental supports have sprouted an undecipherably complex tangle of scaffolding in a major process of renovation of the weathering concrete.  This cocoon of metallic struts and precarious zig-zag ladders has completely transformed the sensory experience of the place.  It converts an environment of cavernous monumentality and quasi-geology (albeit man-made), into something closer to a shimmering, silvery forest.

Remedial Maintenance Work, M5 Motorway, Oldbury, August 2017

As we pedalled back into Brum, Tim and I considered the relative merits of natural and man-made environments (not that all British environments aren't essentially man-made), and our subjective responses to them. Certainly, I'm more than happy to recline in a meadow, or stroll along a beach - when rest and relaxation are in order.  But I'm forced to conclude once again (as if there were any doubt), that it's in a hard-edged world of stained concrete, coiled barbed wire, or scribbled graffiti, that my creative sensibilities find greater nourishment.

Birmingham Canal, Old Line (Soho Loop), August 2017

[1.]:  David Byrne, 'Bicycle Diaries', London, Faber & Faber, 2010 (Paperback)

David Byrne: 'Bicycle Diaries'

I’m a longstanding Talking Heads enthusiast, being old enough to remember the impact of their first records in unashamedly bringing ‘Art’ into the post-Punk/New Wave equation, back in the late 1970s [1.].  It’s far from original to point out that their real genius lay in marrying leader David Byrne’s unconventionally analytical (possibly autistic) songwriting and twitchy mannerisms, with an unerring rhythmic nous, and willingness to prioritise the Funk, over tired Rock cliché.

Talking Heads. (L-R): David Byrne, Chris Frantz, Martina Weymouth, Jerry Harrison
(Photo: Rock Hall Library & Archive)

I’ve returned to the T.H. back catalogue consistently, since their somewhat rancorous dissolution in 1991, and their best recordings really never wear out.  For all that, I never really followed David Byrne’s prolific solo career with anything like the same dedication, despite his continuing exploration of numerous avenues of expression, through a variety of parallel media, over the intervening years.

David Byrne.  Still From: 'Stop Making Sense', (Dir.) Jonathan Demme, 1984,
Talking Heads/Arnold Stifle Co.

David Byrne, 2015

However, I couldn’t help noting the P.R push surrounding the release of his latest album, ‘American Utopia’, [2.] with its typically ironic (I assume) title, and associated, and very timely, drive to find much-needed 'Reasons To Be Cheerful' in our current global situation.  The media hype didn’t fulfill its assumed ambition of driving me to purchase the album.  However, it has generated some income for Mr. Byrne, in reminding me that he had written a couple of books in recent years (with both of which I’d been meaning to catch up) - and persuading me they might be exactly the kind of thing I could fancy reading right now.

David Byrne, New York City, 2011 (Photo: Buzz Photo)

David Byrne Aboard Folding Bicycle

I’ve yet to open ‘How Music Works’ [3.], but my impressions of the earlier ‘Bicycle Diaries’ [4.] are very favourable so far, it being an account of David Byrne’s enthusiasm for one of my own loves – namely, exploring cities by bike.  He’s quite rightly identified the pedal cycle as the perfect vehicle for conducting an expedition of urban discovery [5.].  It’s particularly pleasing to discover that he routinely travels the world with a folding bike, using it to devote much of his down-time from various creative endeavours, to exploring the cities he visits.  Byrne isn’t totally disengaged from a variety of constructive cycling activism, but this is a book about how the bike might be deployed as a creative tool - rather than a Bible for the gear-heads, fitness obsessives, lycra bores or two-wheeled warriors.  Most of his accounts focus on the things he finds out in the world, rather than on each turn of the crank it took to get there.

North Leicester, March 2018

Northwest Leicester, March 2018

It’s also encouraging to find he’s lost little of the fascinated objectivity, which made his early work so refreshing – and which always gave the suggestion of a visitor conducting a detailed research project into humanity and its self-built environments.  Of course, true objectivity is far from attainable for any artist (and this is what David Byrne remains, after all).  Nevertheless, I like the (now, often unfashionable) relativism of his approach, and the general attitude it seems to encapsulate, that ‘Everything Is Interesting’ [6.].  I particularly enjoy the fact that any emotional responses he may have, or any political, philosophical or otherwise theoretical conclusions he may draw, stem from simply going out to see what is actually there.  It is, closely akin to my own favoured approach, and represents a guiding principle that I aspire to maintaining in my process.

Northwest Leicester, March 2018

It would be foolish and unfair to attempt to review a book I’m still reading.  Instead, here are a couple of quotes that have impressed me, as I’ve jumped back and forth through the text, (it originated as a blog – which seems to encourage such a reading approach).  The first is from David Byrne’s own introduction, and the second concludes his Epilogue:

“This point of view [from a bicycle] - faster than a walk, slower than a train, often slightly higher than a person - became my panoramic window on much of the world over the last thirty years – and it still is.  It’s a big window and it looks out on a mainly urban landscape.  (I’m not a racer or a sports cyclist).  Through this window I catch glimpses of the mind of my fellow man, as expressed in the cities he lives in.  Cities, it occurred to me, are a manifestation of our deepest beliefs and our often unconscious thoughts, not so much as individuals, but as the social animals we are.  A cognitive scientist need only look at what we have made – the hives we have created – to know what we think and what we believe to be important, as well as how we structure those thoughts and beliefs.  It’s all there, in plain view, right out in the open; you don’t need CAT scans and cultural anthropologists to show you what’s going on inside the human mind; its inner workings are manifested in three dimensions, all around us.  Our values and hopes are sometimes awfully embarrassingly easy to read.  They’re right there – in the storefronts, museums, temples, shops, and office buildings and in how these structures interrelate, or sometimes don’t.  They say, in their unique visual language, “This is what we think matters, this is how we live and how we play”.  Riding a bike through all this is like navigating the collective neural pathways of some vast global mind.  It really is a trip inside the collective psyche of a compacted group of people.  A Fantastic Voyage, but without the cheesy special effects.  One can sense the collective brain – happy, cruel, deceitful, and generous – at work and at play.  Endless variations on familiar themes repeat and recur: triumphant or melancholic, hopeful or resigned, the permutations keep unfolding and multiplying.” [7.].

“I’m in my midfifties, so I can testify that biking as a way of getting around is not something only for the young and energetic.  You don’t really need the spandex, and unless you want it to be, biking is not all that strenuous.  It’s the liberating feeling – the physical and psychological sensation – that is more persuasive than any practical argument.  Seeing things from a point of view that is close enough to pedestrians, vendors and storefronts combined with getting around in a way that doesn’t feel completely divorced from the life that occurs on the streets is pure pleasure.

“Observing and engaging in a city’s life – even for a reticent and often shy person like me – is one of life’s great joys.  Being a social creature – it is part of what it means to be human.” [8.].

[1.]:  It’s fair to say that not only is 1979’s ‘Fear Of Music’ my favourite album by Talking Heads, but remains amongst my favourite albums by anyone.

[2.]:  David Byrne, ‘American Utopia’, Nonesuch/Todo Mundo, 2018

[3.]:  David Byrne, ‘Bicycle Diaries’, London, Faber & Faber, 2010 (Paperback)

[4.]:  David Byrne, ‘How Music Works’, London, Canongate Books, 2013

[5.]:  It extends one’s pedestrian range (particularly if your dodgy old legs don’t permit extended forays on foot).  It still embeds you firmly within your surroundings – being a physical extension, rather than an insulating capsule.  When deployed non-competitively, it affords a constructive connection between rhythmic physical activity and creative mental ‘flow’ - without becoming tediously all about the exercise (improved physical wellbeing as a side-effect of an engaged life sounds like a perfect win-win to me).  It negates the need for parking provision (especially if of the folding variety) – allowing one to simply jump from the saddle, lean it against a wall, and collect the next tranche of photos/impressions/evidence.  And (admittedly, after a little initial outlay) the running costs are pretty negligible.  Along with my camera, I can honestly say that my own bike has become so much of a trusted tool as to feel effectively like an inanimate friend, with which I share numerous invaluable small experiences.

[6.]:  ‘Everything Is Interesting’ is actually the title of a 2003 exibit at Birmingham’s Ikon Gallery, by Canadian Conceptualist, Kelly Mark.  They’ll still sell you a badge bearing the same legend, and it seems to me - an admirable dictum by which one might live a life, creative or otherwise.

[7, 8]:  David Byrne, ‘Bicycle Diaries’, London, Faber & Faber, 2010 (Paperback)