'The Annihilation of Time And Space: Embankments

 

All Images: Lincoln Eastern Bypass (Upper Reaches), July 2023

Summer steadily trickles away, and (as so many times before) I'm faced with the prospect of far too many creative projects simultaneously in play, and relatively little actual 'product' to show for any single one of them. Nevertheless, I'm also aware that yet more naval-gazing over such perceived problems is merely another distraction. Nobody imposes any of this on me - it's all cheerfully embraced, after all. And ultimately, having too many ideas, or feeling creatively over-stimulated, is hardly the worst problem.

It is a little baffling how quickly/easily a little clutch of photos - taken spontaneously in a particular location, one day, can blow-up into an ever-expanding, multi-layered potential project, requiring multiple return visits (and extended photo-editing sessions). However, this has to be preferable to feeling disengaged or uninspired in the final analysis. Without getting too existential about things, it must be better to check-out with a list of things still to do, than to merely wait for the end in a state of inertia. The days may continue to dwindle down, but a healthy to-do list might just be the healthiest form of distraction of all. In the Deleuzian sense, perhaps all that really matters is that we continue the process of 'becoming' until (perhaps even after?) the passage of time intervenes definitively.

Crikey! - that got philosophical pretty quickly. The intended function of this post is really just to highlight how the work goes on, and to look eastwards again, to the Lincoln Eastern Bypass, after having mostly been staring down the M5 to Bristol's Floating Harbour in recent weeks. The images here document one aspect of my most recent research trip to the bypass. Actually, I'm wondering if this might be the last such for a while, given that they serve to fill-in the missing upper reaches.

Over a period of around a year, I have now managed to collect images from the entirety of the Eastern section of the overall bypass, completed in December 2020 (this is the section still new enough to retain some kind of slightly 'alien' resonance within the landscape, and the one with the most personal/subjective significance for me). Certainly, there is now more than enough raw material to keep me tied-up for quite a while. In the interests of progressing things, it would seem only sensible to ease-off on the collecting phase, and move into the actually-doing-something-about-it phase. By coincidence, my Bristol-focused project(s) are approaching a similar point, I think. It feels like the Autumn/Winter months may see things start to coalesce a little more noticeably.

One obvious way in to that process is to start sorting the visual raw material into various categories (subject, motif, formal elements, thematic potential, etc.). That's clearly one way to avoid becoming overwhelmed, and to break things into chewable pieces. However, the cross-referencing of, and interplay between, such groupings is also often how the unexpected connections and significant correspondences may begin to emerge. The real key is to  avoid rigid pigeonholing, or trite logics, and to maintain fluid or porous boundaries. One clumsy analogy might be a process of ring-fencing in which all gates are deliberately left open (and vigilance is maintained regarding any productively wandering black sheep).

Consequently, in the interests of preliminary organisation, this little batch of images all fit into the category of  Embankments. Such artificially elevated earthworks are a major feature throughout this heavily engineered landscape, and they serve to delineate the new road's imposition upon the map. In some cases they represent a grand topographical statement, in others - a more modest barrier. Whatever the scale of any particular section, the embankments are muscular in their geometry overall - and also inject a range of dynamic perspectives into what is, at first glance, a supremely bland region. The more I become embedded within it, the more i realise I am often looking either up or down, and that this is as much a function of the embankments as the more general contours of the general  landscape. Passing vehicles are often raised above my eye line, or else I am looking down upon their roofs. It only serves to underline the separation between the time-perception of the motorist or delivery driver, and that of the runner, cyclist, dog walker, itinerant artist/photographer, or any individual  whose workplace might reside in the surrounding landscape itself.

The other features which particularly capture my attention amongst the embankments, are those endless serried ranks of desultory saplings, dutifully plugged into the earth within their plastic sheathes. I have no idea whether, in decades to come, these will be transformed into majestic stands of trees (the long-term goal is, I suppose - to provide some further degree of screening, or else some simulacra of organic woodland). However, in their current state , they simply seem to punctuate the sense of a profound disconnect between the agendas and demands of modern life, and any symbiotically meaningful relationship with the 'natural' world. One is even tempted to speculate whether they were simply programmed into the road scheme in fulfilment of some quota or other (is each one accounted for - I wonder?). Mostly, they just serve to remind me that, whilst green may be the dominant colour in these images, we are still inescapably in the Edgelands here. Indeed, the city is just out of shot in each case. The very disconnect mentioned above is, of course, the defining feature of such liminal zones.

'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.

Asylum Steampunk Festival 2017 (The British At Play)

All Images: Asylum Steampunk Festival, Lincoln, August 2017

I’m running a bit late with my posts at the moment, so apologies for this one being already three weeks shy of the event it reports on.  It relates to my recent afternoon spent at Lincoln’s Asylum Steampunk Festival – a repeat of a similar excursion, two years ago.  Just as then, it felt like it would be an entertaining enough way to round off the summer holidays – and waking to one of the sunniest days in August sealed the deal.  So - I jumped in the car and zoomed over to the old hometown.

I have no personal involvement with Steampunk, as a subculture - other than as a spectator.  However, the numerous eccentrics, exhibitionists and fantasists who have, constitute an enjoyable spectacle, as they promenade around the quaint environs of Lincoln’s historic centre.  Investment in a wristband, to gain admission to the various organised events and dedicated venues, would - I imagine, bring one in contact with the movement’s real hardcore.  However, as before, I contented myself with simply strolling amongst the crowds in Castle Square, around the Cathedral, and along Westgate –pausing for the occasional tea break, and  taking numerous photos.  Some of the results can be seen here.

If I’m honest, the initial impact on me was just slightly reduced this time - but I suspect that’s just the result of a certain familiarity, rather than any real lack of enthusiasm or involvement on the part the participants.  Certainly, much raiding of the dressing-up box had still clearly taken place.  I do wonder though, if (as all subcultures must) the Steampunk phenomenon has lost a little of its initial creative spark – possibly defaulting to a set of relatively predictable tropes.  Thus, amongst the copious standard-issue waistcoats, flamboyant skirts, goggles and brass cog accessories, it was pleasing to come across the occasional spark of genuine inventiveness or attention to detail.

Special mention should thus go to the young woman in the slightly ramshackle, but pleasingly alternative, glazed cast-iron headdress.  Another, in an absolutely immaculate, oriental-themed ensemble, also impressed me - not least for the sheer amount of effort that had gone in.  I was not alone, as she became effectively trapped at the Cathedral’s west front - expertly posing for an endless series of impromptu photo-shoots.  I can only hope she won some kind of prize over the festival weekend.

It did strike me that, for many, the more fantastical aesthetics of Steampunk can blend all too seamlessly into a rather more generalised strain of Victoriana.  In fact, as I sipped my cuppa in front of my old junior school, I was intrigued by an overheard conversation nearby.  It revealed that, for one party at least, this gathering was just another slot in a packed calendar of re-enactment events, that might see her dipping in and out of numerous historical periods.  (This week - The Age of Steam: next week - The Wars of the Roses).

This in turn, led me to reflect on how, for the British, so much leisure time is spent longingly projecting into the past.  If Steampunk could be identified as one of the last real subcultural flowerings, it is one with a distinct nostalgia for a supposed golden age at its heart.  Certainly, there is little about it that could be said to actively critique current society (other than a desire to escape from it).  I also sense that, these days any hauntological intent, or sense of an alternative future haunted by the technology of the past, is somewhat diluted.  The overall vibe seems now to have defaulted to do a fairly generic affection for corsetry, brass fittings and quasi-military costumes.

Look a little harder, and more critically, and one’s eye also fixes on the preponderance of union jacks and the unmistakable fetishisation of Britain’s Imperial past.  Is it just me, (possibly squinting too hard through the filter of my current artistic preoccupations) – or is this all slightly problematic in our current, distinctly fractured, socio-political moment?  Certainly, I find it hard to regard any age defined by bellicosity and expansionism as a golden one [1.].  Under the jolly, picturesque surface, could it all really be just another (if slightly alternative) symptom of that defining British disease – terminal nostalgia?

Ultimately though, it probably doesn’t do to get too po-faced about it all.  I doubt many of the Steampunks feel the need too delve too self-analytically into the motives behind their pastime.  And the general mood in Lincoln was seemingly one of relaxed theatricality - rather than of strident jingoism or aggressive xenophobia. It's also important to remember that most subcultures have a darker side.  A degree of transgression is part of the deal, after all.  In fact, it may be that those troubling strands of British consciousness are more likely to be unearthed amongst the civilians on housing estates, in anonymous suburbs, or dining at weekend carveries - than amongst the cheery oddballs at the Asylum.

[1.]:  Given the choice, I'll take the Post War Consensus and The Welfare State (for all their defects) any day of the week.

Rural Retreat ('Run Away')

All Images: Washingborough, Lincolnshire, December 2015

The remaining Christmas leftovers are being turned into soup and the wrapping paper being consigned to the recycling bin.  The festive period, (and indeed - the year), reaches its culmination, as I write.

As in recent years, I spent a few days over Christmas itself, at my Mother’s home on the outskirts of Lincoln, where I grew up.  It’s normally been my habit to spend a little time wandering the streets of my old hometown, camera in hand, if only as an aid to digestion, but I didn’t really find time to do that this year.  Instead, snatching a brief window of respite between the seemingly endless procession of deluges, I made do with a brief turn around, Washingborough, the village my Mum and Stepdad inhabit.

Washingborough is a combination of dormitory and retirement home, and lies in clear view of the city - just a few miles distant, across the River Witham.  It’s a pleasant enough spot, and I’m sure, a perfectly comfortable place to grow old.  Sadly though, I can’t pretend I find much sensory or intellectual stimulation there.  Indeed, spending time in such placid places makes me realise just how reliant my own creative sensibilities have become on the sharp edges, stimulating frictions and perpetual churn of urban life.  These days, it feels distinctly odd to walk past walls devoid of graffiti or illuminated signage, or to find myself not negotiating a complex architectural and psychological labyrinth, by whatever means.

Anyway, creative activity shouldn’t be about stubbornly revisiting the same old sources with potentially diminishing returns.  It’s important to work the visual and mental muscles a little harder sometimes, in search of what stimulation may actually be hidden beneath the surface of superficially less interesting environments.  As this handful of images prove, there’s always something there, even if you have to work harder, or zoom in a little closer, to find it.

As it turned out, what I eventually found was actually more of the same kind of stuff I might easily have found in Leicester, Nottingham or Birmingham, albeit in smaller, more marginal pockets.  Perhaps not surprisingly, most of these images derive from the site of a disused, partially redeveloped railway house and adjacent river wharf, at the very edge of the village.  It can be no accident that the location that drew my lens is one characterised by marginality, liminality and functional transition.  I can’t help noting that it also marks a way out of Washingborough, (and potentially back to town), via the alternative route of the waterway, and the cycle path, (now replacing the decommissioned railway line), that runs alongside.

I suppose you could argue this is just another example of my resort to a familiar, (anti-) picturesque aesthetic, and that the truly creative path might have been to find ways of engaging with less customary subject matter, - to interact with the environment on its, rather than my, own terms.  But I’m just not ready to become a Ruralist, I’m afraid.  On the day, in a world of mellow stonework, mud and tweety birds [1.], the discovery of some fragments of graffiti, evidence of a lost notice, the repeat-patterns of metal grid work, some whited-out windows, and the inevitable hazard stripes, felt like small triumphs.

Actually, I suspect the real resonance may have derived from the juxtaposition of the two sensibilities, or perhaps from the realisation that the ideas of ‘Urban’ and ‘Rural’ (more Sub-Rural here, to be honest), are essentially artificial constructs.  That is equally represented by the possibly misleading premise on which I began this post.  The British may remain resolutely wedded to the idea of the pretty rural village, but in an island so tightly packed, and long since industrialised, (and now, increasingly de-industrialised), this can be seen as artificially fictional a vision as any born from the city.  Indeed, the reality of Washingborough is actually one of a situation only just beyond the city boundary, connected by easily accessible roads and high-speed broadband, in which the Lord of the Manor’s Hall is now a hotel, and the original core of the village adjoins a much larger, mid-twentieth century housing estate.

The hour I spent taking these shots, (and the subsequent hour spent reflecting on them whilst writing this), remind me that, for all my habitual focus on a contained urban milieu, and the contrasting, persistent British reverie of an imagined Arcadia beyond the city walls, it’s at the points where one bleeds into the other that the reality of our contemporary experience often really lies.

Anyway, philosophising aside, the real point of this post is really about the happy acceptance that my own creative process/practice runs as a continuous narrative, even if  only in the background or in less promising situations, (or via admittedly, fairly standard motifs).  I couldn't turn it off now, even if I wanted to.  That’s not such a bad spirit in which to step into another year.

Happy New Year…

[1.]:  Please don't think I'm opposed to tweety birds.  My own city-centre back yard currently boasts four bird feeders and is regularly visited by mobs of greedy Tits and Finches.  It's a bit like an ornithological McDonalds, I suspect.