OF WALKING AND BLEEDING

The big reason I was in England was for an exhibition at London's City Hall, based on my novel Bleeding London.  Faithful readers will recall the character Stuart London who walks, or at least says he walks, every street in London. The Royal Photograph Society, in the person of Del Barrett, had organized what you might call a crowdsourced exhibition for which volunteers had gone out and taken photograph of every street in the city. 

This amazingly, improbably, they’d succeeded in doing – that’s 58,000 streets, 58,000 photographs, and a preliminary display of 1200 images was on display at London’s City Hall (and as I write still is).  The plan is that at some point in the future there’ll be a gigantic exhibition of all the photographs in a vast warehouse somewhere in London, and there’ll be an online archive as well.

The launch party/private view coincided with a strike of London tube drivers so attendance was a bit thinner than it might have been otherwise.  But as you see, one of the great attractions of the party space was the floor - a gigantic map of London, which allowed you to feel as though you were a giant walking across, and stamping on, its suburbs and center.

A couple of days after the party Jen Pedler, who’s a walking guide as well as a photographer, conducted “Stuart’s First Walk” – a nice five mile meander based on a description in the book of my character’s first foray into tramping all the streets of London.  He (and I) chose North Pole Road, in W10, as the starting point, simply because of the name.  

         “He knew he had to begin somewhere and he knew that in one sense, any place was as good as another, but he scanned the index of his A-Z looking for a street name that sounded appropriate. His eyes fell on a line that read North Pole Road. Next day he went there and started his walk.”

In the beginning Stuart just walks for the sake of it, but then he starts keeping a diary because he realizes he’s forgetting what he’s seen, and I do know the feeling, although as I proved, writing things down is no absolute guarantee that you’ll remember them.  Photographs surely stick in the mind a bit better.  In my occasional wearying attempts to turn Bleeding London into a screenplay I’ve always said to producers that in a movie version Stuart should be keeping a photo or video diary rather than a written one; but that has always been the least of the problems.

And so we guided walkers went walking along North Pole Road, following in Stuart London’s, and to some extent my, old footsteps. Full, unsurprising, disclosure: I by no means walked every street in London while writing the book.  This is the joy of writing fiction – you can make stuff up, though of course we all know that writers of non-fiction make stuff up too.  But there were some days when I pretended to be Stuart, walked where he walked, and certainly the book contains descriptions of things I actually saw while walking in London, not least in North Pole Road.

Jen Pedlar - by Steve Reed

Of course having the author himself on a walking tour based on his book was a curious thing, not least for the author. Someone had said to Jen that it would be like walking with Dickens, and yeah, sure that’s EXACTLY what it was like.  Jen had considered having me read out various passage as we waked, but in the event she decided against it, for which I was truly grateful.  I suspect it would have been excruciating for all concerned, but especially excruciating for me.

Since the book was published (oh good god) eighteen years ago, and I’m not a great re-reader of my own work, I was pretty vague about some of the things ‘d seen and described in the novel.  Other things, of course seemed clear as day.  Things in North Pole Road however, fell chiefly into the former category: without the book I’d have remembered hardly anything at all.

Of course some things had changed – the pub that had once been called the North Pole and then the New North Pole had been converted into a Tesco Express after much local protest, apparently.  But there was still plenty that hadn’t changed much at all.  There was still a florist and hairdresser as mentioned in the book, there was still Mick’s Fish Bar and also the newsagent which in the book I called Varishna’s which I now know was a misspelling.

And we walked beyond North Pole Road, seeing some things I remembered and rather more things I’d forgotten.  We walked by Wormwood Scrubs – the prison and the piece of land with the same name.

We went up Scrubs Lane, along the Harrow Road, across the Grand Union Canal and eventually past Erno Goldfinger’s Trellick Tower, to Ladbroke Grove.

I guess the most Proustian moment came in the Harrow Road.  There’s a moment in the book when Stuart sees “a tyre centre whose frontage had a mural depicting members of staff.” I’d forgotten all about this, and Jen who’d done a reccie of the route, hadn’t been able to find it either, and yet suddenly there it was, and all we Bleeding Londoners stood outside in quiet wonder, celebrating, taking photographs, while the guys who worked there, the current employees not depicted on the mural, looked on in suspicion.

photo by Steve Reed

And of course there was some stuff that surely couldn’t have been there back in the day: – this gloriously misspelled estate agent sign, for instance, gave me particular pleasure:

It’s always a hard work to walk in a group – the good thing about being with a bunch of photographers is that you can wander off by yourself and look at little curiosities and take pictures and everybody else understands – it slows the walk down but it also sharpens up your perceptions as you try to find new things to photograph, avoiding the more obvious stuff that everybody else is photographing. 

In the novel Stuart walks past the Kensal Rise Cemetery, but doesn’t go inside, I suspect because its paths don’t constitute actual London streets.  We had no such inhibition.  And while we were there Gareth Philips took this fairly fab photograph of the author.  (I confess I’ve messed with it a little). If I made record albums it would surely be on an album cover.

Photo by Gareth Phillips

You might argue about whether this is a pic of the author, or a pic the author being his character.  I’m pretty happy either way.  And maybe it’s both.  But I was reminded of this picture of William Burroughs and Jack Kerouac, authors who I don’t in other ways really resemble much:

They’re acting out a scene from their collaborative novel And the Hippos Were Boiled In Their Tanks, a kind of absurdist Dashiell Hammett pastiche.  I’m not sure that anyone has ever looked better, or greyer, or more sinister in his author pics than Mr. Burroughs.  He sure was photogenic, even when he wasn’t – if you know what I mean.

Jen Pedlar’s website is here: http://footprintsoflondon.com/guides/jen-pedler/

Steve Reed’s blog is here: http://shadowsteve.blogspot.com

The RPS site is here: http://www.bleedinglondon.co.uk

WALKING CIRCUITOUSLY

I’ve been back in England for a couple of weeks, doing the kind of things I do back in England; not least walking.  The pic below was taken in Saltaire in Yorkshire.

But most of my walking was done in London, an activity made more interesting by a couple of things. 

One:  the day after I arrived was the hottest in 46 years – 95 degrees F, 35.1degrees C.  A few people watching the tennis at Wimbledon collapsed from the heat, and I don’t imagine much recreational walking was done that day, though I did have to do a certain amount of essential pedestrianism in the morning and early afternoon, and somehow I survived.

Two: a week later the London Tube drivers went on strike.  Yes, there were extra buses put on, and there was a certain amount of Dunkirk spirit, though there were also a few scuffles in the insanely long bus queues, and the Transport For London website offered the advice “walk where possible.”

Meanwhile in the Evening Standard, Alastair Humphreys (a National Geographic Adventurer of the Year in 2012 apparently) was serving up some simple-minded, condescending twaddle under the headline “Tube strikes are the ideal excuse to get to know London better.”  He wrote, “I have learned that you don’t need to walk across a desert or a foreign land to have an interesting experience. I once walked a lap of the M25, seeking out beauty, pockets of wilderness and interesting surprises along the fringes of that much-maligned motorway. People I met along the way laughed at my plan, and I too knew that it sounded preposterous. But my 150-mile circumnavigation was a revelation.”

Well yes, a walk around the M25 - what a very original idea – or at least it maye have been when Iain Sinclair did it and wrote about it in his book London Orbital in 2002. 

Mind you, Sinclair appeared (not for the first time) in Private Eye’s Pseud’s Corner while I was in England, for this passage from his latest book, London Overground:

“I found myself eavesdropping on the climactic moan of the Overground. If the traffic ditch of Kingsland Road played like a gurgle of peristaltic juices recovering from a monster kebab, the Overground was a 14-hour sigh of mounting, but never-quite-satisfied sexual bliss.”

Ah me.  Safe to say that Alastair Humphreys is not aiming for any such baroque prose style.  His article continues, “So keep calm and walk on. Seek out a new route, down quiet streets you’ve never seen before. Follow your nose and meander a bit: don’t just slavishly follow the map on your phone. You see so much more if you look up and follow your nose. Savour the slowness. Enjoy a coffee from a different café, refresh yourself at a new pub.”

Now, I’m not sure what audience Humphreys imagines he’s writing for here, but it seems to me that anybody who needs to be TOLD to walk to a new pub probably shouldn’t even be allowed out of the house without a minder, but maybe it'll be different coming from an adventurer.

A SORT OF SUBURBAN RAMBLE

I’ve been thinking about suburbs.  It’s one of those words, and indeed concepts, that tends to slip away and lose its meaning the more you think about it.   The word has its origins in ancient Rome – sub for lower, urbs for walled city, so the suburb was lower than the city, but that works because Rome was built on seven hills.  The same doesn’t apply everywhere.

Dictionaries are only partially helpful.  Merriam Webster tell us:  a) an outlying part of a city or town, b) a smaller community adjacent to or within commuting distance of a city.  Which only raises question of how we define outlying, adjacent and commuting distance.  London’s Hampstead Garden Suburb, for instance, is only about 5 and a half miles from Marble Arch, which counts as pretty darn central by any London standard I know.

Of course suburbs get a lot of bad press for being too tame, too pleasant, too conformist, which of course is why a lot of people move there.  I grew up in various suburbs in Sheffield, in England, and at the time I’m sure I thought they were evil and constricting, but in retrospect I think it may have been the life of a teenager, going to school, living at home with my parents, that was getting me down, rather than the suburb itself.

Equally, although I think of myself as an urban walker, a fair proportion of my walking has been done (depending on your definition) in suburbs.  I definitely don’t hate the suburbs or suburban walking but obviously when you walk the there you don’t see much of people’s lives.  Suburbanites tend to present a clean, orderly facade to the world, and what goes on behind it is anybody’s guess; though it can be fun guessing.  See the novels John Updike, more or less passim.

And now I live in Los Angeles which by some accounts (though not all) is one of the most suburban cities in the world.  Some people say that’s changing or at least that’s want they want to believe.  The main evidence seems to be that developers are building stonking great developments in the middle of borderline suburban areas, (Hollywood is the place I know most about, but it’s happening all over the city).  This extra density will allegedly make more people walk, and it may well do, in the sense that traffic around these developments may get so bad that using a car will become simply not viable.

Another possibility of course is that people will move out to more thoroughly suburban areas where they can again have their own house and plot of land, and actually use their cars.  As for whether people actually walk any less in the suburbs than in cities, well I’m not sure, I’d like to see some research.

Before I lived in LA I lived in Brooklyn – where I (and everybody else) did a fair amount of walking.  I certainly didn’t have a car.  There seems to be some argument about whether Brooklyn is a suburb or not.  Is it sub to the urb of Manhattan, or is it an urb in its own right?  I have no dog in that fight, although if space, plots of land, and single-family homes are defining features of suburbia, much of Brooklyn comes up short.

In 2001 I was living in Brooklyn’s Park Slope, in an apartment at the top of a fifth floor walk-up.  There was access to the flat roof, and although I went up there once in a while it was kind of scary – a low parapet and I wasn’t sure that the roof was actually very strong.  You got a clear view of the twin towers from up there, but you could see them almost as well from our living room window.

One man we do who know spent some time on his Brooklyn roof is the composer William Basinski.  He writes in the liner notes to his majestic Disintegration Loops.  “On September 11^th I was on my roof in Brooklyn, less than one nautical mile from the World Trade Center: our beacon, our compass … my nightlight.”  On the previous day he’d created his masterwork while archiving loops of decaying magnetic tape, and he played the piece as the ruins of the towers burned, and he set up a borrowed video camera to film the rising smoke.  The results can be seen on YouTube, though it’s a video that thoroughly shows the limitations of YouTube.

I never exactly thought of the twin tours as a beacon or compass.  I found them hard to love, and I think most New Yorkers felt the same way until they became a symbol in their absence, but I certainly looked at them out of my window and every morning – although in certain weather conditions you couldn’t see them at all.

It would be some time before I, and the world, discovered Basinski and Disintegration Loops,  before that work became the necessary, the required, in some ways the only musical response to that moment in New York history.  But I do remember, after 9/11, wanting to listen to music and having trouble finding the “right” thing.  I listened to Talking Heads’ “Life During Wartime” quite a lot.

The Concert for New York City at Madison Square Garden wasn’t much help.  David Bowie sang Paul Simon’s America and that seemed good and appropriate, but Bon Jovi sang “Livin on a Prayer” and “Wanted Dead or Alive”, McCartney sang “Yesterday” and “Let It Be”; which were no doubt well-meaning – and of course very moving, we were all emotionally naked at the time. but somehow they missed the point.  James Taylor, curiously enough, sang Goffin and King’s “Up On the Roof.” 

Even if the organizers had heard of William Basinksi and Disintegration Loops, it seems unlikely they’d have thought that a work of heart-breaking serial minimalism was quite the thing for the crowd at Madison Square Garden.

Will it surprise you that William Basinksi now lives in Los Angeles?  And if I have his address right (and I believe I do) it’s in the utterly suburban enclave of Mar Vista.

And so, like any good boulevardier, finding myself in Mar Vista, I went for a walk that took me past the great man’s house.  I found it easily enough: a small, neat, bungalow, offering a pleasant, unexceptional face to the world.  It didn’t have the kind of roof you could easily stand on.  Who would guess that a major American artist lived here?   

The sidewalk ran very close to the front of the house.  Even without trespassing I got the clear impression that somebody was in the house.  The front door was open, with a screen door in place.   I could see there was a light on in the kitchen – it was actually a lava lamp – on a table right by the window.  In fact the sidewalk was near enough to the house that I could hear voices inside, not “live” voices, but voices on a TV or radio, sounding a little distorted and repetitive.  Could this have been a sampled and looped piece of sound art in the making?  Nah, probably not.

I wasn’t intending to do much of anything.  If I’d happened to see Basinksi sitting in his front garden, or getting in his car, or setting off on a walk, I’d surely have said hello – but I didn’t intend to ring his front door bell, and yet, egged on slightly by my faithful companion, that’s exactly what I did.

It was perhaps inevitably, and perhaps for the best, a non-event.  The voices continued, nothing changed in the house, in fact nothing happened at all. And certainly nobody came to answer the door.  I am not a postman, I only rang once, and then I went on my way.

Since then I’ve struggled to find much hard evidence that Basinksi is much of a walker – but I did find this in an interview with Andrew Parks on the Self-Titled magazine website, about first arriving in New York with his boyfriend James Elaine:

“We saved our money and moved there in 1980. We got there on April Fool’s Day, the first day of the legendary two-week transit strike…  I remember the first day–we both had on new cowboy boots and skinny black jeans, just ready to take over the minute we got to Grand Central Station. God, we ended up walking all over town, and by the time we got home, we had such blisters. I think we went and bought some Converse tennis shoes the next day.” 

Mr B, looking as though he might well be in his cowboy boots and skinny jeans phase.

Oh, and here’s a belated coda to the Basinksi/suburbia rumination.  In an interview with the website 20jazzfunkgreats.co.uk he says,

“Some of my earliest memories are of living in a brand new 60’s era planned utopian subdivision near NASA, watching the black and white television broadcasts of the rockets going up.  The wonder of men going to the moon! We moved to Florida around 1966 and Dad was working on the Lunar Module for a NASA contractor there.  We watched the rockets go up from the beach, visited Cape Canaveral. Once the launched an unmanned rocket at night.  We watched it from our yard.  It began to go off course and had to be destroyed.  The entire sky lit up orange!  There were always sonic booms and once I saw the strangest anomaly in the sky…it was a bizarre cloud but looked like a colored oil slick one might see in a puddle on the street.”

I guess life in suburbia isn’t always boring.