Mystery Island

There’s an incredibly clear view of Mystery Island today.

Mystery Island just appears on the horizon then disappears again, roughly west-nor-west of Margate. Sometimes it’s visible for a whole day.

It’s not on any maps.

Thanet families tell of people who have tried to sail there. Either the island is gone by the time they get there – or they are never heard from again.

-vfwdem

For a couple of years, I logged my sightings of Mystery Island in this school book, kept in my grandma’s old bureau.

I Tweeted about the log, and while I was working in Stoke, my flat was burgled – the only thing taken was the old school book. There was no sign of forced entry.

I have heard it called Cameloth locally, and there are whispers that it was lost after the Romans left Britain.

About ten years ago, one of those old Cold War USSR maps was declassified, showing targets for nuclear warheads. RAF Manston was on there, of course, and the naval docks at Chatham.

One was going to drop out at sea, though – just where you’d expect to find Mystery Island.

People have said it is an optical illusion, a reflection. I think Mystery Island is more an echo, of all the islands we have ever read about in stories.

 

Turner Contemporary Margate Sky – Poet-in-Residence

The view from Turner Contemporary’s windows looks out over the horizon and often frames mesmerizing sunsets.  Whilst the Covid 19 crisis closed the gallery, they installed a live camera so that audiences around the world could be inspired by the sea and sky, wherever they are. The live feed ran 24 hours a day for one week.

Dan Thompson – Webcam Poet In Residence

Dan Thompson was a virtual poet-in-residence, writing short sketch poems across the week with a final poem produced in response to the Live Feed. You can read Turner Contemporary Webcam Poems (pdf).

Dan Thompson is a Kent writer. He was Poet-in-Residence for Lincoln’s digital arts festival Frequency in 2019, and has previously been Poet-in-Residence for the Worthing Herald. He believes this is the first time a webcam has had its own Poet-in-Residence. Last year, he published Your England, a collection of poems about people and places in England which tell a history of the country. For ten years he ran the Roundabout poetry events in Worthing, and for three years hosted Landing Place at Turner Contemporary.

20140213_145623

A History of a View, 1720-2020

10 July, 2020
This view is too wide and deep for pixels. You need to come, be still here, where Turner and Vaughan Williams and TS Eliot stopped. Here, this exact geographical point is where they found the borders, lines, delineation to frame England. This view.

8 October, 2017, 02:42
The Officer of the Watch
lets the Master sleep,
forgetting a rising tide lifts all ships,
and if your anchor chain isn’t long enough,
with a north west wind, you drift ashore.

11 January, 1978
The King Tide is predictable,
and so is the fact that an old pier,
unloved, will always fall into the sea.

30 May, 1940
Margate is pretty dead.
Ten tin hats, and
a box of cigarettes,
and the Lifeboat crew
launch down the slip,
to see if Dunkirk
is any different.

4 August, 1914
It felt odd, to stop,
on the way to the Pole,
to walk along
a Pleasure-Pier
as war broke out,
past Palmist and
camera obscura,
to find out if we
would have to fight –
but ‘proceed’,
Winston said,
so we sailed
south, away from war.

29 November, 1897
Gone, all gone –
the Palace is out to sea,
the sprung ballroom floor,
Switchback Railway,
a thousand shell trinkets
and porcelain novelties –
the mer-folk have them.

1 January, 1877
The wind brings a ship
through the deck, neatly
separating pierhead
from land.
Fifty people spend a day
picnicking unexpectedly
at sea.

1853
Eugenius has a plan, paces
the foreshore at low tide.
Will screw iron monoliths
into chalk. This is No.1 in
a chain, England’s stop line,
keeping faerie folk away.

March, 1834
Come back to bed, I say,
and draw me:
but downstairs,
he has his easel,
and he loves
the sea and sky
more than me.
Or, at least as much.

1824
We raised a petition,
wrote letters to the
Isle of Thanet Times,
objected to the
Pier Co’s plans
but they won,
and ruined our view.

Well, for
the next 150 years.

14 January, 1808
The sea is in the kitchens
of Cold Harbour houses,
crabs in the cooking-pots,
seaweed broth for supper.

1785
A boy, from the School up Love Lane,
sits here, draws clouds. Again and again.

10 July, 1720
There is not one gentleman
who still lives on this island.
The harbour has silted up.
The Masters of Ships left,
their money gone to London.
All that’s left is a view – and
there’s no profit in that.

Five Unmade Projects from Dan Thompson Studio

These are just five of a large number of unmade projects. While I still hope that they will be made one day (and maybe sharing them in this way will bring people forward who might help), I also think there is a beauty in them just as ideas.

“A man’s vision is his responsibility. If you have an idea, make it happen. Find the brothers and the sisters, find the resources, and do it. Your personal autonomy and power expose the shallowness of endless theorising and debate. Visions become real by being acted out, and once real serve as endless inspiration and free food for the public imagination.” Peter Coyote

Idea No. 1 A folk band tour folk clubs, and play folk arrangements of Pet Shop Boys songs.

Idea No. 2 All the windows in Arlington House, Margate are fitted with new roller blinds. Each floor has a different colour, so the towerblock becomes a rainbow.

Idea No. 3 Two musicians, piano and violin, play A Lark Ascending on the cliffs near Margate, where it was written on the day the First World War broke out.

20140120_162323

Idea No. 4 A flotilla of model boats fitted with GPS trackers are set adrift in the Thames Estuary.

Idea No. 5 A white bell-tent, like the ones used by the British Army in the First World War, tours England’s festivals and village fetes as a space for conversations about peace and reconciliation.

Alastair Campbell’s Ten Points of Crisis Management

1. Devise, execute but also narrate clear strategy

2. Show strong, clear and consistent leadership

3. Ensure a strong centre

4. Throw everything at it

5. Use experts well

6. Deploy a strong team

7. Make the big moments count

8. Take the public with you

9. Show genuine empathy for people affected by the crisis

10. Give hope – but never false hope

From an article in The Independent today, 30 May 2020.

Sailing

It is impossible to understand my place in all that has unfolded.

I might be the most fortunate, the luckiest of everyone who has lived these last four years. But I might, equally, make the opposite assumption, and believe myself to be the least fortunate. There is, as yet, no way to measure, and either conclusion could break the keel of my boat and pitch me mad into the black water.

The things that used to mark the points between certainty and risk are still there. The old buoys are marking the sea-roads – from here, where my desk in the top room of this Georgian townhouse looks out over the sea, I can see them blinking at night – but the tidal waters have shifted the vast sandbanks under them, and nobody from Trinity House is coming to move the buoys to mark the change in circumstances.

P1190977

After all, there is no need. The tankers between here and the horizon haven’t moved for years. It is possible some of their crews are still alive, building a new life from whatever was packed into the hundreds of shipping containers from China and India, but it seems unlikely. Early on, some crews came ashore in small boats to ask for help from the locals, but like the Hartlepool Monkey, they were met with misunderstanding. What we had in common wasn’t enough to bridge the wide sea that kept us apart.

Out on the moored ships, the Plimsoll Line measures buoyancy in salt water, but the salinity of the seas has changed and the line is off.

We imagine that, with study, we can know the past, much as the ship’s captain knows the safe passage along the coastline to the harbour by studying maps and taking compass readings. But nautical charts change, year after year, and magnetic north swings one way and the other. And for historians, as every year another batch of papers were released from government storage, the past shifted.

Is anybody adding new papers to the secret archives now? It is possible that some Civil Servants, working with old muscle memory, are making sure that there are minutes and these are filed. The Thirty Year Rule may still stand.

The Prime Minister disappeared, though, after a broadcast in which he looked particularly unwell, and the Ministers at the weekly government press conference became more and more obscure after that. By the last broadcast there were Ministers I had never seen before, and it seems certain they had been given minor posts in return for some favour, not for their natural ability, and had no idea about how to manage the country in collapse. But there hasn’t been a broadcast for well over a year now. It is possible that government still functions, but if it does, it is hard to believe that it has any real centre, certainty or control.

P1190998

And if the shifting past is hard to understand, if the real truth was obscured by time all along, well – even the greatest clairvoyant in all Europe cannot know the future. I remember, two weeks into all this, the local paper printed an apology. Our horoscopes, they said, were written before we were told to stay at home, and some of our advice should not, now, be followed. This wasn’t, then, written in the stars.

I have tried to read the tarot, but The Fool comes up, time and time again. A dancing figure, dressed in motley, in the painting on my cards holding an old pocket-watch.

So if time past and time future are of little use to us, all we can really know is time present.

Years ago, before this, the now that we knew about was wide and deep and fast, like the estuary mouth at spring tide with a storm wind coming in. If there were bushfires in Australia, or a storm in Japan, or floods in America, we would know in minutes. But, one after another, the nodal points in the network of knowledge that underpinned our understanding of the whole world have collapsed. First, it was the news reporters, moving first from London studios to isolation and an ISDN line from their kitchen tables, but they blinked out one-by-one as local infrastructure failed and nobody came to repair it.

Then, one server after another went off line, and the social, real-time version of the internet we had come to take for granted slowed, became sluggish, like the silting-up of a river mouth that cuts off an old harbour. By the time it became as slow as a semaphore network, it seemed that most people had given up. The alternative, that most of them are just not there anymore, is harder to imagine.

It is possible to believe that the ships no longer come to your town because the river flows have changed. It is awful to think that there are no longer any ships, and nowhere for them to come from.

P1180667

 

For a long time, we would be momentarily thankful once a week that somebody was still maintaining the barest of power networks, and there was the broadcast from the Her Majesty’s Government, which had left a Westminster that flooded after staff abandoned the Thames Barrier and was now broadcasting from ‘Somewhere in England’.

In a broadcast a few months before the last one, I remember a passing mention that the Queen, the last senior member of the Royal Family, was ill. It seems certain that she, like her husband and oldest son, has gone: but who is going to organise a Coronation now? So, I presume it is still Her Majesty’s Government. It is another of the things that we not only don’t talk about, but never think about, because thinking about them would be too much. To write ‘Here Be Monsters’ on the chart, to mark it and never go there, is far easier than to face the uncertainty of sailing across that piece of the sea.

P1160328

I think it might soon be time to face the uncertainty, though. Four years in, and I am the last person in the town.

This place used to fill at the weekends, with Londoners. The Georgians came by steamship down the Thames, huddled under blankets with bread and cold meat in a wicker basket, then the Victorians followed on the railway line that threaded the North Kent towns together, and then between the World Wars a new crowd came, couples by car, with a thick RAC guide in the glove-box and a Thermos on the back seat, or whole works outings together in a coach.

Latterly, the town had discovered all this heritage, repackaged it, and become the favourite place for Londoners looking for the modern version of the dirty weekend. At weekends, the pins on the map on apps offering casual sex would blink into existence, one after another, as the people looking for momentary comfort in strangers would mingle in the cafes along the front with the couples, down from London on a first date, each with a tick-list and such certainty that they knew what they wanted already that it precluded any opportunity to find common ground over time.

All that stopped, quite suddenly, in the first week of the lockdown. The news showed the beaches and parks in other places still full, the government’s ask that everyone stay home ignored, but here it was like a light was turned off.

 

And as the shops and cafes closed, the people who had survived those first dates and moved together from London – ‘oh we love the calm, the quiet, the vastness of the sea, the cold wind and the emptiness in winter. It is the perfect place to start a family.’ – packed cases and boxes, sent ex-industrial table with four French chairs and old lamps and the comfortable reupholstered sofa ahead of them, and drifted back to London. As it dwindled, humanity drew closer to humanity, huddled together for warmth, the cities collapsing in on themselves until they became like the oldest circles of stone houses in Orkney, and that final closeness only hastened the spread and the end.

22488765014_5762f06585_o

For a few of us, though, this new life seems entirely natural, as though this is exactly how we should be living.

I stayed, watching as the town emptied out. I left the small flat I owned, off the High Street, and found this abandoned four-storey townhouse on the front, the rooms mostly empty but the Farrow & Ball walls, built-in bookcases and the basement kitchen made from old teak school cupboards a clear indicator of the type of people who had left. Then I collected and gathered; food, books, medicine, and clothing.

Like a captain planning for a long voyage, I laid down provisions and worked out how to navigate from the land we had known, and took to be real and certain, for the new one. A land that appeared on the horizon, first as a faint smudge that could be either cloud or land, but which then became more certain, more solid not as new things were added to our knowledge, but by a process of removal. With the loss of each old thing, with the fading of certainties, the new land became clearer. I made new charts.

This house was built, at least in part, from the timbers of old ships. The wood in the roof smells of pitch and salt. And it holds, in its construction, the memory of a ship, and so it groans and shifts and twists when there is a storm. From up here, the highest point, I can watch the storms move in, west to east along the coastline, until they hit here.

16850104936_59196bfe19_o

As the house starts to come adrift in the salted wind of a good storm, I move downstairs, riding out the roughest weather in the basement, closer to the wet warmth of the Aga I salvaged and carried here, piece by piece on a trolley made from an old bicycle trailer that belonged to some middle-class family who had fled, and once carried nothing heavier than children on the way to the Montessori nursery, or the vegetable box from the local farm.

I have everything I need here. I have rooms full of food, wide and empty countryside to forage for more, and can catch fish, crabs, and lobsters easily in the abandoned tidal pools where people used to swim.

On the old radio programme Desert Island Discs, castaways got a book, the complete works of Shakespeare, and the Bible. I have a library with enough books to read for the rest of my life, and many are beautiful editions, too. Bill Brandt’s The English At Home, a first edition of The Waste Land, The Snow Goose signed by Paul Gallico, a shelf of Charles Keeping picture-books, rows of old Penguin paperbacks, and leatherbound local history books, found abandoned in the library.

And I have music, more than the eight discs I am allowed. A wind-up gramophone, and a Dansette wired up to a wind turbine from a caravan, parked in the drive of one of the well-off 1930s suburban houses a little way inland. The best record collection I have ever owned, scavenged from closed record shops and left behind in empty homes. Old 78s, psychedelia, classic jazz, and – perhaps the records I treasure the most – poetry readings, old Open University tutorials, and recordings of radio broadcasts, Churchill and the Apollo astronauts. Voices, speaking, the sound of other people.

P1200050

But with all this, with comfort and safety, I am hankering for a real sea. There are boats, in the harbour, and one – a sailing boat from the 1930s, when sailing became the pursuit of a certain class, she looks like something from a Nevil Shute novel – is still afloat, sound, straining at each rising tide to leave the safety of the stone pier.

From here, if I keep the coastline to the port side, I should be able to reach the Orkney Islands.

Four thousand years ago, it seems, a new culture arrived there, in the very north of the British Isles, and spread to the south. Scapa Flow was always the country’s safest harbour, the place the Royal Navy retreated to, for safety, and sailed from, in times of war. It is the start and the end of this country. What was here, for a few thousand years, has ended. I might sail north, and start again.

Sailing: Dan Thompson 05/04/2020

Not Going Back

“Albert! Bobby! For god’s sake, burn it down!” Chumbawamba, Give The Anarchist A Cigarette

signs-of-the-times-march-2-9

Some of us knew this was coming. Two groups have people have consistently imagined different futures, and this is one of them. So as the world falls apart it has been to the mystics, the gnostics, to the soothsayers that we have turned: we have looked to the artists and scientists.

While we see the arts and the sciences as opposites, they really aren’t. The line between them is tenjugo-thin.   Both artists and scientists observe carefully, then dream, imagine, and make. The art room and the science lab at school are remarkably similar places. (At my middle school, John Selden in Worthing, there was an open-plan space between classrooms called The Area, where science, art, and home economics were taught).

Here in England, though, while science will undoubtedly get extra funding as we adjust to a world with coronavirus (let’e be honest – this isn’t going away), the arts are being burnt to the ground while we watch. This is arson. Devil’s Night. One venue after another is being torched. Things that seemed solid, stable, fixed are finding their foundations shaking. The Globe, The National Theatre, the Royal Shakespeare Company, the Southbank Centre and the Royal Opera House are facing collapse. “It is really serious now,” says Greg Doran, from the RSC, “And if we lose our performance culture, we lose it for good.”

P1150169

If the big arts organisations are in trouble, imagine the problems further down the ecological chain.

Arts Council England (ACE) scrapped all their grant schemes (project grants, used by smaller organisations for day-to-day running), cancelling any funding applications already submitted. They replaced them with a new fund for organisations, and grants for artists that were each less than one month of the UK’s average wage. The problem of artists expecting so little is deep rooted – a year ago, one funder actually had to instruct artists to ask for more pay.

But there’s another arts world, underground, that is more resilient: it has never had the big funding, never had the support from ACE, and as a consequence never had the overheads. Everything is already stripped back to what matters. Down here we’ve all spent years finding the quickest route to getting work seen. It’s the world of zines and badges, DIY festivals, open houses and empty shops.

“A man’s vision is his responsibility. If you have an idea, make it happen. Find the brothers and the sisters, find the resources, and do it. Your personal autonomy and power expose the shallowness of endless theorising and debate. Visions become real by being acted out, and once real serve as endless inspiration and free food for the public imagination.” Peter Coyote

And this end of the art world has found new ways to mobilise. Music venues have come together to raise funds, ensuring there will be a small-scale touring circuit after coronavirus. Podcasts have organised online festivals to raise funds for musicians. Music and theatre (where I started) are built on self-organising, mutual aid, on collaboration. The visual arts are built on the myth of the lone genius.

While I’ve spent years bluffing at being an artist, the truth is – art galleries aren’t where I belong. My roots are in zines, putting on my own gigs, scraping together enough to make things happen. I’m more photocopier than etching, more cheap ukulele than concert hall, more throwaway pin badge than artist edition.

This crisis is helping me to look again at what I do, and where I’ve stepped in the last thirty years to get to here. And the truth is, I don’t mind a fire. We can build something better once the smoke’s cleared.

 

*****

Footnote: 

Building something new starts here. This is a pledge to start changing things.

I’m going to work on Back & Fill, in particular on building a robust network of people working in seaside towns.

I’m going to add 10% to all future charges and project budgets. That 10% will be used to give artists in Margate, Stoke on Trent and Worthing time to think (similar to this response to Covid 19, but rolling).

I’m going to work out how – if Arts Council England can have a National Portfolio of Organisations – it can also have a National Portfolio of Artists.

I’m going to work with James Gough and other people I like on some thinking around arts funding models.

I’m going to hang out with more scientists.

 

 

Interlude

It’s hard right now, being an artist, writer, musician, or actor – the people that make the things that people are enjoying during lockdown.

p0276j4m

A couple of times, when I have been about to hit a stop, a small charity stepped in and supported my work. Both times, it was without any strings attached – it was a gesture of kindness, and it changed my world.

Because things have come to a stop, and because the Self Employed Income Support Scheme (SEISS) has paid me and I still have a few bits of work, I have a tiny bit of money that was set aside for a now-cancelled project. It’s £250 – at a-n professional rates, it’s a day’s work. It’s not much.

I’d like to give it to an artist, writer, musician, actor, or dancer* from Worthing, Margate, or Stoke-on-Trent (my three homes) who hasn’t been supported by SEISS, an ACE Emergency Grant or other similar schemes. That’s all the criteria there are.

It’ll give you a day to take a break and think about what’s next. Go for a walk, sit under a tree, paddle in the sea, wander by a river. As well as the cash, you can have a day of my time – use me as a mentor, to write for you, as a researcher, or to help you tackle a problem more practically. (I usually charge £250 a day – so you can use all of this as matched funding in another application if you want to).

I know it’s very little, and I know that I won’t be able to help most people who get in touch and I’m sorry about that. But if you fit the criteria, drop me an email  with Interlude in the title. The deadline is the end of Sunday 31 May.

*This is open to anyone involved practically in being creative: artist, writer, musician, poet, potter, dance, actor… I don’t mind, as long as you actually make stuff.

 

 

Absent Tribe

https://player.vimeo.com/video/362565182

“Every single piece of pottery ware made in Stoke was being touched by about 15 pairs of hands. In its prime, this site employed over 1000 people. Imagine all those hands, all that history.​”

For Absent Tribe, potter Keith Brymer Jones  handmade over 1000 beakers, which were then decorated, numbered and installed in a room on the old Spode Works, Stoke on Trent during the British Ceramics Biennial.

Working alongside Keith and a small team as a writer, I helped refine the idea, gave it a name, and wrote a text as part of the installation.

Your England – Exhibition

Your England Web.jpgA journey into Englishness, from the Thames to the Lakes, industrial heartlands to chalk downs. Following tides and twittens, writing 100 poems along the way.

A park bench in Penrith, aviation at Shoreham by Sea, a skeleton in Margate, the Windrush in Brixton, bells of Whitechapel, The Lion Queen. Chalk and flint and wool and salt.

At Lombard Street Gallery, Margate from 28 Sep-8 Oct. Part of Margate Now, the offsite programme for the Turner Prize at Turner Contemporary.

Supported by Arts Council England.

lottery_Logo_Black RGB

Dover Castle. Headquarters, Flag Officer Dover.

 

P1190402.JPG

Dover Castle. Headquarters, Flag Officer Dover. 

‘Operate toward the coast forthwith’

You can see the
brand of cigarette
they’re smoking
at Cap Griz-Nes
from here.

When war was declared we started
with nothing:
but we made a new map
of the world, with
these Napoleonic tunnels
at the centre, and
carried the British Expeditionary Force
to France on the lines we’d drawn.

And back – my Dynamo turned
by a National Day of Prayer.
On a Sunday in May 1940 – the
people of Britain and her Empire
committed their cause to
God. The King and Cabinet
at Westminster Abbey –
as we were on our knees
the Wehrmacht stopped.

A storm over Flanders fields,
the Luftwaffe
was grounded

‘if the Lord had
not been on our side
when people attacked us,

they would have swallowed us alive

when their anger flared against us;

the flood would have engulfed us,

the torrent’

I counted them all in,
nine days, 63 watches, 216 hours,
dire straits – the straits I patrolled
in a destroyer, in the last lot.

We started with
passenger ferries, destroyers, skoots,
corvettes and trawlers – my fleet was
English, French, Belgian, Dutch
and Polish. Then from Ramsgate –
added motor lifeboats, barges
with brown sails, tugboats, steamers –
The Brighton Belle and The Medway Queen,
the hospital ship Worthing, Leigh-on-Sea cockle boats
pleasure craft, a fire float –

we brought enough home
to carry on in faith, undefeated: Gort’s
Expeditionary Force,
Indian mule handlers,
French Senegalese soldiers
and Moroccans,
Gamelin’s troops –
brought them from hell to English heaven.

– but as Winston said
“Wars are not won by evacuations.”

So after four years of measuring the tides,
>watching convoys, always an eye on Calais,
we turned back –
no ragtag fleet, but
the greatest armada ever seen.

We took the men the long way across,
to Normandy – just shy of a million men
across the channel in a month.

This iron-railed balcony was my quarterdeck.
Here was both the frontier, and the last fortress:
both the stop and the start line.

*****

For Your England, I’m writing 100 poems about 100 places in England.

The work from Your England will form an exhibition at Lombard Street Gallery, Margate from 28th September-8th October, as part of an exhibition called Quartet.

Your England is supported by a project grant from Arts Council England.

lottery_Logo_Black RGB

Your England – The New Vic, Newcastle-under-Lyme

I’m not going to share every poem from Your England on here, especially as I expect to rewrite early poems as the project progresses – but, here’s one of about ten new poems I’ve written in December-January.

For Peter Cheeseman, 1932-2010.

“Peter devoted himself to a single place. He gave his life to it. He believed that theatre ought to spring from and reflect the community it belonged to. He stayed true to that belief. The Potteries should be grateful for his years of devotion.” Alan Ayckbourn

This is a space that
makes people make
and makes people be.

Two actors, some planks, and passion:
the art comes from the place –
from steel and coal and clay – and
from the everyday experience.

In this ten-metre circle,
a circus of ideas
in-the-round – stories
contain more truth than
bare facts. Sit together,

listen, consider – Act One,
Beginners –
the start is
what we have
in common.

Turner Translate – Is This What You Wanted?

For the next year, me and ace writer Jacey Lamerton from Killer Content are going to help people understand what’s going on at Turner Contemporary. We both love the gallery, and what it’s done for Margate, but can see how sometimes, the way art is talked about puts a barrier between the thing that’s been made and people who might enjoy it.

This year Turner Contemporary have this great sculpture, in place of a Christmas tree:

02.TMI-OSULT-43533-install-King'sCrossLondon-2017.07.jpg

And here’s what Turner Contemporary have to say about it:

Visit Turner Contemporary this December and be inspired by Joanne Tatham and Tom O’Sullivan’s alternative Christmas tree installation DOES THE ITERATIVE FIT on our South terrace. This temporary sculptural and audio artwork was commissioned by The Kings Cross Project and originally installed in Granary Square, London over Christmas 2017.

Tatham and O’Sullivan’s sculptures and installations often question the accepted or expected outcomes of contemporary art practice. DOES THE ITERATIVE FIT is a response to and critique of its original commission brief to design a Christmas tree for a busy public space. The resulting sculpture with accompanying soundtrack reimagines the behaviour and meaning of a public artwork and considers the functions that art is expected to perform within the public sphere. The commentary, voiced by an actor, relates the experiences of an art object out in the world, projected through speakers that double as brightly coloured branches.

We thought (inspired in part by this news article) – what if we put that in Plain English, so people can understand it? It’ll make the art more accessible, by helping people understand what they’re seeing. So, we’re going to help out Turner Contemporary (and more importantly, ordinary people in Margate) by translating everything the gallery publish for the next year.

Here’s Jacey’s simplified take on the text about the Christmas tree:

IS THIS WHAT YOU WANTED?

Tatham and O’Sullivan make sculptures and art pieces that rebel a bit against the ‘art world’.

Someone asked them to design an alternative Christmas tree to be shown in a busy public place.

They came up with this sculpture, which they called DOES THE ITERATIVE FIT?, roughly meaning IS THIS WHAT YOU WANTED?

Lots of people have fixed ideas about art in public places: we expect things like statues and sculptures to look a certain way.

The idea behind this ‘tree’ is that it doesn’t look like normal public art – and it doesn’t sound like it either. It’s meant to make us think about why we have those set ideas and whether art always has to look a certain way.

If you listen carefully, you’ll realise the brightly coloured ‘branches’ are actually speakers – and you’ll hear an actor talking about what it might be like to be a piece of art, out in the world, with people looking at it.

The first fifty places for Your England

Your England is an ambitious project – 100 poems, about 100 places, which form a history of England.

My one rule is that I have to have visited everywhere I write about, even if the original building or location has been lost, changed, or reconfigured, so I have a real sense of place. With only a year and a set budget, that will mean some compromises, that some places are just too hard to reach in the time I have.

22488765014_5762f06585_o

All of the poems are sorted into a rough taxonomy:

  • Creativity & Culture
  • Exploration
  • Faith & Religion
  • Industry & Invention
  • Migration
  • Protest & Revolution
  • War & Remembrance

And I’m aiming for a wide geographical split, to cover a variety of faiths and cultures, and (in the poems that are about people) to achieve a 50/50 male-female split, too. It’s a complicated sort.

Just to add some extra complexity, I’ve been asking people to suggest places they think I should go, and I’ll be running workshops with some partners to let more people suggest more places.

P1070725

So – based on what I’ve written so far, the suggestions people have made, and where I plan to go next, here are the first fifty(ish) places on the Your England list:

Bedfordshire:
Panacea Society, Bedford

Coventry:
Coventry Cathedral – Basil Spence
Shopfront Theatre, Coventry

Essex:
Tilbury Landing Stage

Isle of Wight:
Ryde Pier

Kent:
The Grange, Ramsgate
Martyrdom, Canterbury Cathedral
Dover Castle – Sir Bertram Home Ramsay
Chatham Docks No 3 Covered Slip
Copperas works, Whitstable

Leeds:
Templeworks

London:
Granville Arcade, Brixton – Oswald Columbus Denniston
St Pancras Station
121 Centre, Brixton and the Rebel Dykes
The Poppy Factory, Richmond
Crossbones Burial Ground
Royal Albert Hall
King Henry’s corridor, Cabinet Office
Charterhouse Square, London
Eel Pie Island
Luna House, Croydon
Olympic Park, Stratford
Gardeners, Spitalfields

Lancashire:
Rochdale Pioneers Shop
Preston Bus Station

Lincolnshire:
St Botolph’s Church, Boston – ‘Boston Stump’

Liverpool:
Mathew Street, Liverpool

P1160328

Margate:
Sanger’s journey
The Margate Road
Site of Margate Caves
Rowden Hall Kindertransport Hostel, Margate
Dreamland
Turner Contemporary

Northampton:
78 Derngate, Northampton
Carpetbaggers Aviation Museum

Penrith:
Clarke’s Bench, Penrith
King Arthur’s Round Table, Penrith

Portsmouth & Southsea:
Fort Cumberland, Southsea

P1130633

Staffordshire:
Middleport Pottery, Stoke-on-Trent
New Vic Theatre, Newcastle

Somerset:
Glastonbury, Frost Fayre

Somme:
The Lochnagar Crater

Surrey:
Watts Chapel

Sussex:
Shoreham Airport
Gypsy Lee, Bognor
Church of St John sub Castro, Lewes
Cotchford Farm
Towner Gallery

Worthing:
Cissbury Ring
Desert Quartet, Worthing – Elisabeth Frink
Dome Cinema, Worthing

Wiltshire:
Sanger’s journey

Wildcard – all the Canals

Partners:
Turner Contemporary
Shopfront Theatre, Coventry
Dreamland
Towner Gallery

This will, of course, change – and I’m going to have to write more than 100 poems to get 100 that I’m happy with, too. These are the poems already completed:

Clarke’s Bench, Penrith
King Arthur’s Round Table, Penrith
Sanger’s journey
The Margate Road
Site of Margate Caves
Tilbury Landing Stage
Granville Arcade, Brixton – Oswald Columbus Denniston
Coventry Cathedral – Basil Spence
Templeworks
Middleport Pottery, Stoke-on-Trent

 

Your England

From King Arthur’s Round Table in Eden to Winston Churchill at Dover Castle, and from Brixton Market to the rebuilding of Coventry Cathedral, our national story can be found in the buildings all around us.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

In 2016, I sat on a park bench in Penrith which carried a memorial for a forgotten First World War soldier, Pte William Gibson Clarke MM. In exploring his life I found connections to half-a-dozen locations around the UK, uncovered the story of a wave of migration to Canada, and was able to find out how and where Clarke died, in the last hundred days of the war. I wrote a poem about him, which led to a pilgrimage to his grave in Caix British Cemetery, France, revisiting the bench on the centenary of his death – and on the same day the Canadian Legion placing a wreath on the War Memorial in Moosomin where he is remembered.

If a poem about one very ordinary bench in a small municipal park can tell such a complex story, and have such an impact, what can poems about other places around England tell us?

Travelling from one end of England to the other over the last ten years, I have become more and more interested in how the buildings we pass every day – and often overlook – tell stories about our nation’s identity. Interpreting these stories seems even more important at a time when we’re facing a national crisis, at the root of which is the conflict between an idea of our historical place in the world and the reality of our current place in a global system.

In a new project Your England, taking place over the next year, I am going to write 100 poems about 100 places, which together will form a history of England. The individual poems will be sorted in a taxonomy of themes including:

  • Industry & Invention
  • Creativity & Culture
  • Revolution & Protest
  • Migration & Movement
  • War & Remembrance

Over the next couple of weeks, I’ll be having a conversation on social media to find buildings that I should include in the list of 100. Find me on Twitter, Instagram and Facebook  to join in the conversation. I’m looking for places that are distinct, match the themes above, and ideally have a connection to an interesting person, too (alive or dead, famous or unknown).

I hope to be out, exploring the first places and meeting people to talk about them, before Christmas.

Until then, you can read some poems I wrote earlier this year, to test the idea:

And the poem that started the project:

The project is backed by a Project Grant from Arts Council England, and supported by partners including the Towner Gallery, Eastbourne; Dreamland, Margate; Turner Contemporary, Margate; Theatre Absolute, Coventry and Theshold Studios in Northampton. 

Your England performance in Roundabout

Press Release

From King Arthur’s Round Table in Eden to Winston Churchill at Dover Castle, and from Brixton Market to the rebuilding of Coventry Cathedral, our national story can be found in the buildings all around us.

Travelling from one end of the country to the other, before and after the 2016 referendum, artist and writer Dan Thompson has become interested in how the stories told about England’s historic buildings reflect our sense of identity. In a new project, taking place over the next year, he plans to write 100 poems about 100 places, which together will form a history of England.

In this special.performance in pop up theatre Roundabout, Thompson will read some of the first poems written. In this free show he tells the story of the first black trader in Brixton Market, Basil Spence rebuilding Coventry Cathedral after the Blitz, the architect who created an Egyptian temple in Leeds, and the man who discovered Margate’s Shell Grotto.

“The show will appeal to people interested in local history, printing presses, historic buildings, lost rivers, poetry, or the split in society brought about by Brexit,” he says.

Thompson has worked as an artist across the UK, often working with local people to explore the place they live. He made a set of signal flags for Estuary Festival, which subsequently toured as a backdrop with The Libertines, and in 2017 programmed the Estuary Festival in Swansea. He has won Coast’s Unsung Hero Award, been included on The Independent’s Happy List, and listed by Time Out as one of the hundred most influential people in the UK’s creative industries.

He has previously performed a one man show in Roundabout in Stoke and Margate. This one-off performance, titled Your England, takes place at 2.30pm on Friday 21st September. It lasts around 45 minutes and is free. Your England is supported by Marine Studios and is part of the Margate Festival. For more information visit http://www.danthompson.co.uk.

Download Your England – Press Release (pdf)

Your England final web.jpg

The life and death of William Gibson Clarke

41338968160_166e1069c1_z.jpg

William Gibson Clarke was born on 16th May 1891, in Skipton, North Yorkshire.

Skipton is on the River Aire and the Leeds and Liverpool Canal, south of the Yorkshire Dales and 26 km northwest of Bradford. The name is recorded in the Domesday Book, and a castle built there in 1090 still stands today. Skipton became a prosperous market town, trading sheep and woollen goods, and during the Industrial Revolution became a small mill town connected to the major cities by the Leeds and Liverpool Canal and its branch Thanet Canal, named for Skipton Castle’s owner Sackville Tufton, the 8th Earl of Thanet.

William’s father, Henry Blackwell Clarke, was born just over 80km from Skipton, in Blackpool, in 1866. While in most documents, he is listed as working as a newspaper reporter, by the time of the 1911 census he is a licensed retailer of wines and spirits, living in Ipswich.

22-year-old Henry married 28-year-old Sarah Gibson at St Peter’s, Fleetwood, Lancashire on 29 October 1888. It was his wife’s home town – Sarah was born in 1860, in Fleetwood. Her father was William Gibson, a blacksmith who was born in Scotland (after whom, we can assume, William is named), and her mother was Ann Carter of Garstang.

map-fleetwood-1890-5.jpg

In the 1830s, landowner Peter Hesketh, High Sheriff and MP, had conceived an ambitious plan to build a seaport and railway town, just up the coast from Blackpool and on the edge of Morecambe Bay. He commissioned Decimus Burton, who had recently designed St Leonard’s On Sea, a new town just west of Hastings. In 1831 Hesketh added Fleetwood to his name – and gave the name to his new town. Construction started in 1836. By the time of Sarah’s birth, commercial steamers were providing services to the Isle of Man, Ardrossan and Belfast, and the town had a substantial fishing industry.

By 1889, Henry and Sarah had moved inland to Nelson, just north of Burnley, and two years later they had moved further inland to Skipton, where Henry was working as a journalist.

William was the middle of the couple’s three children. He had an older sister Daisy, born in 1889 in Nelson, and a brother, Henry Cecil, born in 1896 in Ipswich.

EMPRESS_OF_IRELAND_-_Sjöhistoriska_museet_-_Fo210199.tif.jpgBefore the First World War, emigration from Britain reached unprecedented levels – over three million people left the UK between 1903 and 1913. The most popular destination was Canada, drawing almost half of Britain’s emigrants. One of them was 18-year-old William, who arrived at St. John’s, New Brunswick, Canada, on the 18th March 1910. He had travelled on the Canadian Pacific Line ship RMS Empress of Ireland, departing from Liverpool.

Just a few years later the Empress of Ireland became a famous ship for all the wrong reasons when, in 1914, she sank near the mouth of the Saint Lawrence River. Following a collision in thick fog with the Norwegian collier SS Storstad, of 1477 passengers on board the Empress, 1012 died. It is the worst peacetime maritime disaster in Canadian history

But in 1911, William arrived safely, hoping to start a new life as a farmer.

But he was working as a waiter and living in Moosomin, Saskatchewan, when he decided to enlist in the army, a year after the outbreak of the First World War. Moosomin had only been established thirty-odd years earlier in 1882. In postcards from the time that William lived there, it looks very much like a prosperous town in the north of England. It had a Baptist Church, a Methodist Chapel, a Presbyterian Congregation and an Episcopal Church

Seymour House Hotel.jpgOn the 22nd December 1915, 24-year-old William enlisted in Winnipeg, Manitoba, giving his address as either Seymour House or (more likely) the Seymour House Hotel. William, 167cm tall, with a dark complexion, brown eyes & brown hair had signed up for the duration of the war.

He was now Private William Gibson Clarke, Service Number 148605, serving in the Manitoba Regiment, 78th Battalion, ‘D’ Coy of the Canadian Infantry. He was one of the Winnipeg Grenadiers, part of 4th Canadian Division, of the Canadian Expeditionary Force (CEF).

He left Halifax, Nova Scotia on board the RMS Empress of Britain  on 20th May 1916 – part of the first deployment of the 78th Battalion. He was returning on the sister ship to the ill-fated Empress of Ireland that had brought him to Canada. The Empress of Britain was a luckier ship. Less than two weeks after disaster struck the RMS Titanic in 1912, Empress of Britain also struck an iceberg – but only suffered minor damage. In May 1915, she was recommissioned as a troop transport and carried more than 110,000 troops. On 4 May 1919, on her last voyage before being scrapped, she returned Canadian Expeditionary Force troops from England to Canada. Sadly, William was not among them.

But on 30th May 1916, he disembarked in Liverpool five years after leaving from the same port.

While in England, William wrote out his will on the 2nd August 1916. It was addressed to his mother, Sarah Clarke, now living at 293, Norwich Road, Ipswich. Later, he updated his will and her address on 11th September 1916 was Haig House, 56, Springfield Land, Ipswich.

Ten days after writing his first will, William embarked at Southampton on 12th August 1916. The Canadians disembarked at Le Havre a day later. The French port had become a major centre for the distribution of troops, horses and goods heading for the Western Front. Manned by the Royal Army Service Corp, it was also No 3 General Base Depot for the Canadian forces.

Sadly, it’s hard to trace the exact movements of William after landing in France. But the 78th Battalion served on the Somme, and at the Battle of Vimy Ridge in the Arras region in 1917. Just north of Vimy is the commune of Souchez. On the 22nd February 1917, the telephone lines between the Advanced Headquarters and the Battalion Headquarters here had been broken. William, and another soldier, were acting as runners, carrying messages from one to the other. They passed through heavy shell fire to do so, and William was rewarded with a Military Medal,  awarded for bravery in the Field.

32068_2421400354_0081-00139 (1).jpg

He was gazetted on 24th April 1917 – by which date, he had also fought through the Battle of Vimy Ridge. In this battle, the Canadian forces suffered 10,602 casualties: 3598 killed and 7004 wounded. The attack on Vimy Ridge was launched at 5:30 am on Easter Monday, 9 April 1917. Clarke’s Division collapsed almost immediately. Machine gun nests in the German line pinned down, wounded, or killed much of the 4th Canadian Division. Reserves were brought forward, and the attack continued. By the end of the day, the 4th Division had captured objectives that the 1st, 2nd and 3rd Divisions had taken within an hour of starting the battle. It took another three days to take the rest of Vimy Ridge. Vimy Ridge is considered to symbolise Canada’s coming of age as a nation, and William was there. He received his medal on 15th May 1917.

But the toll, particularly on the men of the 4th Division, was huge. On 1st June 1917, William was granted 10 days Leave of Absence, and he returned to the line on 15th June 1917.

Seven months later, he was granted 14 days leave to return to England. He left on 12th January 1918, and returned from leave on 23rd January. While his trip isn’t recorded, it must have been to see his parents, and it would be the last time that Henry and Sarah saw their son.

Two months later, in March 1918, General Ludendorff, the chief of the German General Staff, launched the Kaiserschlacht (Kaiser’s Battle), and it very nearly won the war for Germany. The Germans had replaced the traditional advance with Stormtroop (Stoßtruppen) units, elite infantry operating in small groups that advanced quickly by exploiting gaps and weak defences. They would disrupt communication and cause chaos amongst the British headquarters, artillery units and supply depots in the rear.

On 21st March, Germans attacked on a 69-kilometre front between Arras, St. Quentin and La Fère. On the first day, in thick fog, British communication failed; telephone wires were cut and runners struggled to find their way through the dense fog and heavy shelling. Headquarters were cut off and unable to influence the battle. Within 15 days, the Germans had captured 3,100 km2 of territory, 177,739 British troops were killed, wounded and missing, 75,000 had been taken prisoner, and 1300 artillery pieces and 200 tanks were lost. But the advance was stopped just before Amiens, a vital hub in the British transport system. And the German troops were exhausted, and their supply lines overstretched.

On the 8th August, the British, Australian and Canadian forces launched a massive counterattack which would win them the war. The Canadian 1st, 2nd and 3rd Divisions were first to attack, and as they broke the German lines, William’s 4th Division pushed through the gap. By the end of the morning, they were 4.8km beyond the German front line, and the advance was so fast, they captured German officers having their breakfast.

By the 10th August 1918, William was 50km from Amiens. The speed of the advance was unprecedented. On the 10th, the 78th Battalion passed through Chilly at noon and by 2:00pm seized Hallu. The Germans counter-attacked at Hallu. Lieutenant James Tait of the 78th Battalion rallied his troops when German troops re-entered the village, stopping their advance, though at the cost of his life.

While William was escorting German prisoners back to Brigade Headquarters. an enemy shell fell close to his party. He was severely wounded him in the body and legs, immediately attended to, and then placed on an ambulance to be taken to the nearest dressing station. Aged 27, and having been as far inside the German lines as anyone, William died before reaching hopsital.

The 78th Battalion suffered 46 fatalities in Hallu – of whom 35 were missing, presumed to have been killed in action. William’s body was identified, and he is buried at Caix Cemetery. The cemetery is a walled garden surrounded by farmland, that probably looks much as it did in 1914, before the war started. At the front of the cemetery is a stone cross, and the graves are arranged either side of a central path. You’ll find William’s grave to the left, in the second row of graves. His grave, unusually for a Commonwealth War Graves Commission stone, bears a message from his parents:

‘Our Darling Son. He gave his sweet young life that others may live.’

41338968420_6e77359618_k.jpg

Off the Somme tourist trail, 28 kilometres south-east of Amiens, Caix holds the bodies of over 300 British soldiers. 203 of them are Canadian. Just across the road, Caix German Military Cemetery holds the bodies of 1264 German soldiers of World War One.

By the time of William’s death, Henry and Sarah were living at 33 Brunswick Square, Penrith, Cumberland (this address appears on William’s military records, but some other documents including his father Henry’s will have the address as 35).

In the early 1920s, the people of Ipswich hoped to raise £5000 to build a lasting memorial to the men who died in the First World War. It was unveiled on 6th May 1924. In total they raised over £50,000, and the surplus funds went to Ipswich Hospital where, up to 1919, 7777 casualties were treated.

William is remembered there, in Ipswich, where his parents lived at the start of the war, and in the Canadian First World War Book of Remembrance, but not on the war memorial in Penrith, where his parents lived at the end. It was to Penrith that William’s Memorial Scroll was sent on the 23rd March 1922, and his Memorial Plaque on the 1st April 1922.

But Henry and Sarah wanted their son remembered where they lived. In the 1920s, Penrith District Council acquired ownership of Penrith Castle. They landscaped the grounds, adding walkways, lawns and bowling greens. In 1923, the War Memorial Gateway at the main entrance was opened. William’s name isn’t on it. Instead, you’ll find an original 1920s green-slatted park bench with a heavy cast-iron memorial plaque. It says:

‘In memory of Pte William Gibson Clarke, 78th Btn C.I.F. who fell in France 10th Aug. 1918.’

27136836978_dfff2db34c_z.jpg

I sat there and afterwards, asked about him at the local museum: they didn’t know about him, or why there was a bench in the park dedicated to his memory.

His father Henry Blackwell Clarke died in 1935, in Penrith – his mother Sarah Gibson’s death is not recorded. I haven’t traced his brother or sister – some sources say Daisy died as a child, and Penrith’s Queen Elizabeth Grammar School record a Henry Cecil Clarke’s death in a trench raid with the Tyneside Scottish. But – these aren’t certain, and Daisy and Henry may have descendants.

The Moosomin Cenotaph carries the inscription ‘To you from falling hands we throw the torch – be yours to hold high.’ I hope that in remembering one more forgotten soldier, the flame will burn a little brighter.

Thank you to Dawn & Paul Cole, Edward Thompson, to Penrith Remembers, and the Friends of the Lochnagar Crater, especially Iain Ross Fry, Pam Ackroyd

 

Unmade Work: Other Eden

As I clear out my studio, I’m reminded of work that was unfinished, unmade or sometimes wilfully undone.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

On a brief residency in Penrith, I was working on making Other Eden, a pack of cards, each one about an interesting but overlooked local place, custom, or theme. The cards would be used by local shops and cafes to playfully guide visitors off the beaten track and away from familiar paths. (‘Pick a card, any card…’) They’d also be used by the local NHS, facing a recruitment crisis, to show people that the area was interesting enough to be worth moving to.

Sadly, only three images are left – they’re in the slideshow above. The cards featured interesting places crowdsourced from locals (a swimming pool, cafes, a great bookshop), alongside things I’d found through my own research, like the connections of James Joyce, TS Eliot and Kathleen Raine to the town. Other Eden was rejected (by an awful arts organisation I was working with who are based in the town) and remains unmade.

As part of my research, I also made a zine, exploring Penrith’s rich cultural history.  Apart from a couple of artist’s proofs, it has also remained unpublished.

This is an early draft – so there are a couple of things I’d remove, a couple of minor typos, and it doesn’t mention TS Eliot’s stay in the town which I’d add. It starts to head in some interesting directions which, with time, I’d have explored further.

Consider it a sketch, not a finished painting.

Download the Penrith Reader 0.2  (pdf) It should be printed as an A6, folded and stitched booklet.

 

The Lochnagar Quilt exhibited

The Lochnagar Quilt is exhibited at Lombard Street Gallery, Margate from 3-25 February 2018, as part of From Wasteland To Wasteland. The gallery is open Tuesday – Saturday: 11am – 5pm, Sundays: 12 – 4pm, Closed Mondays.

P1220646.JPGThe Lochnagar Crater is as much about what’s not there as about what is.

The vast crater itself is a place that’s missing from the landscape, however many hundreds of tons of chalk and soil removed from surrounding farmland in one defining instant in July 1916.

And it stands today as a memorial to men made absent, the unimaginable 17 million dead and 20 million wounded (some of whom, never really came home, even if their bodies did) by the First World War. The Crater is home to some of those soldiers, killed by the explosion itself, in subsequent battles, or buried within it; but very few bodies have been exhumed.

The exhumation of Private George Nugent from the Crater in 1998 is remarkable because of the rarity of the act.

But more than those obvious absences, taking time to look at the wide and deep crater, or walking the route around its edge, or entering into it as we did, makes you contemplate what else is lost. The physicality of the Lochnagar Crater is an intense experience that art, photography or writing really cannot capture. No artist can capture the way the Lochnagar Crater sits in a calm, managed landscape (so familiar, so like the Sussex and Kent landscapes I know, that I asked a geologist friend; and yes, she said, it’s the same landscape, the same chalk). No artist can record the feeling of standing at the bottom of a space in the landscape that’s the size of a cathedral; the Lochnagar Crater is about as wide as St Paul’s is high.

You cannot really understand the Crater without visiting; art can only record a little of the experience. Each artist, here, has created work that is the size of a person not the size of the Lochnagar Crater. Visiting it does that to you.

So this quilt isn’t an attempt to recreate the crater. The Lochnagar Quilt is white, like the chalk landscape of the Crater and the fields around it. It would cover one sleeping man; one soldier at eternal rest. It is made from vintage pillowcases, which were previously part of Dawn Cole’s Resting Place project. The shape of the crater is taken from tracings of 360 degree photos I took from the bottom and centre, the exact places the mines were laid.

But the making of the quilt is as important as the object itself. The Lochnagar Quilt was made with three important women, who have been made more absent from my life by my move to Margate.

34209021146_486c282b33_z.jpg

In choosing to make it with them, I also wanted to remember the women absent from the Somme, from the Lochnagar Crater, and (largely) from the battlefield tours that take place today. This is for the women who turned their skin yellow making the munitions, and for the Munitionettes playing football. It’s for the women who worked as nurses, and as drivers in the Women’s Auxiliary Army Corp. It’s for the women who served in the Women’s Land Corps and the Women’s Land Army. It’s for the people who served in the Women’s Royal Naval Service and the Women’s Royal Air Force. And it’s for the women who stayed at home, and brought up children in such difficult circumstances.

To make the Lochnagar Quilt, I went back to Worthing, to my nan’s house, where I lived for the first year of my life. My nan, Betty Stiles, used to be a dancer, and is an award-winning quilter.

33865784120_f3c49424c3_z.jpg

My aunt, Linda Rush, joined us; a textile artist and illustrator, she trained at West Sussex College of Art & Design. And my mum, Netta Thompson, was the third. She used to have her own company, making costume for children for school history days and reenactments, and while she now works in a factory making precision electronics, she still works occasionally as a wardrobe mistress for a touring theatre company.

We talked about the experience of my visit to the Lochnagar Crater, the impact of the First World War on our family (my mum and aunt spoke of the look in their grandad’s eyes), our collective worries about war, as we designed, cut, ironed and stitched together over one long weekend. By the end, we had a rough shape, tacked together. But over the subsequent weeks they did the hard work – their stitching is better than mine. Their hands have spent hours on this quilt; about a dozen hours to quilt the crater alone. They refused to machine stitch; that’s the wrong way to quilt.

And something like this, the making itself an act of remembrance, should be done the right way.

Dan Thompson, Margate, 2017

lochnegar-mine-crater.jpg

 

Middleport Pottery, Burslem

This is the fourth poem from a larger collection of mostly new poems. This collection is an attempt to write a picture of England in 2017, through a series of poems about buildings, places and the stories they tell. It is based on my travel and research. I’m aiming for 100 poems.

I won’t publish them all online: I want them to appear in print. But – I want to give people a flavour. You can read others here.

15586452396_01341c2b17_k.jpg

Middleport, Burslem

Here in the model pottery,
within this brickbuilt O,
the process of making is
refined, closed, looped.

The circle is square:
each piece of ware is
handled
by twenty five people,
and the distance from
hand-to-hand is short,
here men and women are
efficient as machines.

Alleyways are wide as cart and horse.
Each shop is closed, controlled;
even the air works well.
Here architecture is the
servant of art and science.

The Seven Oven Alchemical Works;
thick earth made to slip,
black smoke.
Boulton’s steam engine.
Rain saved in header tanks.
Held in the leyline curve of
the Trent and Mersey Canal.
This place is earth, fire,
air, water, metal –
elemental.
Here clay is made into gold.

The Famous Dr Nelson’s Improved Inhaler,
pudding bowls for the war effort,
Ernest Bailey’s kangaroo jugs for Australia,
Copeland’s designs ‘as if from outer space’,

The globe is all over Burleigh Ware
and Burleigh Ware is all over the globe.

Coventry

This is a third poem from a larger collection of mostly new poems. I won’t publish them all online: I want them to appear in print. But – I want to give people a flavour. You can read others here.

It is an attempt to write a picture of England in 2017, through a series of poems about place. It is based on my travel and research. I’m aiming for 100 poems.

4492955973_7fb3229ef4_o.jpg

Coventry

“Basil Spence is a prophet
Who seeks to proclaim the Word of God
In modern ways”

Spence had liberated Chartres, cold and dead;
he knew churches needed life –
so started with a model
that cost as much as a house,
for the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition;

then he built his new cathedral
from the inside out.
Fed by Bishop Gorton’s understanding
of people and liturgy,
of choir and canons and clergy and communion,

Spence drew pools of lightness,
wove tapestry in stone,
coloured glass, etched glass, copper frames,

thought about the fastness of dye,
the geodetic construction of a bomber,
Gothic ribs, the facets of a fly’s eye,
radio pylons as he reached higher, further.

“It is going to be built, it is going to be built”
in Spain, over and over and over,
until English ideas and Danish engineering
let the disciplined grid of Spence’s vaulted ceiling soar.

John Laings, builders,
gave all their profits back.

The last flame from the burnt cathedral
lit candles on the newest altar;
the first and last,
alive for evermore amen.

The Turner Prize is coming to Margate

In 2019, the Turner Prize hits the regions again – and while it’s recently gone to big cities like Glasgow (population 600,000 – 1,000,000) and Hull (population 260,000) this time, it’s coming to Turner Contemporary, Margate (population 40,000).

P1110293

A big show in a small town will have a huge impact; in Glasgow the show attracted 75,000 visitors, at the Baltic in Gateshead 149,770, and it’s reasonable to expect more in a venue only 1.5 hours from London by train. And especially, in a place that already fills with London visitors every weekend. Turner Contemporary has been an incredible success, and its most successful show was Grayson Perry’s Provincial Punk, with 192,177 visitors – so that’s the target to beat.

The Turner Prize comes at a key time for Turner Contemporary, too. Opened in 2011, visitor numbers would be expected to drop off a little about now – Dreamland’s two reopenings (first in 2015, then again while still in administration in 2017) have undoubtedly helped keep numbers up for the gallery, so an extra publicity boost in 2019 is a good thing.

The gallery are keen to look for a long-term impact from the Turner Prize, and are keen to engage local people in a conversation about how to maximise the show’s impact. It’s worth remembering that Turner Contemporary owes its success to a local ecology of cafes, small independent galleries, boutiques and vintage shops that mean a two hour gallery visit can easily become a weekend stay. Day trippers are bad for the economy: they typically cost more to attract and to service than they spend locally. So making Margate a place where you can spend a weekend is vital to both the gallery’s and the area’s long term success.

P1140459.JPG

The first open conversation about the Turner Prize was held at Turner Contemporary yesterday. About forty people attended, representing a mix of local authorities, arts organisations, and visitor attractions. It was clear from the attendance that the show was attracting interest from Canterbury, and the wider East Kent area. Artists were keen to be in the room, and were vocal contributors. There were notable local absences, too – nobody from Dreamland, for example.

 

The conversation took the (dreaded) World Cafe format – where you sit around tables, have a guided discussion around a central proposition, write your thoughts on the tablecloth and then move to the next table and the next proposition. I can see there are merits to this methodology; but it’s used at every Turner Contemporary event, and the central propositions are never strong enough for a real debate. Can anyone argue strongly around ‘People of all backgrounds should be able to thrive’?

Having spent 17 years attending meetings very much like this, I’m always amazed by the lack of ambition these events bring out. Most of the discussion focused on things so obvious, it’s hard to believe they’re being discussed and not done. We should ensure visitors can find other attractions, we should link up with nearby attractions, we should ensure local people come to the gallery, we should welcome people at the station and so on. Well, yes.

The Turner Prize has the possibility of being a big gear change for Turner Contemporary and everyone involved in the local creative ecology. It also has the potential to misfire, as it’s always controversial – the potential to accelerate the way property funds are buying up the area and do real damage to affordable living locally – and perhaps worst, the potential to just be another show at Turner, which many local people still don’t visit.

P1200957-001

So – in the spirit of starting a proper conversation, here are my ambitions for Turner Contemporary and the Turner Prize. This isn’t a costed, prepared plan – it’s a quick response to yesterday’s event. And it’s not everything; of course we should join up with other local attractions (Margate Caves open their new visitor centre in 2019), encourage more local people to visit and so on. That’s all a given. But here’s some ambition.

1. More Turner, everywhere

Turner Contemporary is a charity, established to stimulate Margate’s culture-led regeneration. That’s worked, and there’s a vibrant creative ecology around Margate – but it’s fragile. Rent is already going up; artists are already leaving. Currently, Thanet District Council is undergoing a massive asset disposal – small buildings, workshops, and anything not needed for core service delivery is going. So here’s the idea: Turner Contemporary should become the preferred new owner for any assets being disposed of. Between now and the Turner Prize, Turner Contemporary should take on a range of buildings around the town. Some can be let as studios or workshops, some as residential space for artists, some let commercially to generate extra income, some run as Turner Contemporary satellites. For example, as Northdown Road’s footfall is growing, a Costa has opened. Turner Contemporary has driven that footfall – it should be a Turner Contemporary coffee shop that reaps the rewards. A bold move, but acts like this would create additional income streams, and maintain, preserve and enhance the ecology around Turner Contemporary, and make sure it doesn’t become a victim of its own success: a gallery surrounded by Costa, Cath Kidston and White Stuff isn’t worth a weekend stay.

28519906800_c9dc089358_k.jpg

2. Everyone’s connected to Turner

Turner Contemporary should become the major training body in Margate. It shouldn’t just train people in unambitious ways, to be volunteers in their own gallery; it should support proper job training across the area. Coffee shops would have Turner Contemporary-supported baristas, cafes would have Turner Contemporary trained chefs, shop staff will attend subsidised Turner Contemporary training courses, teaching assistants and nursery staff will be taught at Turner Contemporary, and local electricians will learn new specialist skills with the gallery’s help. At the same time, Turner Contemporary should develop apprenticeships in all the roles it needs, from Front of House to maintenance. Again, this is about that ecology: Turner Contemporary’s success is because of the Old Town, the lower High Street, and increasingly Northdown Road. If you’re attracting visitors to Turner Contemporary, your customer care extends outside the gallery to all those places, so making them good is protecting your name and reputation. And at the same time, you’re ensuring that young people locally have good quality jobs, and real prospects. In an area where 50% of children are still growing up in poverty, that’s vital.

3. Chipperfield hacked

Let’s hack the Turner Contemporary architecture. The building, by David Chipperfield, is a few years old and we know its limitations now. The outside plaza is underused, the legibility of the front of the building is awful, the front doors are unfriendly and stick, the foyer is a dead space. The green space at the side is unloved and never used. The space between Turner Contemporary and the sea is a carpark, recently vandalised with clumsy road markings. The outside of Turner Contemporary lacks the life the inside has. Jane Jacobs would hate it. Margate is brilliant at using space – look at the slightly chaotic life of the Harbour Arm, the buzz around the Sundeck at Nayland Rock, or the anarchic spirit of Fort Road Yard. And when Turner Contemporary has used those spaces – for example, with Dwelling for Summer of Colour (pictured), it’s been transformational. By the time the Turner Prize arrives, let’s have a plan in place for the front, the outside, and the areas around Turner Contemporary; let’s make Turner Contemporary a place, not a building.

P1160220.JPG

4. Bored

Turner Contemporary should be governed by the people it represents and works with. The Board of Trustees  does great work in keeping the gallery going, but the mix of people from the banking sector, big organisations and art world establishment could do with hearing more local voices. The typical local panel or representative group is still an exercise in power: and doesn’t encourage real listening and debate. There should be three local board members, chosen for their potential: they should be given support and training to join the board and a mentor to help them become confident contributors.

If we do this right – all the other stuff will happen, because Turner Contemporary will be properly rooted in Margate.

 

Programming the Troublemakers’ Festival for Swansea

 

dan-thompson-11.jpgCan the arts offer meaning, enjoyment – and be a force for change?

For the Troublemakers’ Festival in Swansea, I tried to create an event which was rooted locally, had proper depth, and inspired people to take real action. Commissioned as programmer by the From The Station To The Sea project, I started with what was there already. The festival was built around existing venues – a theatre space, Oxfam bookshop, independent gallery, artist-led studios, a shop-sized cinema, a pub, an artist-led centre in old offices, local cafes, a sewing workshop. I added events and activity which enhanced them, added depth to them, encouraged people to see them in different ways, or brought in different audiences to these existing venues.

In closing the High Street to traffic for two days, we not only tested an idea local campaigners had long talked about, but we created a physical connection between these buildings and spaces. The High Street is usually very anti-pedestrian: crossings are limited, sight lines poor, and the traffic discourages casual browsing from shop to shop, reduces dwell time, and disrupts the useful permeability offered by lanes and alleys running off the High Street.

35136173134_a440cc4b42_k.jpg

Picture: Theatre Lane by  Simone Sheridan for Troublemakers’ Festival. By Dan Thompson

The aim of building on existing venues seemed to be achieved: Galerie Simpson reported their most successful event, people visited Volcano Theatre, Cinema & Co, the Tech Hub Basement Cafe, Sew Swansea and other venues for the first time. The High Street Skate Jam showed a wide audience an activity that’s usually indoors and hidden. One 79-year-old who usually avoids High Street enjoyed the Skate Jam so much, he casually suggested it should become permanent. Local cafes reported good takings: two reported their busiest ever weekends.

In crossing over audiences – bringing together social justice talks alongside skateboarding, sewing alongside stand up – people were (unconsciously and apparently accidentally) exposed to new experiences. The festival also encouraged people to move from one thing to another, and to get more deeply involved; if you saw an artist you liked, you could come and hear them talk, and then maybe join a workshop.

People just passing through, and regular High Street users like the street drinkers, were also offered new experiences and a chance to engage: some watched, some took part, some had interesting conversations with artists and other people involved in Troublemakers’. Nobody was moved on: the usual life of the street was disrupted, but not stopped.

signs-of-the-times-march-2-9.jpg

This planning went deeper, too. I am frustrated by speaking at events where there’s no time for acts and audiences to come together. And I am annoyed by artists who “attend an open mic and leave as soon as you’ve done your shitty little poem or song.” So artists were booked to stay for the weekend, expected to do a short talk about their work, and invited to join audience, volunteers and the production team in an open lunch every day. In return – they were given a wide brief, and invited to create work they really wanted to make.

Some of the artists came together long before the Troublemakers’ Festival, to meet at my studio. It was interesting subsequently, during the festival, to see them act as friends, supporting each other’s events, and to see more experienced artists mentoring emerging ones.

Most of the commissioning budget was spent in more interesting ways than booking artists I knew and taking them to Swansea, though. We commissioned much activity through open calls and local meetings, and ran three commissioning strands which brought very different work to the festival.

no-persons-only-women-2.jpg

The local WI meet on the High Street, and they were given a commissioning budget and invited to write a brief for an artist. Being unused to commissioning and unfamiliar with the ways artists talk about work, it was an interesting process and it resulted in one of the best commissions of the festival.

Office staff who are based on the High Street were also invited to commission a piece. Working with Coastal Housing staff in this way enabled them to understand and have ownership of the festival, so they were better able to talk to their local tenants about the Troublemakers’ Festival. Coastal’s tenants were given first notice of the festival, and were offered advance tickets for some events we expected to sell out.

A ‘Disruption’ thread saw a variety of artists given £500 micro-commissions, and as these were street based, they provided the outside links between spaces in more interesting ways than if we’d just commissioned street entertainers or buskers.

Woven through the festival were a series of magic moments: a protest march by disabled children demanding a zebra crossing for their school, the appearance of a dragon, an attempt to levitate the Palace Theatre, a suffragette leading a crowd of followers, a wildly optimistic protest march, a graffitied motor car, a local version of the Obby Oss. These all help people see the street in a different way: the memory of them will linger.

tag-my-ride-14.jpg

Overall, we counted over 4000 on the High Street while it was closed, and over 1000 at other events, performances and workshops. The festival engaged even more online, gaining worldwide attention through films of the High Street used as a skatepark. Our final event was a WI meeting: the usual attendance of around 15 people swelled to more than 80.

At the end of Sunday’s road closure, we brought people back into the Volcano Theatre. People inspired by the previous four days of activity were invited to give a one-minute pitch, with the public voting for their favourite which would get a £500 kickstart. The public votes to put pianos in venues across Swansea – an idea pitched by a 16-year-old woman. Other people stood up – and pledged to make their ideas happen anyway. Swansea will, for example, have its first Fun Palace this October.

skate-jam-4-7.jpg

And I’m currently writing a Manifesto For the High Street, based on ideas people contributed throughout the festival and during a series of workshops I ran with local people.

So Troublemakers’ Festival has had a real impact. It has built on existing activity, and helped increase audiences. And it has generated new grassroots initiatives, too. It has shown the potential of a street many had written off, and brought people back to rediscover the architecture, life, and businesses that are there. 

It highlighted the High Street’s interesting past, but made clear it has an interesting future, too.

35941285246_2d281693e3_k.jpg

Picture: Troublemakers’ exhibition at Volcano. By Dan Thompson.

All other pictures by Math Roberts, commissioned to be photographer in residence by Troublemakers’ Festival

Troublemakers’ wouldn’t have happened without other people. So thank you to: Carrie, Claud, Paul, Vic, Kay, Barbara and all the team at Volcano, Huw and Coastal Housing, Caroline, Carys, and all the Troublemakers’ Festival production team, all the Troublemakers’ Festival volunteers – an exceptional bunch, all the venues involved, Tasha at Sew Swansea for constant support for many years, Phil at Oxfam for being an inspiration, Anna at Cinema & Co who let me screen Passport To Pimlico, Exist and everyone who skated or DJ’d, Swansea’s cycling community, Swansea Central WI (mainly for cake), Patrick Driscall, Mark Rees, and – of course – all the artists but especially Bernadette, Charlie, Stella, Tasha and Mark who all helped me shape Troublemakers’, and Sarah, Simone, Deborah and the Gaggle cast, Rob and the Sign of the Times team, the Unfair Funfair gang, Stephen and the levitators, Math, Lee, Sam and Julia, Tim, Nazma, Mark, Mr & Mrs Clark, Ariane and Graham,  Mark Thomas, and finally – the High Street businesses who coped with lots of extra people and a little bit of chaos.

Brixton

This is a second poem from a larger collection of mostly new poems. I won’t publish them all online: I want them to appear in print. But – I want to give people a flavour. You can read another, from Penrith, here.

It is an attempt to write a picture of England in 2017, through a series of poems about place. It is based on my travel and research. I anticipate that, when complete, there will at least a hundred poems.

This is about Oswald Denniston, my Windrush hero. He was very much in my mind while making my work for Estuary Festival last year (pictured below).

empire-flags-sm

Brixton


For Oswald “Columbus” Manoah Denniston, signwriter and market trader, born 24th May 1913; died 3rd February 2000.

Move us on ‘cos
we ain’t got a licence:
we carry rolled cloth
on our backs, use
our yard-wand as
a walking stick:
if we sell you short
it’s because we
walk so far we’ve
worn it down an inch
or maybe two.

We walk the markets, streets, arcades.

We know the sandwich man –
Consult Madame Sandra,
Palmist, Clairvoyant –

The Man With The X-Ray Eyes –
he’ll guess your age, and maybe
throw in a horoscope –

The German Accordion Player –
who worked his way up from
tin whistle, mouth organ. We

know Mr Columbus, explorer,
navigator, who travelled from
Montego Bay to sell fabric in
Brixton Market: fancy cloth,
rich thread, always a story;
cloth woven with the promise
of adventure.

When Columbus arrived he
was a signwriter: knew the
right weight of paint on a brush –
sable brush, with chisel edge –
balanced mahlstick, measure,
soft pencil for marking-up;

pounce, pot, kettle,
spirit, chamois.

Arrived, Tilbury, gave cheers,
and raised his Anthony Eden hat.

And – in thanks for his thanks,
gained employment –
this new, old world –
his Mother country,
wanted, welcomed him.

Mr Columbus,
the first black to
join the cycling club.

Founder of the
Association
Of Jamaicans.

Calypso, skiffle, rock and roll –
Mr Columbus imported a juke box,
and an Italian coffee machine –
created warmth in a
cold harbour.

Then Columbus came here, the
market, arched-roof Granville Arcade –
set up amongst the Jews, emigres –
with his rich, coloured African cloth.

This was the place – poets, politicians,
artists, makers, movers, shakers;
Lord Kitchener, Darcus Howe, Sir
Herman Ouseley, Linton Kwesi Johnson;
the conversations, talk, discussion
lasted days, weeks – maybe never ended –
Jamaicans are happy-go-lucky people.
When you have more than six you have a party.
This formica-topped market table,
became our field of the cloth of gold.

Explorer, navigator:
Mr Columbus
came looking for an old world
but made a new one instead.


Penrith

This is from a larger collection of mostly new poems. It is an attempt to write a picture of England in 2017, through a series of poems about place. It is based on my travel and research. I anticipate that, when complete, there will at least fifty poems.

24083795923_6cadcde7b2_k.jpg

Penrith

 

In memory of Private William Gibson Clarke, Military Medal, who fell in France 10th August, 1918.

Our son was lost in 1918.
Our son was lost again,
somewhere in
carbonic paper, typists,
foolscap quarto, in 1923.

In a wooden drawer
of indexed cards in the
new Town Hall, he was an
anomaly in the town clerk’s
taxonomy of the dead.

We are a Penrith family,
Primitive Methodists,
live here in redstone
Brunswick Square.

Our son was wearing
socks, vests from Arnison’s
when he was decorated
for bravery at Vimy Ridge.

But – earlier, he left our
old world for a new one –
emigrated to Canada.
Waited tables, when he
heard the mother country
calling,
enlisted in Manitoba, 1915.

He died, in the last hundred days,
at Le Quesnel; he had travelled
the farthest of all the Allied men;
eight miles into German lines; he
was there at the start of the end.

Here, home, in Penrith
we asked for his name
to be added to the
memorial gateway in
Castle Park: no, they
said; he’s a colonial.

So, instead, we saved and paid
for this; a bench, in the park
where he played. Here he
is remembered: we hope in
a hundred years somebody
will read the cast iron words,
that will outlive us
as we outlived him,
sit here, know who he was.

Stoke, 2045

A chapter from It’s All About The Road

He dreamed of rides like this. A stiff backwind pushing him on, the roads clear, all the way down from Hanley. Leaving the factory he’d been working in, downhill, turning towards home and there was the wind, pushing him down the long straight road that seemed to balance, tipping away to the valley on one side. Homes on one side, terraces; industry on the other.

P1120114.JPG

An old elephant outside a warehouse, years of layers of paint glowing in the low evening sun, held behind a chainlink fence in case it tried to run down the road. Fibreglass advert for some company that had long since gone. But
no easy way to get rid of an elephant, so it stayed. Straight on, the wind a hand pushing him, the teeth catching perfectly with each gear change, smooth. No cars, just trams and bicycles all the way down the road clear straight past the university. Dip down under the railway bridge, low rumble as the London train crossed overhead, up and across the canal and the road, three lines of transport, connection, transit running parallel. Rail to Europe, motorway to London, canals to the docks and the sea. Left, and a dogleg through the town centre, curving round the old town hall,

Spode Village to the right, where the money stacked up, slowing to pass through the Thursday night drinkers outside the pub on the corner.

He glanced towards the night market opening up, a tram unloading passengers, the smell of street food, first customers. In the morning this was a food market, fresh potatoes, kale, beans, carrots from the city farms that had filled the corridor where the old Garden Festival had been, repurposed the old industrial sites alongside the canal towards Burslem, cleaned the dirty soil with fresh growth.

But in the evening the market cooked the produce; Chinese, Caribbean, Polish, Nepalese streetfood alongside Stoke Oatcakes and local ale, made with Trent water.

P1110911.JPG

 

Cycled on, right and a short push uphill, pounding, adrenalin slamming as he turned left onto London Road, the last kilometre to home. On the right, the Library Club and Art College, a low susurration (chat, guitar, fiddle) as the day’s lectures, debates, discussions ended in drink and dancing. In an hour, they’d fill the night market, the first pints from the college’s tiny bar making them hungry.

The solar panels on the roof of the market would have charged the batteries enough and the soundsystems would play until well after dark. He’d come back later, once the dancing had started.

But for now straight on, the baked dry biscuit smell of the big pottery, firing all day now, third largest in all of Stoke. Half a million pieces of ware rolling off the lines every week. Scottish machinery at the sharp edge, Japanese touch screen control, but English hands still touching everything produced.

P1070806.JPG

He passed The Villas on his right, blockpaved road straight up the hill, halfway up gaslight flared in a lamp. An old electric light converted to burn bio-waste; some strange conservationist in-joke. He was slightly obsessed by these houses, the hopes and aspirations of Victorian industrial revolutionaries made in brick. Elegant, European, classical yet oddly post-modern, very English. Now they were home to the people who grew up and graduated from lofts in the Spode Village, moving to here when they had children. University lecturers, cloud technicians, graphic designers, digital musicians. Mid-21st century techno bohemia.

On, a last right turn, and then standing on the pedals for the last push up the steep hill to home, Penkville Street, standing, the muscle in his calves straining, standing, as gravity and the steep degrees of the landscape pushed against him at the end of a flying ride. Mid terrace house, old front door painted rich gloss blue. Sash windows, metal column between them topped with tangled gothic foliage. Through the door, muscles burning, lungs suddenly empty now he’d stopped moving, as if the onward momentum had been pushing the air into him, inflating his lungs.

P1130939.JPG
He lent the bike against the wall, white Michelin tyres reflecting on black Minton tiles. Took off his shoulder bag. A Chapman Satchel, 30 years old, waterproof British woven tough blue Cordura, red strap faded to pink, ash toggles. Handmade in Cumbria. Thin trail of soft black road dirt on the underside but that would wipe off. A good bag for his tablet, and the tangle of cables and adaptors he used to jack into any of the machines in any of the potteries he worked with. Uploading new specs, tweaking the slip mix to a different purpose, adjusting the angle of printer nozzles, making the spinning 3D models the designers worked on in light and pixels into real clay shapes. Listening in to the machines on Flare Audio cans, the bubble of slip in the printer’s pipes like blood in veins

Bent over, pulling his jacket over his head, head spinning as the excitement of the ride crashed in. Vertigo, a short hard version of jetlag, the post-cycle rush like the instant hit of short black coffee. Threw the jacket on the stairs by the bag, then pushed himself upright, straightened, turned and wheeled the bike through to the back of the house.

It was his regular ride, a handbuilt, Lee Cooper of Coventry, lugged steel. 50 years old, sky blue paint waxed and polished to a perfect shine. Every Sunday, road dirt brushed off, degreased with Dirty Harry, three coats of hand-rubbed wax in the room at the back of the terraced house. He wheeled it back there. Other bikes against the wall An old red Saffron Frameworks, a white Ellis Briggs from Shipley, older than the Lee Cooper. He laid the sky blue against the white against the red.

And on the wall, golden yellow, the finest bicycle he owned, held on the wall by two brackets, the frame wrapped in old cotton where the clamps held it. A religious object, pinned to the wall for worship. Cycling shrine, like the niche carved to hold a pottery representation of a household god in a Roman villa. A Brian Rourke frame, seventy years old, made to the leg measurements of a forgotten rider, found in a secondhand shop on London Road. Fastest bicycles in Britain. BR crest transfer on the headset over the words in small, plain type, ‘Made In Stoke’. His next project, a month of weekends planned, the stripped parts carefully labelled in wooden trays on the side. New cables coiled ready, tense with potential energy.

P1150086.JPG

He liked to know where things came from. Chapman bag. British Boxers from Leek, Hiut Denim jeans made in Wales, Josery polo shirts from Hucknall, Norman Walsh shoes, Flare headphones from Sussex. In the kitchen he sliced London Road Bakehouse bread, dropped two slices into a British-built Dualit toaster, filled and turned on the matching kettle. Pulled out a plate, took the teapot down from the cupboard, and a mug; no doubt about where they were made. Portmeirion Pottery. Down the road, the smell of the kilns that baked these pieces of ware was on the air he breathed every day.

He put the tea and toast on a tray, carried it back to the front of the house. Put the tray on top of a pile of old magazines, real old. From newspapers, from the days when newspapers were printed, last century. He’d found this whole box of them in a house clearance round the corner, pulled out of a corner of the coach house at the end of the garden. Daily Telegraph, ‘Myicuria’ penned in the right hand corner on each cover. Full of stories which made no sense, time captured, moments lost in time like tears in the rain. He’d bought a box of crockery, Biltons; one of the lost and forgotten local potteries, insignificant in the history of industry.

Some old tools, thick with grease, ‘Made In Sheffield’. And this box of old magazines. If he wasn’t careful the First Law would kick in, the house would fill with kipple, there would be whole rooms he couldn’t enter any more.

Shard ruck, a room like a shard ruck.

But he liked to gather old things, collect stories, imagine who had owned them. In the gathering of magazines, books, old bookmarks, postcards, in the dark metal tools and battered old tins, in the old cabinets of worthless pottery ware; in all of it, he could see threads, connections and patterns.

Somewhere was the point it all came together, here in Stoke, the node.

He poured the tea, English tea.