The Streets of London

 All the lonely people.....

So, what in the world's come over you?

And what in heaven's name have you done?

You've broken the speed of the sound of loneliness

You're out there running just to be on the run

I'm not alone. I'm with a small group of photographers, led by Simon Ellingworth, an international award-winning photographer and educator, who specialises, among other things, in street and black and white photography and available light portraiture. It's a day workshop in London, though I stray a little from the path.....

We start with a drink and a chat, introductions to each other, and some basic ideas on hunting, shooting and fishing - literally and metaphorically.  I fiddle with my camera to check the settings, and then we are off, a pack of photo-coyotes, eager for the kill.

I'm not alone - which is good - but I cannot deny a sense of loneliness, not necessarily in myself (though that's another story) but in many of the subjects I focus on. Some of these shots are candid - I hope no one is offended - but others are with consent. The trouble with consenting adults is that they then may pose and lose their spontaneity.....

Samuel Johnson coined the cliche that when one is tired of London one is tired of life, and William Wordsworth spouted that earth hath not anything to show more fair [than London from Westminster Bridge], but the thing about photography is that it is essentially a lonely and a probing craft. There is little point in "taking pictures" unless there is a point. Pointing and shooting won't kill the beast.

I find myself noticing elements of the loneliness of the city streets.  Above, a young man smokes and looks at his watch - is he expecting someone?  Here a woman sits alone, observed (discussed?) by three young men:

Here a young girl has a book for company - something of a rarity I think:

While just down the street, another girl has no book:

Andy Warhol's take on David Bowie reminds me that they are both dead, a thought that reminds me of life:

And life does go on, and on, and on, whether one is at work:

Or on a break:

On the move:

Or having a drink with a friend:

Or checking your phone while having a drink with a friend:

Or just checking your phone in case there is a friend out there:

Some people may be distracted from their phones for a moment:

While others aren't:

I wonder what Samuel J would say today?  When a man is tired of his phone, he's tired of life?  Or perhaps, When a man is tired of life, he rings someone....?

So, how can you tell me you're lonely

And say for you that the sun don't shine?

Let me take you by the hand

And lead you through the streets of London

Show you something to make you change your mind

I doubt I could change your mind.  Perhaps you're not lonely?  Making a phone call is not a certain indicator of isolation.  But what did we do before?  I used to queue to use phones in bars, and occasionally try via the operator to request a reverse charge call.  When I first ran a school boarding house in 1995, there was acute demand for the one payphone between fifty teenagers.....  And now......

But my images are not only of callers calling.  Simon has asked us to show him the world as he hasn't seen it before - not an easy task, and one that can lead to attempts at artifice, that ultimately lead nowhere. Framing is one gambit:

Blurring another:

Looking for colour swatches, or symmetry:

Picking out curious details:

Or trying to see the mundane in a fresh crop:

Looking for the abstract:

Or asking the Princess of Soho to strike a pose:

Or two:

Or even three:

There is a limit, for me, to how much I feel I can intrude on everyone else's world. I see individuals immersed in their own bubble, and I question what is it that makes me want to portray this?  Every day there are millions, if not billions, of pictures being recorded on smart phones and cameras across the globe, and what do we gain/learn from this?  

In a way I would like to think that somehow this will make us more aware of other people. More "tuned in" to the life of this world. But I am not sure. I love the Bar Italia in Frith Street, but more because I lived in Italy for twenty years, than because of its prices..... Photographing it makes me nostalgic for an Italy, or even a London, that has lost its way now, and quasi disappeared. So is my love of pictures a kind of nostalgia? After all, every picture you take is already in the past.....

Though to get a little bit Zen about it all, the essence of life is the infinitely expanded present, and here is a picture that works on at least one level in that way:  Michael Jackson is still with us, as is the young man with his bike waiting for instructions from another world, though time has moved on and they are already history.....

Back to the mono-polar essence of the smart phone. If nothing else, it makes you look wonderful between the pink and the blue of traditional values......

After the workshop I wander down the South Bank and keep my camera about me.  A woman in the Tate Modern Members' Bar asks me to take her photograph on her phone.  So I ask if I could take her on my camera.  What is this?  Should I have sat down and bought drinks and exchanged numbers?  Or was it just passing ships?  Is the infinitely expanded present all we can grasp?  I don't even know her name....

And then, silhouetted against the starkness of modern life a young man sounds a little Trenchtown, as people dance by, and I shoot him, as a hunter would.  Is that it?  Just another trophy?

Well, how can you ask about tomorrow

When we ain't got one word to say?

So, what in the world's come over you?

And what in heaven's name have you done?

You've broken the speed of the sound of loneliness

You're out there running just to be on the run

John Prine

Speed of the Sound of Loneliness

So, how can you tell me you're lonely

And say for you that the sun don't shine?

Ralph McTell

Streets of London

Thank you Simon

London

 Underneath the arches.....

Flanagan and Allen.... The great couplings.  Wilson, Keppel and Betty (no that's three....). Wilbur and Orville Wright, Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall, Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera, Homer and Marge Simpson.....  Oh, and Gilbert and George....,

Whose new gallery just off Brick Lane is a joy to visit, whether the

Pavement is our pillow

or

Without a sheet we'll lay

Underneath the arches

We (will) dream our dreams away

And dreaming is what it comes down to.....

I'm in London for a day or two, paying respect to the great and the good, and offering disrespect where it is due:

I laze a little, with Italy in mind:

Then wander a while in Hyde Park:

Reminiscing a little of the days when I visited this Police Station for reasons I won't go into here:

Then relaxing a moment in the shade of FDR in Grosvenor Square:

While young things prepare themselves for the upcoming celebrations of the unctions of Konig Karl von Battenberg:

Ah, but I'm not here for the fun nor the unctions.... 

The Ritz we never signed for

Savoys they can keep

No. I'm trolling (Shome mishtake?  Ed) along the South Bank with Simon Ellingworth (Multi Award Winning Photographer & Educator), in an attempt to steal some images of life as it really is.....

Starting with the Tate Modern, where concrete brutalism decapitates the passer-by:

A screen in the old oil tanks continuously plays with the shadows:

The structure of the Turbine Hall puts all in their place, section by section:

While windows obscure stories that could be interesting - or which may be just so:

I like to think that Love exists: but as with all art, maybe it's just a passing fancy - a flash between two mobiles?

Upstairs the clouds are gathering.  A shy guardian marshals the strays, while the ceiling lowers:

Sleeping when it's raining

And sleeping when it's fine

It's nice to see people quietly reflecting:

Or letting time coil by:

In colour, or in black and white:

And it is good to know that, despite the brickwork, there is a world outside:

Then we are outside, again, and 

Underneath the arches

We dream our dreams away (bon-bon-bo-da-be-do)

Sleeping when it's raining

And sleeping when it's fine

Trains rattling by above (bon-bo-bo-da-bi-da-bo)

There are truths in lies. Perhaps:

Earth has not anything to show more fair

And

these are not drunk, as you suppose, since it is only the third hour of the day.

London and I have been friends, of sorts, for over sixty years. There have been, as in most friendships, moments of friction, but I am not (yet) tired of life, and our relationship continues to grow. I accept that everything changes, from black and white:

To colour:

From noughts, to crosses:

Some people walk down concrete stairways, as if they're under orders:

While others indulge their tastes with clear expressions of delight:

The young record their progress:

And life goes on, whatever we may prefer.....

Underneath the arches

Where:

We dream our dreams away (bon-bon-bo-da-be-do)

There's only one place that we know

And that is where we sleep......

Pavement is our pillow

Without a sheet we'll lay

Underneath the arches

We dream our dreams away

Bud Flanagan, Joseph Mccarthy Jr. and Reg Connelly

With many thanks to Simon Ellingworth, Gilbert and George and Flanagan and Allen

https://gilbertandgeorgecentre.org

https://simonellingworth.com

https://youtu.be/q7HoMWuXCY4