Text….
Increasingly I have become interested in the inclusion of fictitious texts to accompany my photo works. In my recent work ‘The Golden Road’ a fictitious and imagined narrative of the spaces outside of M’s interior world was introduced. Nine blocks of text were sequenced in between the images of her interior spaces. I will soon add the images and text to my website.
Below are an example:
1
Somewhere above Walsall, above the greyness of its clouds, that hides their silver lining, the muffled sound of a jet engine fades in and out of the ears below. Yet, no-one looks up as they stand at a bus stop; waiting patiently for the 311 or the 313 or some other. Further along Bradford Street, with their backs turned to an estate agent, another group wait for the 404 and 405. People just stand and wait as they watch each other discretely. As in saccadic jumps of their eyes, a chain of observation leads from the back to the front of the queue, as only the brave look over their shoulders at those behind them.
A car lazily rolls by and whilst others look at watches, and sigh, or check the time on their mobile phones, and then their messages, two elderly women share their contempt for a younger woman who has just pushed in and placed herself at the head of the queue.
Bradford Street is a world of bus stops, topped off with, a tattooist, a second-hand furniture shop and a Corals bookmaker, with late night closing. Corals Bookmakers is the Stock Exchange for the unwaged, who all day, gamble the present on the outcomes of unknown futures. Outside of this financial hub, with its bright posters that ask you to deduce the result of the Liverpool Vs Chelsea game, is a green metal bench that waits patiently for the entrepreneurs and soothsayers inside, who are in need of a ‘time out’ from watching over their portfolio of investments.
A young tall and sinewy man walks slowly out of Corals, his white trainers tentatively tracing across the pavement. As he walks, his body stretches upwards, his clothes lifting to reveal his lower torso, and as it does, one hand reaches instinctively to shield his skin from the coldness of the world before deciding to nestle itself under his white t-shirt instead, just above his belt, for its own protection.
He continues to walk, as his back arches backwards with each step. His frame elongating upwards as his free hand, in a soothing gesture, reaches to cradle his neck, his elbow in turn pointing out at a right angle to the world. And in so doing, the bottom of his blue hooded jacket rides up high above his waist and into the realms of his back.
The lower right corner of his jacket, with its large stitched pocket, dangles aimlessly as an open pressed studded flap reveals an empty interior.
It is almost like a semi-sign of surrender, and of defeat, as he continues to walk slowly, hand on neck. His coat falls, as his hands reach to warm in his pockets, and as he slumps down onto the bench his legs ripple out in front of him across the pavement.
3
A young woman, with a pink top and bleached blonde hair, pushes a buggy past him, swerving slightly to avoid his legs; and momentarily turning her head as she flicks a glance up and down at him before turning away. But he sits there oblivious and motionless; just looking though the window from where he has come - into the world he has just left. She continues with a purposeful stride; her body bouncing slightly up and down with each step, and as she goes, her child below and in front of her, looks ahead at the road to come and drops an empty packet of Milk Chocolate Buttons on the floor.
There’s a queue in Greggs. A line of students, workers on breaks and the unwaged line up and peer contently at that which they will soon consume and soon lose. Weight is shifted from leg to leg as hands in pockets, hands checking change and the hands of others nervously tense and relax as they wait patiently to grasp that which they crave.
