23_05_2007Tales from the street

Michael Frank & Christopher Clark

Michael FrankAll my attempts to portray the city, especially New York, from a new angle always ended with a sense of déjà vu. �e images I was making felt like echoes, copies of the iconic views of New York that I’ve been absorbing for decades.

With deadlines approaching and frustration growing at not being able grasp the story I wanted to tell, I had my light bulb moment. What makes a city become an icon in its own right? �e life in the streets, the people! We shape the places we live in through architecture and in return places and architecture shape us in a never-ending cycle.

Could I tell the story of a city, could I capture the soul of a place by photographing ordinary people on the street? French philosopher Roland Barthes’ writing about photography may provide some help:

“Since the Photograph is pure contingency and can be nothing else (it is always something that is represented) – Contrary to the text which, by the sudden action of a single word, can shi� a sentence from description to re�ec-tion – it immediately yields up those “details” which con-stitute the very raw material of ethnological knowledge.”

From its very beginnings, photography has claimed to be a medium of ‘truth’, or a means to tell us the viewer something about the subject. Barthes suggests that by analyzing details of a picture and by paying attention to how somebody is dressed or the haircut they have, we can build a pretty clear understanding of the world that it represents.

Photography is changing.

New and increasingly a�ordable tools mean the ability to take technically sophisticated photos are in the hands of more and more people. Yet photography isn’t easy. Good photography begins with a thought, and believe me, the best photography involves a lot of think-ing. A single image can sometimes just happen, the product of being in the right place at the right time with the right eye, but coherent bodies of work can be a long and painstaking process. A success-ful series not only requires the photographer’s eye and sensitivity, but also a critical approach to post processing and editing. It’s only when all these fragments come together that a body of work can tell a compelling story. �is project began as an exploration of the cities of London and New York through their �nancial districts. �ese virtual islands of wealth and power attracted my attention both photographically and as asubject of sociological research.But once I began the project, something didn’t really add up.

Barthes suggests photography becomes an indexing and ethnological tool and in doing so provides us with access to what he describes as ‘infra-knowledge’. However, Barthes also suggests “since every photograph is contingent (and thereby outside of meaning), Photography cannot signify (aim at a generality) except by assuming a mask.” �is concept of self and the way this is represented in public spaces is one of the key debates in sociology and photography. How does technology and especially digital media a�ect our relationship with space and the self?

A whole new project began to take shape, I would relentlessly pace the streets, placing myself in midst of the hustling and bustling mul-titude with a concealed camera. “Shooting from the hip,” the resulting photographs allow us to see the face of the street. �is methodology would force me to ask questions of both my images and my practice.Given this unawareness of being photographed, can we assume that what we see in these images is a true representation of our inner self in a public space? What is the interaction, or perhaps interference, of the photographer with his or her subject? Is the photographer ac-knowledged and if so, what e�ect does this have on their interactions? Undoubtedly my relationship with public spaces and the inhabiting crowd changed during the shooting process. Awareness and proxim-ity to others gave me a clear perception of myself as part of a wider public space. But something else more powerful occurred and the whole project became a kind of obsession. A sense of frenzy and unrest overtook me and I couldn’t get enough. I felt a spiritual and physical need to be on the streets; I became anthropologist, sociolo-gist and stalker all at the same time.

I could visually and mentally zoom in on my subject for a fraction of second, feel connected and in empathy, only to forget it the following second; a sequence repeating itself footstep a�er footstep and frame a�er frame.Someone suggested that streets are like blood vessels pumping blood through the body of the city, and like the 1966 sci-� �lm “Fantastic Voyage”, I felt like the scientist being miniaturized and injected into the blood stream to explore and crack the enigma of what makes us human and alive. But like any good scientist, I needed feedback on my “data.”How would the external viewer interact with the images I’d captured and how could the resulting sensations be translated into words? Could the experiences I’d had be translated from the real to the visual and back to the written word? What would a response to a photogra-pher’s personal intervention on the ‘true’ representation of life look and “taste” like? When out on the street I had a split second to see, make sense and capture a photograph, my experiences and understanding were frag-ments and accumulations. What would it look like when these same images were taken out of the stream of the street and there was ample time to analyze, interiorize and digest the stories told by the photo-graph?

�is book tells the story of the same subject witnessed at two speeds and from two perspectives.

Christopher Clark

Many artists work with a visual mind – how they perceive the world and the process of assimilating it. As a writer, how I picture writing is greatly in�uenced by the image, and in particular the visual arts. �erefore, the idea of written work blended with another medium such as photography, greatly interests me. Not only does it feed into how I see writing, it also allows me to explore the apparent limita-tions of written text. Within these areas are a multitude of relation-ships constantly interacting with one another: for example, how do two ‘di�erent’ elements act when comprising the same initial starting point, or how do we treat content and subject when the boundaries are subject to a shi�? �is abstract notion, or ‘stepping into’ of a text, is similar to poetic techniques that the reader perceives and untangles. What happens when the genesis of a poem is directly in�uenced by the external stimuli of a photograph? Is the perception of a text (both photograph and poem) enhanced or deprived? In my view, the distance between poet and reader creates a space that the poem then occupies. Pre-senting an image with its corresponding poetic response, the reader is provided with a companion on their responsive journey, providing an additional dialogue. �e open-ended nature of poetry suits this function as it does not intend to tell the reader what they are seeing, or how they feel, but present another dimension of perception to in-habit and respond to. �is project is useful in exploring these dimensions, given the ex-ploratory nature of the subject matter: how people perceive one an-other in amongst their surroundings, and how they are when those elements fall away.

�ese shi�ing boundaries can be viewed somewhat ironically in a photograph: a static viewing point where the reader’s interactions and responses are continuingly developing. �e �uidity of photo-graph and poem are then coupled together, presenting a further layer of dynamic experience.

As a writer, I am hesitant to talk too much about what a poem might mean. I would also suggest that whilst certain photographs may be the indicative measure that begins the process of writing, it may not be entirely what the poem feels about. I would never presume to advise or assume how one chooses to read a piece of work, but would suggest that the �uid idea of how photograph and poem work togeth-er should be considered, and a static notion of direct representation be avoided.

�is is one of the reasons that the ability to pair up poems and pho-tographs in the reader’s own vision transpired. By giving an element of creativity over to the reader, it allows a direct in�uence in their own response to the work, inhabiting an area usually kept for the art-ist. Just like how a reader interprets a poem and a viewer responds to a photograph, the individual in possession of this book is able to in�uence that experience to a greater degree, by changing the starting point of their relationship with the work. It is important to continu-ally �nd new ways to explore modes and ideas of expression, and this project allows each person a greater part in that process.

Joy

�e news told me of an old disgrace exoneratedAnd I began to think of codes to make waysOf saying how I hate it when you smoke in hallways

Lingering in corridors the way that old facesHaunt corners of the imagination, �oating aroundLike clouds in front of me, they hide your face already

Lost amongst crowds of hair and glasses, only your nameBadge says ‘Joy’. Head bowed, back hunched and awayDown under the ground where trains take you places

Clouds still cling to you like a halo.But when you are surrounded, you are aloneAnd if the smoke ever clears

Lists from my pocket

I remember when I was �ve,I made a list of fears to carryIn my pocket for years a�er.

Falling on barbed wire, caughtIn the lids of my eye and yelpingWords instead of tears I couldn’t cry.

Lightning knocking tree trunks,Doors slamming down on me,Spits of acid on my tentative footsteps.

Under my bed were a thousand dirty liesContained in magazines, busty girlsWouldn’t look me in the eye

In the middle of silent night-timeI jumped from a window when I was sixAnd my body cracked into a mosaic path

I ran red into the hills, losing myself for hours.Swapping country and cities, but still �nd forestsCaught up around me, spilling out in tra�c jamsAnd explicit language exchanged between strangers.

4th of July

It was a very hot summerJust a�er July, 4 blocksFrom home. Everywhere

Bustled and screeched,Made demands on eachOf us. Frustrated faces

Wilted under the streamAnd the concrete sidewalksCreaked under, crumbling

Into rivers below, whereRemains made their journeyOut to sea. You looked back

At me, full of inadequaciesBottled up for the right timeTo give to me, imbibing heat.

Her

A�er seventeen years of shopping, carsand blistering sons, the snow tripped andspooned as I held out my hand for exclamation,

watching the distraction of her �ngers shaking. Head like a wrinkled prune, slightly confused, brown leather bobbed to the side, tight: almost

another child, bundled up with secrets and liestold undercover to one another in languages made up.

Once she had been a knock out: a mugger clean round the head and hit the deck in one single clout. And we told the story for whole days, until it became

its own myth. Dressed in pastels and hard apricot,little soldiers marched to the sound: china clappingand remains of hard boiled sweets �oated behind.

She still wore pastel but the apricot had waded behind,hiding under slightly dated frames. And I stood, waiting.Watching the clocks of her eyes count back and forth, slight

and faded, where it took a little longer for her voice to hit me,to o�er out a hand �lled with a myriad of polyurethaneand in the other, a warm and milky cup of tea.

�ey Came

�ey came to disperse us,a mass of crop to harvest,picked up, bagged and ready.

Artefacts carved from space,waiting to break, we made ourselvesa bubble. Sounds of roads

yet driven screech out, brakes failing -your hands look tiny, when they reachout for me. And I realise we are broken

and without any defence for ourselves,unremembered by second glances, beforewe disappear out into the rest of the city.

It’s jaws bite out and swallow each of us, unready.

Breaking Backs

Le� bug eyed by the circus, draininglife that propelled us, shaded nowby palettes and patterns, re�ecting usback on another fucker of a Monday.

Every immovable object, stationary,every interchange made, by an ironic senseor the weirder reasons made to place yourselfwilfully amongst barricades and roadblocks.

Born straight, out of resignation, a rightkind of boredom, to begin with, emanatingfrom the foundation, debased and dwellingamongst your quirks that manifest themselves.

Outward in benevolence, you chose to darken outin your wisdom and intellect, frustrations you choseto burn, by the cross�re, creating spires that shotthemselves up and out, through every one of our spinal cords.

Doll Undiscovered

�e house had su�ered from many a summer,thinning out paint, palein winter’s comparison.

It looked like china, frailAnd greyed out, windowsDarkened eyes painted onTo an oil-greased picture.

Leaves weighting, and steadyDilution by water, it’s facebecame a mannequin, barelyheld up with pieces of string.

Sitting vacant, a world wandered by.Faces stained each limb, little fracturesUnder creaking �oorboards and plasterSkin, gaunt and forgotten, le� in a box.

�e Monster

Outside fruit markets you held me by the molecules.

Contorted arms drank pools of airyour face unknownteeth baring the iron of the city.

I waited for the strain to take away the barks and wails of sirenscalled round to bow and stern

the ripples of colour aroundour necks beganto weigh and struggle.

Tales

He hides in sight, wearing suits from Saville Row.Fitted from measurements made long ago.Sketches of colour declare a sense of personality,Carefully pressed together and combed downSo when people ask him about himselfHe has a list of lies to carry, choosing oneLike an out�t laid out the night beforeWhen his shoes are le� abandoned so he can walk�rough darkened alleys and shady spotsLe� unattended by most sleeping people�ey walk past, unaware of the hands reaching outGrabbing at dulled senses and particular extensionsTo bust out the life he no longer wants, secretlyDiscarding the insides like a badly stitched suitHe creeps out of until he’s satis�ed it’s lostAnd he can wake up tomorrow safe from night’s harm.

Retrospective

I’ve spent so long looking atsplit second expressionismsof walled eyes waiting, watching

night rumbles on, ghostlyfaces oddly sheet paper,and I hold each of you -

arms out and pocket wrappedseeing you look back, looking out for life in the cold.

�e Opaque Surface

Dorothy was the �rst girlTo be sucker-punched -

Her little red heels clickedAlong rows of grinning feet

She followed golden jewelsDown the cut outs of streets

Cardboard pipes and paperMachie, plastercined and pritt-sticked

Joints lit like rubies on FridaysWhere men milled in Soho Square

Looking to bake some bread,Crumbs scraping their beaks

Calling out to the lion’s chestAnd the cool tins that shattered

�e echoes of their surfaces, laidBeneath bed sheets and evening mists.

Four days in bed

It had been four days in bed, crumpled and un-madeOnly dim streaks of light have made their way through to meClosed o� and blinkered, only scraps of molecules came through�e creak in the door that had been le� open from when you le� here.

And on the walls have been slideshows, of past few years and beyondFrames of childhood – playgrounds, summers and an array of �rstsLay before me with every possibility, now gone from here and emptiedLike you packed them up in that bag with your things, leaving nothing.

Outside I heard voices without bodies, �oating free and without constraint�ey �ew up past me like the light of the city, shining out �re to the skyBlindly it covered up the stars and their stories, it deafened them slowlyLe� nothing but a dome over-head – its’ fuzz I wrestled with.

A beach without water – dried out and helpless – I counted cracks in the ceilingOne for every click of the carousel. And a�er losing myself over and over,In the mist of blues and yellowed greys, I woke up early in the morningScattered amongst the bodies – parts of hands and feet and semi-covered faces.

Rising from the heap of mangled friends and stories, padded so�ly throughTakeaway cartons from many days ago, maybe, but unsure of when, hoursDid not skip past me. My face feels fresher and the strength of the breathBeside me �lls up limbs and I see in re�ection, more of the past behind me.

Bubbles

You called me sun-kissedstrawberry dropped ina glass of champagnewatching throughsun-rimmed lensesas I clutched to yousweat dripped oncherry �avoured lipseyes all heart-shapedand glistening with steamthere you le� me so I’d waittrembling excited bubbling �zz.

Sleet

I can hear the partition screechBetween mauve skies and snowEaten up in the side streetsWhere handfuls of change plate upHissing in the gleam.

Build up broken sca�oldingIt swings in the wind, syllablesHang like cheating pearl necklacesLe� in the trail to sweating breastsCupped in shrunken sheaths of death.

Sparring Memory

An old question stands between you and I�rough which we could analyze, or deceiveOurselves alone I look to you to wave away�e night-ships docked under glassy moonlight.

�ey wait listless, the slow see-saw of retrograde�e creases of which shimmer across our �agsAs we throw licks to one another like �aresAcross the starboard of blue and black canvases.

Co�ee Cup

�ere’s always something about a Wednesday.Mid-week evenings are a bust. Empty housesFill up with clutter: take-away boxes uncollectedStacked by Saturday’s wine bottles le� in recycling.

�ere is the co�ee cup still stained with lipstick marksAnd the tiny chip in the rim that pressed up againstYour mouth, it nicked and threatened to bleed outOn to the freshly cleaned carpet and table tops.

Six coasters – that’s one for every guest and a half-ringCoats the glass. �e �rst part of the week has hardened itAnd it looks slightly crisp, like the frost �rst thing in theMorning, as I struggle to wake and roll out crumpled sheets.

What would you make of all of this? Putting questions to youI script out conversations in my head, dreaming out anotherExistence as I walk out again and again, past the empty binsAnd the time the sheets were neat, pressed and clean as I slept in.

Removed

Down the streets, buildings creak.

I count down feet and wait For explosions to break outAmongst buildings, in �amesHeat rising, to take me away.

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