23_05_2007

Tales from the street

Michael Frank & Christopher Clark
Michael Frank
All my attempts to portray the city, especially New York,
from a new angle always ended with a sense of dj vu.
Te images I was making felt like echoes, copies of the
iconic views of New York that Ive 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? Te 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 shif a sentence from description to refec-
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 afordable tools mean the ability to take
technically sophisticated photos are in the hands of more and more
people. Yet photography isnt 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 photographers eye and sensitivity,
but also a critical approach to post processing and editing. Its only
when all these fragments come together that a body of work can tell a
compelling story.
Tis project began as an exploration of the cities of London and New
York through their fnancial districts. Tese virtual islands of wealth
and power attracted my attention both photographically and as a
subject of sociological research.But once I began the project,
something didnt 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. Tis 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 afect 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. Tis 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 efect 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 couldnt 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 afer footstep and frame
afer frame.
Someone suggested that streets are like blood vessels pumping blood
through the body of the city, and like the 1966 sci-f flm 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 Id captured
and how could the resulting sensations be translated into words?
Could the experiences Id had be translated from the real to the visual
and back to the written word? What would a response to a photogra-
phers 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?
Tis 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 infuenced by the image, and in particular the visual arts.
Terefore, 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 diferent elements act when comprising the same initial starting
point, or how do we treat content and subject when the boundaries
are subject to a shif?

Tis 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 infuenced 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. Te 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.

Tis 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.
Tese shifing boundaries can be viewed somewhat ironically in a
photograph: a static viewing point where the readers interactions
and responses are continuingly developing. Te fuidity 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 fuid idea of how photograph and poem work togeth-
er should be considered, and a static notion of direct representation
be avoided.
Tis is one of the reasons that the ability to pair up poems and pho-
tographs in the readers own vision transpired. By giving an element
of creativity over to the reader, it allows a direct infuence 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
infuence that experience to a greater degree, by changing the starting
point of their relationship with the work. It is important to continu-
ally fnd new ways to explore modes and ideas of expression, and this
project allows each person a greater part in that process.
Joy
Te news told me of an old disgrace exonerated
And I began to think of codes to make ways
Of saying how I hate it when you smoke in hallways
Lingering in corridors the way that old faces
Haunt corners of the imagination, foating around
Like clouds in front of me, they hide your face already
Lost amongst crowds of hair and glasses, only your name
Badge says Joy. Head bowed, back hunched and away
Down under the ground where trains take you places
Clouds still cling to you like a halo.
But when you are surrounded, you are alone
And if the smoke ever clears
Lists from my pocket
I remember when I was fve,
I made a list of fears to carry
In my pocket for years afer.
Falling on barbed wire, caught
In the lids of my eye and yelping
Words instead of tears I couldnt cry.
Lightning knocking tree trunks,
Doors slamming down on me,
Spits of acid on my tentative footsteps.
Under my bed were a thousand dirty lies
Contained in magazines, busty girls
Wouldnt look me in the eye
In the middle of silent night-time
I jumped from a window when I was six
And my body cracked into a mosaic path
I ran red into the hills, losing myself for hours.
Swapping country and cities, but still fnd forests
Caught up around me, spilling out in trafc jams
And explicit language exchanged between strangers.
4
th
of July
It was a very hot summer
Just afer July, 4 blocks
From home. Everywhere
Bustled and screeched,
Made demands on each
Of us. Frustrated faces
Wilted under the stream
And the concrete sidewalks
Creaked under, crumbling
Into rivers below, where
Remains made their journey
Out to sea. You looked back
At me, full of inadequacies
Bottled up for the right time
To give to me, imbibing heat.
Her
Afer seventeen years of shopping, cars
and blistering sons, the snow tripped and
spooned as I held out my hand for exclamation,
watching the distraction of her fngers shaking.
Head like a wrinkled prune, slightly confused,
brown leather bobbed to the side, tight: almost
another child, bundled up with secrets and lies
told 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 clapping
and remains of hard boiled sweets foated 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 ofer out a hand flled with a myriad of polyurethane
and in the other, a warm and milky cup of tea.
Tey Came
Tey came to disperse us,
a mass of crop to harvest,
picked up, bagged and ready.
Artefacts carved from space,
waiting to break, we made ourselves
a bubble. Sounds of roads
yet driven screech out, brakes failing -
your hands look tiny, when they reach
out for me. And I realise we are broken
and without any defence for ourselves,
unremembered by second glances, before
we disappear out into the rest of the city.
Its jaws bite out and swallow each of us, unready.
Breaking Backs
Lef bug eyed by the circus, draining
life that propelled us, shaded now
by palettes and patterns, refecting us
back on another fucker of a Monday.
Every immovable object, stationary,
every interchange made, by an ironic sense
or the weirder reasons made to place yourself
wilfully amongst barricades and roadblocks.
Born straight, out of resignation, a right
kind of boredom, to begin with, emanating
from the foundation, debased and dwelling
amongst your quirks that manifest themselves.
Outward in benevolence, you chose to darken out
in your wisdom and intellect, frustrations you chose
to burn, by the crossfre, creating spires that shot
themselves up and out, through every one of our spinal cords.
Doll Undiscovered
Te house had sufered
from many a summer,
thinning out paint, pale
in winters comparison.
It looked like china, frail
And greyed out, windows
Darkened eyes painted on
To an oil-greased picture.
Leaves weighting, and steady
Dilution by water, its face
became a mannequin, barely
held up with pieces of string.
Sitting vacant, a world wandered by.
Faces stained each limb, little fractures
Under creaking foorboards and plaster
Skin, gaunt and forgotten, lef in a box.
Te Monster
Outside fruit markets
you held me by the molecules.
Contorted arms drank pools of air
your face unknown
teeth baring the iron of the city.
I waited for the strain to take away
the barks and wails of sirens
called round to bow and stern
the ripples of colour around
our necks began
to 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 down
So when people ask him about himself
He has a list of lies to carry, choosing one
Like an outft laid out the night before
When his shoes are lef abandoned so he can walk
Trough darkened alleys and shady spots
Lef unattended by most sleeping people
Tey walk past, unaware of the hands reaching out
Grabbing at dulled senses and particular extensions
To bust out the life he no longer wants, secretly
Discarding the insides like a badly stitched suit
He creeps out of until hes satisfed its lost
And he can wake up tomorrow safe from nights harm.
Retrospective
Ive spent so long looking at
split second expressionisms
of walled eyes waiting, watching
night rumbles on, ghostly
faces oddly sheet paper,
and I hold each of you -
arms out and pocket wrapped
seeing you look back,
looking out for life in the cold.
Te Opaque Surface
Dorothy was the frst girl
To be sucker-punched -
Her little red heels clicked
Along rows of grinning feet
She followed golden jewels
Down the cut outs of streets
Cardboard pipes and paper
Machie, plastercined and pritt-sticked
Joints lit like rubies on Fridays
Where men milled in Soho Square
Looking to bake some bread,
Crumbs scraping their beaks
Calling out to the lions chest
And the cool tins that shattered
Te echoes of their surfaces, laid
Beneath bed sheets and evening mists.
Four days in bed
It had been four days in bed, crumpled and un-made
Only dim streaks of light have made their way through to me
Closed of and blinkered, only scraps of molecules came through
Te creak in the door that had been lef open from when you lef here.
And on the walls have been slideshows, of past few years and beyond
Frames of childhood playgrounds, summers and an array of frsts
Lay before me with every possibility, now gone from here and emptied
Like you packed them up in that bag with your things, leaving nothing.
Outside I heard voices without bodies, foating free and without constraint
Tey few up past me like the light of the city, shining out fre to the sky
Blindly it covered up the stars and their stories, it deafened them slowly
Lef nothing but a dome over-head its fuzz I wrestled with.
A beach without water dried out and helpless I counted cracks in the ceiling
One for every click of the carousel. And afer losing myself over and over,
In the mist of blues and yellowed greys, I woke up early in the morning
Scattered amongst the bodies parts of hands and feet and semi-covered faces.
Rising from the heap of mangled friends and stories, padded sofly through
Takeaway cartons from many days ago, maybe, but unsure of when, hours
Did not skip past me. My face feels fresher and the strength of the breath
Beside me flls up limbs and I see in refection, more of the past behind me.
Bubbles
You called me sun-kissed
strawberry dropped in
a glass of champagne
watching through
sun-rimmed lenses
as I clutched to you
sweat dripped on
cherry favoured lips
eyes all heart-shaped
and glistening with steam
there you lef me so Id wait
trembling excited bubbling fzz.
Sleet
I can hear the partition screech
Between mauve skies and snow
Eaten up in the side streets
Where handfuls of change plate up
Hissing in the gleam.
Build up broken scafolding
It swings in the wind, syllables
Hang like cheating pearl necklaces
Lef in the trail to sweating breasts
Cupped in shrunken sheaths of death.
Sparring Memory
An old question stands between you and I
Trough which we could analyze, or deceive
Ourselves alone I look to you to wave away
Te night-ships docked under glassy moonlight.
Tey wait listless, the slow see-saw of retrograde
Te creases of which shimmer across our fags
As we throw licks to one another like fares
Across the starboard of blue and black canvases.
Cofee Cup
Teres always something about a Wednesday.
Mid-week evenings are a bust. Empty houses
Fill up with clutter: take-away boxes uncollected
Stacked by Saturdays wine bottles lef in recycling.
Tere is the cofee cup still stained with lipstick marks
And the tiny chip in the rim that pressed up against
Your mouth, it nicked and threatened to bleed out
On to the freshly cleaned carpet and table tops.
Six coasters thats one for every guest and a half-ring
Coats the glass. Te frst part of the week has hardened it
And it looks slightly crisp, like the frost frst thing in the
Morning, as I struggle to wake and roll out crumpled sheets.
What would you make of all of this? Putting questions to you
I script out conversations in my head, dreaming out another
Existence as I walk out again and again, past the empty bins
And 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 out
Amongst buildings, in fames
Heat rising, to take me away.
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