The money’s run out, capitalism has imploded but hope springs infernal, and I just can’t resist a touch of optimism (like a temporary hair colour on greying hair). Panglossian? Yes, but right now that’s okay. If you can’t toast better times ahead on New Year’s Eve, when can you? Realism can wait. The photo is of a weed eking out a living by the side of Deptford canal.
It can no longer be ducked. Christmas is imminent. The geese have got fat. Hams are tender. Turkeys big breasted. Chestnuts are roasting. Pies are mincing. Puddings are plumy. Merry Christmas one and all.
The country has come to a halt. Transport has ceased. Hospitals are filling up with the injured (well, if you will go out, what do you expect?) Flu crisis pending. Politicians sharpening their knives to make more cuts. Shops running out of tinsel. What can one do? Why, make a snowman of course. Put that pent-up energy into making a thing of foolery.
Here’s a picture of a sink. Not my sink but one that I photographed in Desmond’s barber shop in Peckham. From the late 80’s to the mid 90’s there was a popular Channel Four TV sitcom called Desmond’s. It was the first sitcom to feature Caribbean people in a work situation. The series was actually filmed in this barbers. The other photo is of Lloyd tending to a client who has been coming to Desmond’s to get his hair cut by Lloyd since he was a boy. Sadly, after 30-plus years Desmond’s recently closed its doors for ever. For the next couple of weeks, the photo of Lloyd is exhibited at the Peckham Space gallery. A memory temporarily on a wall.
For some it inspires fear and loathing, but many of us love Peckham. We love its vibrancy. Its energy… craziness… diversity… humour. But, I confess that a stroll down Rye Lane is not always a walk in the park. It can be confrontational. So, if I’m feeling less than resilient, I go to one of the other nearby haunts: East Dulwich, Nunhead or Forest Hill where the pace is more sedate. And it’s rare to see a murder poster in a window with nets.
It’s Thanksgiving tomorrow. Although an American celebration, it has infiltrated the English calendar of reasons to get together with friends to eat, drink and make merry. And what better way to mark it than with a delicious pumpkin pie. Yummy. These gorgeous pumpkins were arrayed on a stall in Borough Market. Happy Thanksgiving!
I was walking down Rye Lane in Peckham when a bird winged past me and into a Caribbean bakery. I followed the bird in and photographed it as it helped itself to delicious ginger cake crumbs. The staff of the bakery were utterly unperturbed and just looked on. Once the bird had eaten its fill, it flew back to the street. Later I identified it as a Pied Wagtail (with one sore foot).
It was dusk when I met this lady at the bus-stop on Rye Lane in Peckham. ‘Goodnight,’ she called to a young guy hurrying by. Then, she turned to me and said, ‘I’m his mummy. I’m mummy to them all.’ ‘All?’ I said. ‘One hundred and eight four of them.’ ‘One hundred and eight four?’ ‘Yes,’ she said 184 Afghan boys.’ She showed me her hand. ‘And they look after me!’ She flashed a gold ring. These ‘boys’ run stalls and shops in Peckham… a long way from home and mummy.
opposing seats
she looked
he peeked
she gazed
he glanced
she dreamed of
a life
he dreamed of
a wife
the train pulled in
and
she got off
This is a statue of an important man (I know not who). Once it would have stood on a pedestal but somehow it has been toppled and now it rests ingloriously on the earth, the head spattered with purple fruit. Is there a moral to this? Is it an allusion to the impermanence of life and the transience of worldly glory? Or just a snap of the bust of an armless man?
Here in the west the economy is heading south. One casualty of our straitened times is a local menswear shop which has been forced to close down. Apart from flogging off its stock it is selling its ‘chins’ (that appears to be the name for these models). They’re a bargain and I regret I didn’t buy one. Too late now; the shop is shuttered.
In markets, colours clash and hit your eyeballs. Smells assert themselves like boxers in a ring. Often, your body is crushed and squeezed. You stare at the produce trying to decide: is it a bargain or is it a con? This snap was taken in a side street off Brick Lane, a fabulously varied market, in the East End of London.
One thing… the only thing I have in common with the great photographer Robert Frank is that he took a series of photos from a bus (New York, 1950s) and I did the same in Peckham. His are better. But, I only discovered that he’d done it after I’d done it. Did we do it for the same reason? The appeal of safety when you take a photo from behind glass in a moving vehicle.
The Daimler was parked by Peckham Rye. It was awaiting the bride who was conventionally late. In the photograph you can just see, swimming in the shiny surface, a reflection of the Rye. Art, but is it?
No, I don’t know what’s going on either. I photographed this lady outside Southwark Cathedral. Visitors to this historic cathedral have much to marvel at including a life-size statue of Shakespeare reclining. He leans on one elbow, and in his hand there is always a small posy of fresh flowers. Who puts the flowers there?
Here’s a little poem I wrote. It goes quite nicely with this photo taken on Saturday at Deptford market.
REMOTELY LOVED
When I enter the room
Mon ami
My TV
Lights up
For me
With news, views, quizzes,
Sick kiddies, swapped wives and
Sellebrities
Grinning
At me!
My TV
Oh!
Mon ami
Lights up
When I come into the room.
Summer draws to a close with a last hurrah. The sunflower, which may the cheeriest of flowers, puts on a comical grin as autumn edges closer with its russet colours to warm us before winter holds sway.
Why has no one abbreviated the Orwellian Big Society to BS? I’d like to start the trend. Let’s call it what it is.
Cuts, cuts, cuts. It seems to have replaced the thrill of sex, sex, sex. It’s repeated by government spokespersons like a mantra… with exclamation marks: Cuts! Cuts! Cuts! Roll up, roll up.
Cuts at the barbers? That makes sense.
Here is a picture of a man who looks happy. Actually, he is sad. Beris Blake, a retired hospital porter, sculpts characters and creatures out of wood in his garden shed. He is standing outside Nunhead Community Centre which last weekend hosted the Nunhead Open. He really enjoyed exhibiting his work at the Open but, like the rest of us, he is saddened that after the show the community centre will be padlocked, its shutters pulled down. The same thing happened last year. Opened for a weekend and then closed for an entire year.
The council deems the building unfit for purpose, and it is. They promise to construct a new building but the community loves this one. Yes, it needs tlc: surely far cheaper than the cost of a new building which, at the rate things are going, resembles nothing so much as pie in the sky.
At the weekend I attended the Peckham Rye Fete. It’s quite extraordinary that such an urban environment as Peckham can host an event more commonly associated with villages. But there we were sipping Pimms or cups of tea. Enjoying one of the many home-made cakes and stocking up on piccalilli. Selecting books, old and new, from the excellent book stall. And most delightful of all, cheering on the wagging dog show.
The Rye hosts a variety of entertainments; here’s a photo taken when a travelling funfair pitched up.
It’s Bank Holiday Monday and the Notting Hill Carnival will be rattling the windows. I’m not there this year to shake my ass or to kick ass. But in the spirit of the occasion, here is a snap taken in Nunhead, a little-known corner of south London that boasts a village green, a butcher’s, a baker’s… and occasionally, people attired in silver, who parade on stilts. It’s all a lot quieter than Notting Hill but splendid, in its way.
If you scroll down, you’ll see snaps of denizens of The Hope, a pub on Rye Lane. At least it was a pub. About a week ago, I visited because I’d promised to give the landlady copies of the photos I’d taken. But, instead of a pub I found a building site. The entire innards of the pub -- bar one light fixture -- gone. The walls plastered an eviscerated grey colour. The building’s new incarnation will be as a Paddy Power betting shop. Never again will people romp in there dressed in sailor suits and French maid’s outfits, and it’s a sorrier day for that.
Some of us are tempted to give the finger to the Big Society. I mean, what is it? As interpreted by some weasel-boys from the privileged environs of public schools (ooh, matron) it does not bode well. The noises from off-stage are ominous (milk snatching… snitching on benefits’ claimants, etc) but we must wait and see. Meanwhile, here’s an illustration of the dangers inherent when you give something the finger.
When you look at a photo taken in Peckham, you might think where in the world is that? Surely it’s not inner London… not Zone 2? Liberia, Lagos or the Lebanon perhaps…?
A street photographer need not stick to the street. It’s veracity we’re after. So, when I spotted a party on a recent Sunday afternoon at The Hope on Rye Lane, I ventured in. I’d read about this pub and how it was fighting closure and the fate of the building being turned into a Bet Fred. The party was to mobilise the regulars. I hope they succeed in their quest. The world doesn’t need another betting shop with its shady anonymity. Long live the bonhomie of the public house.
Here’s a photo I love and is featured in 20x20 Magazine (see below). My photography is in glaring colour: I think street photography works with colour, and particularly in a place like Peckham which is so vibrant. However the magazine chose to publish them in black/white, and I’m pleasantly surprised by the effect. Actually, I think b/w is the Prince Charming of photography and colour the Buttons. I’m sticking with Buttons.
This photo was taken around the time not of the recent world cup but the one held in 2006. The furore of flag flying brought on by international competitions is quite fantastic. This snap was taken in a local fish-and-chip shop. The fish-cake, battered sausage and saveloys sweat away, and don’t look appetising. Although, I can vouch for the chips.
Since practically everyone takes photos, some of them excellent, how can anyone claim to be a photographer? I think one of the ways photographers distinguish themselves from the rest of the snapping public is by building collections of quality photos. They focus on whatever it is that turns them on and they do it again and again. Apart from street photography, one of my fascinations is with cemeteries. Perhaps they’re streets of a different sort. One day I hope my cemetery photos, taken over several years, will be exhibited. The show will be called ‘It Comes to Us All’.
I was in Sheringham in Norfolk for the 17th Potty Morris Festival. I think it speaks of a country where potty-ness combined with tradition is celebrated, and I’d like to thank the Morris men and women for their dedication in the face of occasional ridicule. I mean… who among us, in a pair of wooden clogs, could leap and skip?
The men with black faces are the Witchmen from Northants, aka the Hell’s Angels of Morris dancers. You wouldn’t want to mess with them.
Hello and welcome to joanbyrnesnaps. I hope you will enjoy some of the snaps and the occasional verbal snapping that one can’t resist based on the premise that if you’re not pissed off, you’re not paying attention. A friend gave me a badge bearing that legend and I wear it proudly.
Here’s a photo taken on a sunny evening in July of a couple of guys on their way to play at the opening of the Hannah Barry Gallery atop a car park in Peckham. Many of my photos are taken on the rude streets of Peckham and south London. More to follow…
