This way to the Kingdom

Peckham is blessed with places of worship including one for Jehovah’s Witnesses. A family on my street are Jehovah’s Witnesses. The son told me that in his religion birthdays are not celebrated. He looked sad about this, and I must say not celebrating the day when you have struggled from the womb to the world is mean-spirited. Come to think about it, you don’t often see a happy Jehovah’s Witness. This may be due to the way they are treated on the doorstep when they visit to recruit followers to their belief that better times will come… once we’re dead. Or, rather, once they're dead because I think they get a better deal in the Kingdom.

Give peace a chance

The boards comprising Peckham’s peace wall (see earlier blog) continue to be covered with expressions of hope, sometimes despair. Meanwhile, the first three boards have been moved to Peckham Library where I photographed them. For some reason this corner of the building is bathed in a ghastly green light.

Here are some of the peace wall messages:

Life is too short! Let go!

Love Peckham. Educate.

It’s gone too far… where is the love?

We’re citizens first, consumers second.

My Home. Your Home. Our home.

I love Peckham for all the grannies and people.

Don’t blame the youths. Blame the Conservatives.

God is coming.

Peckham's Peace Wall

We love Peckham

My experience of Peckham’s riot was sonic: screaming sirens and helicopters noisily circling for two days and nights. A few days later and Rye Lane has returned to its usual bustle, although one shop stands as a blackened skeleton and others have boarded-up windows. Among them is Poundland. Boards covering its smashed windows have become a ‘peace wall’ of post-it notes, a spontaneous outlet for the community to counter the lunacy. 

Barking!

Why present roses in packaging that depicts an image of a dog bearing a close resemblance to a Rottweiler? It might even be frothing at the mouth! Photo taken at London’s Flower Market.

Frank's in Peckham

Summer in downtown Peckham is marked by the opening of Frank’s Cafe (now in its fifth year). It’s in a car-park and is reached by heaving open an unmarked metal door and by persevering through dismal layers of concrete up to the top floor where the views and the smell of grilled sardines and the pink of Campari cocktails and the sight of sculptures that pirouette in the skyline will reward you. 

Kittens?

I took this photo just as he finished writing the sign. It was taken a few years ago when I was part of a group of artists documenting the changing face of the Elephant and Castle, a project organised by Tate Modern. Ever since I’ve wondered if ‘kittens’ was a code for something else… something more sinister than cute bundles of fur. On the other hand, he did work in a pet shop.