A Grafitti Park grows in Stockwell

Neither Stockwell nor Brixton have historically been viewed by mainstream observers as the fountains of aesthetics.

You do not learn about Brixton at the Academy. however, those of us interested in contemporary art or modern urban history are likely to find ourselves in stranger places. London, to world travelers, may seem tame in its roughest edges. Art, however, is not tame here. Projects are being developed. One which grabbed my eye way the Signal Project.

While Stockwell and Brixton have always been contemporary and artistic in the heaps on aesthetics they shed upon the modern cosmopolitan mind of London, I am not a scholar of English urban history. What I do is blog, blogging, and walking or some combination in between. And when I have time to pause, I pick up the local free papers, the local art papers, or a wifi/internet signal and research what I can turn up.

This blog turned up from the Thursday edition of the Evening Standard on graffiti gardening.

It is a terrific story (which you can link to above). Public art, 'spray can art' or outsider neo-art is what some of us think of as a new revolutionary spirit. It is embraced, disgraceful, misunderstood. It is highly debatable. It is a challenge to get a hold on whether you have read Banksy or prefer to simpy accept mottos. Solo's motto is often painted on the walls of the ball courts of stockwell and Brixton, "Say Something Beautiful or Be Quiet." I have said something similar in my revious blogs on the subject. Graffit can be damaging and offensive without purpose, or without even meaning to not have purpose. It can be venally vain.

It can also be a powerful movement for uplifting rises of power in marginalized communities. It sometimes can say what we have thought but not heard. It can replace and undermine the worlds of consumerism, advertising, and corporations. It is powerful. It cannot be turned off.

Like the arts and sciences this public art incorporates, is incorporated, shares and crosses boundaries with what it means to be human, social, cultural, individual. It can be as simple as the biases we already have, graffiti belongs with rap, breakdance, basketball, being black. It can be as ritzy and accepted by art forums as Banksy's wonderful book Wall and Piece.

London is not so shallow. It is multi-cultural (probably the multicultural capital of Europe).

Solo-one, the hero of our insider article, sees graffiti as feeding young people with positive ideas. "You have to have the heart to do it..." he says, tagging as opposed to art can, bring neighborhoods to the brink of "descending into madness." Art and the ability to pursue the skills of being an artist and perfecting the artistic craft is an agreed upon ethic that crosses generations of street artists whether they are well known or invisible. "If it is good, the walls are better off plain." Solo-One says, "Sacrifice is important. If a piece has only taken 20 minutes I know the artist's heart wasn't in it."

What is the difference really between the honing of artistic craft today and the construction of great murals, mosaics, and other public art pieces of the past?

In today's London, some of the best, most loved contemporary art can be found in the outdoors. Galleries are tucked between forgotten streets and along abandoned industry and rail yards. There are galleries tucked into the vacant spaces (read: parks) in Stockwell Park Estates. This is the domain of Solo-One and his kindred spirits. "This is a safe-place for kids to learn how to paint," he says, and to understand the commitment it takes to be a good writer."

Today we are off to the Meeting of Styles, it is an important part of our trip to London. We will try and guide ourselves to finding a Banksy tour beginning Waterloo underneath the railway arches... that is all we have right now to work with. Art it seems is never far nor hard to find.

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Who stands up in the basement cell?

Three women kneel on dusty ground, speaking in hushed tones through a small basement grate. Blue box trucks stack behind them with three little white hats peering off of bench seats out back; smoking, jostling.

Two of the women are older. Dressed in black covering, the eldest has one hand clenched, supporting her heavy weight as she kneels and bends; her other had pressed against the chain grate. She is not crying.

This is a lonely scene. While the bustle of barristers, onlookers, and policemen fill the street; and noise of streetcars and horse bugs clang along the city’s tracks, none pay notice to mourning mothers.

Why bother them? They are doing their duty. They have sacrificed their morning to be here with a lost son and husband. No consolation is as complete as nursing the confidences of their family member.

Who stands up in the basement cell? What is their condemnation?

Life comes to its undesired crossroads when a family member is incarcerated.

Here at this former palace of Alexandria, a long history of cruelties and condemnations have befallen many families. Families plead many loved ones innocence. The blue trucks arrive from across the region. Each carry a single cargo. Each are met by the bearers of family sustenance, suffering, compassion.

During times of capital punishment, the yard beside these courts was stained with a vulgar gaiety of public executions - and beside us lies the graveyard to the condemned. It is a solemn, silent, tombless place.

Northern winds punish the silver grey clouds trying to make land from a cool grey sea. Trashy dust lifts in sighs from around feet and hoof. Horns and calls of vendors go unanswered - are muted against caravans of prison blue trucks.

Authorities outside the court make small talk. They whisper deals on corners and side yards. Silent prayer and broken gazes seem to permeate out from darkened cell windows. Cigarettes are meted out a plenty.

Across the street, more jovial tones of business. Men gather in cafes, smoking sheesha, drinking dark tea, reading newspapers. Could their lives befall the curse of the jailer, the executioner? Maybe some, many not. It is an age old tale of poverty, circumstance, powerlessness. This is the seat of enforced governance.

Three women kneel unobserved by the crowds. They are speaking in hushed tones through a small basement grate. Who stands up in the basement cell? Who draws such selfless love?

The dust will not settle. It is a sand yellow day in shadow. A forgotten graveyard metes out offers.


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Footnote: This was written in anticipation of probing feminism in the Middle East....

There is no doubt that most of the world lives and suffers highly patriarchal societies. Women are often marginalized populations, not able to enjoy the same freedoms and opportunities as men. While I have read much in Islamic literature here in the Middle East about feminist Islamic society and the equality espoused in the holy Quran towards women, it does not appear so obvious in real life and social norms. I want to know what women would seek to be freer from controls of patriarchal society. The west, where women ostensibly have freedom and opportunity, bears out in statistical data much cruelty and violence directed at women; that does not occur in other more male dominated cultures. How is this possible?

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Hot Pot on a Cold Night

Happy New Year!

Yesterday we spent the last day of 2009 wandering around CHILLY Nanjing, exploring the Purple Mountain and the Botanical Gardens within. Not exactly the best season to view local foliage, but we thoroughly enjoyed our walk. The Bonsai Garden was especially fascinating: twisted trunks and stunted growth and fairly grotesque in their beauty. Bonsai-making is an art that intrigues me to no end. It was wonderful to spend a few hours wandering through nature; staying in the dense asian urban jungles makes me crave grass and trees and open, natural spaces. Trust me, had it been just a few degrees warmer, I would have been barefoot. However, the temperature yesterday barely cleared 38 degree F.

We had a great dinner at a hot pot restaurant (wouldn't you know, our latest hotel is on THE hot pot restaurant street) and basked in the aromatic warmth of a simmering bowl of broth. Ordering was a challenge, as the ordering sheet was much like one found in a western sushi shop: columns of text with space to mark "1" or "2" next to each. No pictures. No english. Enter the "Point It" book and help from the restaurant staff. We ended up with delicious, thinly-sliced beef, spinach, sweet potatoes, noodles, and mushrooms. We sent the vienna sausages back....eww!

***If you haven't been to a hot pot restaurant, look for one in your city! You order a bowl of broth (sometimes divided into two different flavors), which sits on a burner in the middle of your table. The food you order arrives raw, and you cook it on the table in the simmering broth.***

I have been continually surprised by the COLD weather here in southeastern asia; last night in Nanjing was 29 degrees. I have been so grateful to my parents for giving us two lightweight sleeping bags for our journey!! Nearly every night I have been inside my sleeping bag, underneath the hotel comforter....with long underwear. Yes, I am a weenie when it comes to low temperatures.

Traveling is so different in cold climates, especially as a "backpacker." I realize now that nearly all of my travels have been to or within warmer climates: colombia, venezuela, mexico and central america, and Caribbean islands. And yes, I was born in Maine, grew up in Oregon, and should certainly have a higher tolerance for cold. But I don't. And I am SO looking forward to sloughing off these many layers (especially the wool-blend overcoat) as we continue our journey in a southerly direction.

I'm sure that many of you reading this post are looking forward to warmer weather as well.

Hope you have a great New Year's Eve, see you in 2010!!

xo

**See our travel photos at http://honeyserviceyear.shutterfly.com (password "travel")

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