Ok Navigators.
Yup Barbican…..two divorces and one death and without people or human movement it’s a lump of pre-formed concrete.
Lots of info here – https://www.barbican.org.uk/our-story/our-building/our-architecture
I watched the clouds move over it, the wind breeze through it and the water wash over it. It did not change. Luisa says London smells like chip fat. The only movement at the Barbican were the people moving through it on their way to somewhere else or stopping to eat, rest or view. It does not nurture, but there was life, the blackbird who flew through its open space and made us jump, the seagulls one, then two who were taking advance of its concrete niches to live and build lives far from there native home, and made us laugh with their beady stare.
They reminded me of the stories of the immigrants who flocked to the docks once upon a time to find work.
I’ve not known anyone live at the barbican for long so in a strange way it feels like a public space to me.
The fact that Milton, yes he of Paradise lost, is buried with the family next door to the square water feature in St Giles church is probably only due to the fact they were not allowed to pull it down.
Paradise lost info – https://www.google.co.uk/search?q=paradise+lost&ie=UTF-8&oe=UTF-8&hl=en-gb&client=safari
Impersonal and unfertile I morn for its history it has not grown organically and therefore has no roots.
Now, this is where I’d like to change tack, it’s fine, it’s ok. Embrace like Thomas Hardy who embraced and noted the changes in his word, 19th-century Westcountry, England.
He had a lot of gripes with change and I find his work really miserable although beautifull. Give me Milton. It all has a place, plenty of room, all on board.
This is how I feel about the Barbican. I used to navigate London by pubs and familiar places eg turn right by The Kings Head and keep going until you reach the…….well that’s history now as most pubs have been turned in to bistros or clothes shops. Places change their identity faster than we change our underwear nowadays.
There is a BBC Radio Program my mum sent me all about this from last Sept I shall try and find it.
It was a good listen. They concluded that some inhabitants were so adversely affected by the brutalist surroundings they had become so depressed they had had to be treated medically even once they had left.
My mother the ultimate worshiper and collector of things and places beautiful was thrilled and phoned me to say” told you so!”
One to mother.
I enjoyed listening, watching and feeling my way around the Barbian. Although less polished as time has passed. I spotted a few dangly wires and sun-damaged plastic panels. I was 12 when the Barbican towers we’re completed and I no longer passed it on the way to school. Watching London grow back after the war was good. The community spirit was strong and the pubs and The music hall heaved in the evening. The small boys in short trousers scuttled across the roves that spanned over the Canonbury market stalls that I spied from my bedroom window. Although quite a few of my classmates still lived with their grannies in prefab accommodation they were hopeful times, upbeat, it was the 60’s. The Barbican was part of these hopeful new times Buildings for a great new future.
I loved the pre-fabs they were great. Like holiday homes. My Nan lived in a bungalow. I loved that too, but she was a long way away. The family had been evacuated like thousands of others when the wartime bombing had hit a few schools and the government of the time had been held to account. The family as a whole never moved back. My mum, therefore, relied and enjoyed the support from the ladies on our street with their trolly baskets and cups of tea, while raising two small children so far from home. Although I seem to remember, the older ones had sharp elbows on the bus and said things like ”careful the wind will change”.
It’s all ok Alice will be here at the V&A June 2020 and we may all revisit the Rabbit Hole.
Alice @ The VAM Link.
Navigator
Day 2 week 1 Tuesday
Barbican
Lift, time,plane, walking up the stairs.
Sarah Chalkie Cloonan 