This is an essay written for one of my courses - Theory in Anthropology - which attempts to use Kristeva's theory of intertextuality, and Strathern's concept of the dividual sense of self, when approaching the study of sacred narrative. All the photos are my own.
More than anything else in my life London has shaped who I am today, who I was yesterday, and who I will be tomorrow. My life so far has been spent learning to navigate its many pathways, familiarising myself with its mysteries and treasures. Its ebb and flow is continuously synonymous with my own, inscribed into my very being. It is for this reason that London is the setting for this journey.
Passing through the Passage which carves out Haringey Ladder, an alleyway which intersects the streets and creates a thoroughfare through residential roads which run in parallel lines like the rungs on a ladder, I am at home in a part of London previously unexplored. Whilst on the journey from one end to the other, I am flanked on both sides by houses, apart from when it opens up temporarily onto the individual roads, and I must cross over in order to continue along its path. Here its magic lies, in cutting directly through the streets, thus making its passage preferable to a routine road. A journey along the Passage is a fragmented experience, as one is always anticipating the next rupture of its path, and the distance is experienced in reduced time. Although this may be where I reside now my roots lie across the border south of the river, therefore the passage soon yields itself, and after squeezing through the railings I ascend onto the old reservoir near my childhood home. Here the plateau of South London recedes underneath the wine-dark sky, and the present recedes at the expense of the past. I have long since mapped this city for myself.
The Shard features prominently as I observe the skyline; this new addition which thrusts itself into centre frame irreversibly, signifying showmanship and precision. From afar its jagged points are less defined, and the imprint on the skyline is seemingly one of geometrical consistency. However my gaze drifts eastwards and is soon drawn towards the unique eye on the horizon. On whichever structure I centre my gaze it remains south of the river, symbolising my predilection for play in this half of the city. My foray north is perhaps best understood as a supplementation on an engrained imbalance in favour of the south, but this arguably reduces the process of the journey whilst it is still running its course.
Parks have often been a refuge for me in this city, and my descent from the reservoir takes me into an expanse of green, open space. I open the gate, ceremoniously standing aside as an elderly woman follows me shortly after. This habitual act of politeness is met with a fleeting glance of recognition, and as I proceed into the park I am imbued with a sense of self satisfaction. Had I not held the gate open, doubtless an uncomfortable sense of guilt would have pervaded me temporarily. But needless to say neither outcome holds much sway in how things proceed. Whilst in this space I have momentarily escaped from the roads which I know surround me on all sides, and from which I have entered from and will shortly exit back onto. But this knowledge of the next step is delayed and easily consumed by the satisfaction to be found in aimlessly retracing the routes which I am unconsciously familiar with, thus allowing myself to remain distant from the roads both spatially and emotively as a feed from this green playground of my childhood.
The flow of tourists stream along the paths, and they are here all year round in this particular park, a far cry from the modest one of my childhood. I look out at the grand lake as I walk steadily around its shore, passing a smartly dressed couple on blue bikes travelling in the opposite direction. The memorial for a Princess presents itself, and I sidle up to this circular water feature. It stands at ground level, a ring of flowing water with grass in the middle. I spend time tracing the lineage of the water’s flow, as the stream moves across different levels, hanging suspended for long moments before dropping down and continuing its synthetic journey. The dominating sensation is one of humbling awe in watching the water on its propelled journey, a customary response to the impressive monuments and everyday splendour which surrounds me in this part of town.
I lift my head up and see a woman across on the other side of the water, looking at me.
The man’s long black coat falls down to his feet as he moves around the water. Slow loping footsteps on this wet parade. Perhaps he is reminiscing. No trace of impatience or necessity in his casual stride, pondering before each step. He raises his eyes in my direction and his thoughts are evidently elsewhere, outside this particular moment. But now he has returned, and his quickening pace suggests a purpose where there wasn’t one before. Looking at his back as he walks away.
I walk down the stairs - with an extension of my arm I am shown the green light and have passed through the initial barrier. The shell of London’s underground tube network allows one to move quickly around its carefully mapped out world, the intricacies of the city reduced to linearity and smooth curves, the river Thames appearing as a mechanical water pipe. Each stop on the map represents a unique entry and exit point into this underground maze, but their diversity is only hinted at in name and is homogenised in this spider web of colour coded tunnels. My body remains motionless as I’m carried downwards, before coming out into the tunnel and waiting to board.
My place in the carriage is found and I park myself, a facade of forced comfort written on all the stony faced passengers sitting opposite me. My sense of belonging in London extends even to this space of intensity. The bald-headed man sitting opposite me doesn’t look so comfortable, fidgeting in his seat. How do these people travel like this everyday? The seats are uncomfortable and I don’t know where to bloody look. Pricey and all. He’s looking at me - I can see out the corner of my eye. The man stops fidgeting and catches my gaze, before quickly looking away and picking up a paper which has been abandoned on a nearby seat.
Now I’m out of the station and into the daylight. Up a flight of stairs and hovering above the dense muddy water which flows beneath me. The regular bridges crossing the river Thames are like rungs on a twisting, thriving ladder, and the cities intricacy and depth are evident when foregrounded by this lucid landmark which divides it in two. Its ceaseless flow is reminiscent of the endless stimuli one faces in the city itself, and the capability of the current to pull one under reflects the city’s potential to deprive the individual of agency.
I am soon reconnected with the land and wandering along the river’s south bank. I have my hand on the railing, giving the necessary appearance of balance. This physical connection allows the rest of my body to feel unattached in comparison. I pass numerous unoccupied benches, until one draws closer which has a single occupant, their hands resting in their lap. My body tightens as its solitary wandering is momentarily interrupted, but quickly loosens when the fear of the stranger is rejected and forgotten. Their eyes are facing out towards the river, and their tranquil pose and seeming ambivalence towards myself aids my body’s fluid motion and increases my confidence. Their soft and inquisitive face looks at mine, and rather than looking away uncomfortably when our eyes meet we hold each other’s gaze.
Mutual affection towards this location has caused the crossing of our paths. This shared experience is irreducible - the reciprocal exchange of prolonged eye contact without the expectation of reciprocity. Your movement in relation to my stationary bench creates a different perspective at every angle, until you pass out of sight.
Soon I arrive at one of the iconic landmarks along this river bank, the reconstructed Globe theatre. On the tiered benches outside its gates I recognised the face of a woman, sitting looking out quizzically at the water.
“Eva Krist. What brings you here?”
Eva turns round at the sound of her name, before addressing me with words that flew: “that’s neither here nor there, but don’t be in any doubt that there’s method in my madness.”
Eva has always worn her heart on her sleeve, and this dramatic performance led me to believe that she was troubled. Nevertheless she continued: “if the world’s a stage, then our still being here in London means that we’re yet to continue beyond the first act! Even if this city is such stuff as dreams are made of, it isn’t the be all and end all.”
“I agree Eva - it may be one of the best cities in the world, but there’s always the danger of too much of a good thing”.
Eva nodded solemnly. I stood awkwardly beside the bench she was seated on for a minute or so, before bidding my farewell and continuing on my journey.
Emerging onto the main road, I am confronted with a docking station. Opting for this familiar mode of transport, I insert my debit card into the machine. My legs are now turning the pedals, taking me past those rattle trap buses that bang through the streets. Here the process of the journey is stripped back to its simple, elementary desire for a safe passage. In habitual fashion my eyes flash at every sign of potential movement, their glance instinctive. Whilst cycling I feel serenely clear, in unison with the act of movement which absorbs my conscious mental effort. Slowing down for the red light, I am joined by a convoy of fellow cyclists, all steadily getting themselves into position. My serenity is not compromised by the bustling traffic which pushes itself along in front of me. All I’m concerned with is the light above my head, and when it will signify that it’s time to set off once again.
Now I find myself back in South East London, and having disembarked I am heading in the direction of a gathering of style and ease. The first impression of people in this multimedia performative arena is one of acceptance, and as I enter through the door and into this familiar atmosphere I am greeted and welcomed back. The next performer takes the stage, and as they start to play their first song the sound strongly recalls others who have graced the stage before them, the pool of influence from whence their style has developed. Many of those who have contributed to this style are present in the room, and this consistent reaffirming of shared terrain runs through the surrounding atmosphere. The popularity of this particular event has grown significantly since my first visit - as its clear message has circulated and drawn more people in, those desiring to become a part of this family which detaches itself and in doing so creates a unique space of becoming.
Just as I feel that I’ve managed to categorise my multitude of experiences in this city into a comprehensible system, the inevitably irregularity strikes me, knocking down the structures I had temporarily erected. He who is tired of London is tired of life - the wisdom in these words is partly what has kept me here, continuing to strive for clarity of perception among the smoky skies and intertwining neighbourhoods. I go about my daily life on the pretext of this desire for esoteric knowledge, in a context which is intrinsically linked with this desire. The subtext of this quest is the personal search for understanding, as in attempting to decipher the texture of the city I am inadvertently on a path of internal self discovery, as the two often present themselves as inseparable.
My time in London is a heap of memories and plotted maps of certain areas. On a journey from south to north, and back again - it’s difficult to place myself outside of this vortex I have become familiar with whilst remaining a stranger to. Huge swathes still untrodden and unexplored, but the longer I spend here the unknown recedes everyday, maintaining my interest in uncovering further stones. Attempting to decipher meaning in how the different possibilities of the city flow over each other. Although the ambition for a conclusive impression is illusory, as tangible statements about London life seem to slip out of my grasp, this doesn’t detract from the potentiality of realising the next step - of overturning a further stone and revealing a hidden truth, thus bringing the process closer to communicable understanding. However certain areas will always remain a mystery, and it’s these mysteries which I continue to examine from my engrained position as a Londoner.
