Public and private
Everybody’s wingin’ it. I snuck into a presentation-cum-community-consultation this evening, by express invitation from the architect. The project is a kinky one, dealing with everyone’s favourite catchphrase – public realm! – on top of many agendas, and has been snatched out by this small time ambitious architect from under the nose of a big time international superstar(kiteckt). It’s about a place that I know, the place I know best in London actually. And the work I have to do is very suited to me at this particular point in life, after having gotten the experience that I’ve had and will continue to get at my 9 to 5 grind. Anyway, part of the (new) job is to talk to people, whether or not you want to, or care to, or even know how to. Talk to people, keep the conversation going, have faith in the nugget or two of pure gold that will emerge from your dialogue. Your job to figure out when gold is happening, yours to recognise it and then to know how to use it. Your job to figure out how someone’s preference of curly over straight hair informs an urban design project. Oof.
In London, everyone follows the forms. We attend events, talks and consultations, make contacts, build networks and address books, but we’re never quite sure what it’s all about. We throw some words into the fray now and then; we don’t follow a logical progression of ideas. We ditch the narrative and blame it on fragmentation and we hide behind postmodern plurality. If you don’t get it, you’re probably being too narrow-minded. So in public fora, we privately laugh at our complete, diabolical pretenses and publicly keep on rockin, keep on playing, drinking, flirting, faffing. And we sometimes get awards and often projects for our pains. And nowadays, your project could be just to network socially, or to help others do so. The cancer runs deep...
Now, eating chicken. That’s a real private act ain’t it? I did it in a public place tonight, with gusto. In the rain, with fingers indiscriminately wet from stale oil, acid rain or saliva. Where? Mill. Bridge of course, on the most circuitous possible way home from Southwark Street, but essential as I had to hang out with the river. By the way, what did the people of this city think public place was all about before they had the Millennium Bridge? There was no way they could have experienced the thrill of being completely alone, on a sliver of man made reality, not at home but not in anyone else’s home either, public, plural, translocal, freeeeeeeeee!
Some people come to London and the LSE because the halls have nice furniture. We won’t judge them. Thinking back to a summer afternoon in 2002, I believe I wrote my stake in the city just for the bridge joining Tate and St Paul.
In London, everyone follows the forms. We attend events, talks and consultations, make contacts, build networks and address books, but we’re never quite sure what it’s all about. We throw some words into the fray now and then; we don’t follow a logical progression of ideas. We ditch the narrative and blame it on fragmentation and we hide behind postmodern plurality. If you don’t get it, you’re probably being too narrow-minded. So in public fora, we privately laugh at our complete, diabolical pretenses and publicly keep on rockin, keep on playing, drinking, flirting, faffing. And we sometimes get awards and often projects for our pains. And nowadays, your project could be just to network socially, or to help others do so. The cancer runs deep...
Now, eating chicken. That’s a real private act ain’t it? I did it in a public place tonight, with gusto. In the rain, with fingers indiscriminately wet from stale oil, acid rain or saliva. Where? Mill. Bridge of course, on the most circuitous possible way home from Southwark Street, but essential as I had to hang out with the river. By the way, what did the people of this city think public place was all about before they had the Millennium Bridge? There was no way they could have experienced the thrill of being completely alone, on a sliver of man made reality, not at home but not in anyone else’s home either, public, plural, translocal, freeeeeeeeee!
Some people come to London and the LSE because the halls have nice furniture. We won’t judge them. Thinking back to a summer afternoon in 2002, I believe I wrote my stake in the city just for the bridge joining Tate and St Paul.
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J.A.P.