IN MISSING COLOUR
In Missing Colour is the first in a series of works made which create narratives of place through a combination of words and image.
The complexities of place-making and personal relationships with place have been the subject matter of this exploration into a Somerset town. Established places can change our attitudes, our chosen principles and our learned approaches to others; these places impact on us, we cannot impact on them. Through visual and written language, the difference in communication crosses the boundaries of artistic media into the personal; can we communicate what we truly mean? Proliferated judgement, satire, and helplessness permeate our ways of being as we seek to remain outside, untouched, unharmed.
1. Flat-chested girls in crop tops with long hair, soon to be those girls with the babies. The crop tops lengthen and balloon to a more modest defence of their midriffs but it’s too late; if only they had known where they were before it was too late. Pink trousers, red hoodies, pink gilets, red trousers, red nappy bags, red shopping bags, lime green pushchair, neon pink backpack, baseball caps. Writing these colours makes this place seem bright, but if only you could see them for yourself. These colours are different, there is something missing - muted, unironed, out of size, out of shape, out of style, out of place. This is where girl power has gone wrong. Strength becomes aggression and defence, this defence becomes cold and unable or unwilling to love, and they are alone. Glimmers of hope are sporadically strewn over and around the streets. A young man pushes a pushchair, a youth with dreadlocks and a pipe pushes a wheelchair, a little girl pushes her brother. Those with places to go walk fast, those who have others to walk fast for them walk slow, those not able to walk well, amble, those with no purpose, sit. Mostly on or around the statue, fag in hand. Messages aren’t always communicated clearly. This place knows that. 2. The sun is out again and fifty per cent of the high street sits in the shade. Not everyone flocks to the sunny side; some people like to remain in the shadows. There are many ways through which this town can be viewed. Through different lenses, different conclusions are found. But a place is infinite, ever-changing. It’s not about conclusions.
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Mutton chops, Asda uniforms, top-knots, man buns, funky trainers, fucking failures. Blue tops, blue jeans, beach ball, ice cream. Red fronted Phones4U gone. Next door green fronted health food shop, gone. Blue fronted Shoe Zone remains. We don’t communicate through speech anymore; we don’t need phones. Who cares about what we put inside our bodies? What is quinoa? We need shoes. Our feet must be adorned in the latest trainers or we just won’t fit in. I could be on holiday, surrounded by conversations I can’t understand through the languages spoken. I don’t even recognise most of them. Shop to let. Shop toilet. Short back’n’sides, tattooed arms, half-cut, half-finished. Two guitars, rainbow hat, DHL van man, Peacocks bag, super-Gran, safari hat, walking aid, leather cap, ‘gold’ chains, v-neck, Nike sweats, checked shirt, poor as dirt. 3. The streets are almost empty, the weather can’t make up its mind whether to rain or shine, but the wind knows what it’s up to. Knocking us sideways, stopping us from moving forward as quickly as we might like, pushing us forward when we just feel like ambling. Traditional sweet shop, KFC, Sports Direct, Two school uniforms, two hoodies, one Big Issue, one woman my mother can’t stand, two suitcases, one on wheels, empty. Wilko bag, hi-tops, ‘Congratulations Will & Kate’ says the cheap jewellery shop, buy something in here to celebrate. The light is changing so rapidly, in an instant the town is made of two, flickering between its states more rapidly than I can comprehend or separate.
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In the end it’s always the same one place, whatever kind of light is shone on it, or not. Blue mobility scooter, canvas bag, all in black, leather satchel. Here comes the rain. Blue Vauxhall Astra, no left turn, click and collect, hairdressing training centre, this week’s offer, two chances to be a millionaire. After thirty minutes I see my first smile: blue hoodie, blue jeans, the wind nearly blue her over. She’s happy about that. 4. Yellow hoodie, muscles bulging, phone to ear, WHSmith bag twisted. Wring the life out of those handles; they’re only there to help you carry something. It’s always the same view: Sports Direct, just from a different angle, charity shop, Specsavers, as if that will help us see. Red trousers, orange t-shirt, maroon trousers, maybe plum. Padded jacket, shorn hair, earphones in, bulging belly, highlights, arms folded, make sure your carrier bag matches your handbag. Pushchair in one hand, fag in the other, fake LV, real poverty. Don’t forget our kiss under the Sports Direct logo. One hoodie keeps me warm, two probably means you’re up to no good. Don’t you dare climb the statue any higher! Why not? Just don’t because you’ll go to bed without any dinner, that’s why. Lovely grannies because their scarves have flowers on. Tweed jacket, crew neck jumper, beige coloured chinos, watch out he’ll jump ya. Blue bin, blue jeans, blue parka, blue raincoat, blue denim jacket. Three mobility scooters, countless kids out of school, still matching their carrier bags to their handbags. Do you want sprinkles on your chocolates? Robert Blake, born in this town 1598, died at sea 1657.
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