Last night - well, from sunset to the tail end of dusk - I visited Brighton again. I had a sudden urge to walk the streets and capture the latest murals and posters, and maybe some other sights, with my trusty Leica. I was going to concentrate on the area around Preston Circus, which is well away from the sea front and the Lanes. Preston Circus is the junction of roads where it says 'F Sta' on this map (upper centre on it):
The district immediately north of Preston Circus is dominated by a railway viaduct that comes out of Brighton station and heads north-east through London Road station and on to the university at Falmer, and beyond that, Lewes, Seaford and Eastbourne. The viaduct is sometimes lit up with coloured lights, but wasn't last night. It still makes an impressive sight. Here it is, at the start of my walkabout.
I was parked at the top left-hand corner of the map, in Dyke Road Drive. A fairly safe residential road with free parking after 8.00pm. 'Fairly safe', that is, if you kept to the side lit up best by the street lamps. It wouldn't do to walk on the other side, which was heavily shaded by trees, and an almost continuous pool of darkness even with the street lights blazing. A mugger, stalker or rapist behind every tree, I'd say.
Why was I concerned with safety? Was I paranoid?
Well, I live six miles away from the city, in a countryside village. To me, Brighton is that orange glow on the horizon, out of sight beyond the smooth line of the South Downs. The glow is a warning, not a lure.
Brighton is another world, the big bad city - superficial, glitzy, tatty, dirty, sleazy, and full of strange people, some of whom are most definitely half-crazy. Brighton has money - plenty of posh roads full of big houses and smart, expensive cars. Brighton also has poverty - third-rate estates aplenty. Central Brighton draws in all kinds of people. During the day, the centre is edgy but not dangerous. At night it's rather different. Anybody wandering around on their own after dark runs the risk of being targeted by addicts needing cash, homeless itinerants down on their luck, cocky misbehaving students, and alcohol-fuelled low-life of all kinds. This is quite apart from ordinary street thieves, con artists, and sex-seekers on the prowl.
All cities and large towns have such people, but Brighton seems to attract more than its due share of them. They thrive because the city is a seaside resort, a business centre, and has two universities. Lots of people come and go, some of them streetwise, many of them unwary. The city is a smaller version of London, and like London is a 24/7 place. If you can stay awake, there is always somewhere to go. And if you have sunk low, there is plenty of likeminded company to find there, provided you don't mind roughing it on the fringe of crime, with cheap and nasty companions. It's a life underneath the railway arches, or under the pier; a life slouching down narrow streets, or in reeking alleyways; a life lurking in loos, dossing in piles of cardboard, or shivering on a bench.
None of this comes to mind while eating a fine meal in a nice restaurant with good friends. But once out in the night air, and away from the cheerful hub-bub of party-goers, the murky downbeat dinginess of Brighton envelops you, and follows you all the way to the sanctuary of your car. I still hate that last walk alone back to Fiona, if ever I find myself in Brighton at night. Even when inside my car, and locked in, a lump of concrete can still be heaved at the windscreen or side window. The best solution is to park in a bright place not too far off - sometimes easier said than done in this car-hating city.
Brighton was the scene of Graham Greene's classic 1938 crime novel Brighton Rock, recently serialised on BBC Radio 4. It was about pre-war rackets, gang rivalry and callous murder. Rather a period-piece now; but surely only the type of crime in Brighton has changed, and the modern city is just as sordid under the surface, just as full of petty criminals, and just as dangerous for those who don't have a safe and secure home to retreat into at night. I would hate to be homeless in Brighton. If I were stuck on the streets with only a backpack, no friends, no money, and only dark doorways to find shelter in, I would be full of fear.
Even for casual visitors, there is a need to take care day or night, but especially after dark. Brighton does not have a good-hearted atmosphere. It may be buzzy and full of life in the centre, in the Lanes, on the Pier, in St James's Street, or in the North Laine, but this commercial froth cannot veil the darker details: the overflowing bins, the peeling posters, the lurching figures in the shadows, some of whom are shouting drunkenly and need to be avoided. It's not actually dystopian, and it's not the epitome of cultural decay. But it's not the best place for a woman on her own, once the light starts to fade.
All this said, Brighton is a very fruitful source for pictures of urban life, for 'street photography'. If you want shots of lurid murals, graffiti, all the wind-blown ephemera of a city-based subculture, all the discarded detritus of a throwaway generation, then it's a great place to go.
Readers may recall several earlier posts of mine devoted, or substantially devoted, to Brighton. There was Brighton by Night on 31st August 2017; One last glimpse for now on 24th March 2020; Street photography on 7th May 2020; and A long-awaited walkabout in the streets and alleyways of Brighton on 5th April 2021. Well, here's another. The Brighton scene changes all the time. It pays to make occasional forays into its recesses, and discover what's new and what's now broken. So every now and then I drive into Brighton for a discreet walkabout, camera in hand.
But an expedition like that needs some planning. Before I set forth, I think carefully about how to dress, where to park, what to beware of, and how long I dare stay before the light fades entirely.
Yesterday evening I wore my new navy blue Barbour waxed jacket. I've lately found that it's a very good garment for being outdoors on summer evenings, when the warmth of the day has ebbed away, and perhaps a breeze has sprung up. But it's also the perfect jacket for urban photography. It makes me unobtrusive in the dusk light; and the black-bodied little Leica won't be noticed if held against the Barbour jacket, or if I take a shot when camera and jacket are in the same line of sight.
Navy blue is a very dark blue, a no-nonsense colour, and makes me look (dare I say it?) 'professional' - and not in the way of a bouncer. This is important. I want to convey the impression that I'm collecting material for a serious study purpose, and not just acting the silly tourist. I want to be taken for an art college student (in the half-light, nobody is going to realise that I'm rather too old to be truly credible). Or perhaps somebody who is preparing a book on Urban Street Art. I reckon I look the part in that jacket; and that gives me the confidence to quietly get on with taking the shots I want. Yes, the camera itself is on the small side, but it's clearly no toy. Obviously, I'm looking for grab shots from positions that rule out using a bulky camera on a tripod.
And I think passers by are genuinely taken in by my appearance and demeanour, and, if they notice me at all, accept that I'm engaged in a job of work, using equipment that won't catch the eye. I'm alert and nimble and deliberate - I clearly have certain pictures in mind, and know how to secure them. All this helps to keep weirdos and busybodies away, and allows me to operate without attracting unwelcome attention. In any case, most ordinary passers-by are intent on their own business, and just as aware as I am that in Brighton, after dark, you keep moving and do not loiter or dilly-dally.
So what did I shoot?
I began with a small mural on a railway arch pier that I'd spotted months ago.
It was a photo of a mod on his scooter in the 1960s, partly overpainted with bright colours, and signed by 'The Postman'. I'd found some other works by 'The Postman' in the Lanes, a mile to the south. These were semi-official productions which presumably somebody paid to have painted on whatever surface they appear. There is a proper website. See https://thepostmanart.com/.
What about the rest? Are they also 'official' - or the work of clandestine gangs? It's hard to say. Some of them are clearly commissioned by pubs or shops. Others seem to mock or lampoon the trader, and I can't imagine they were asked for. Some others are messages from outcasts, suggestive of a culture in terminal crisis. Apparently cries of pain from the underprivileged and downtrodden.
So, I'm imagining a small gang of street artists who work at night, plus their essential lookouts, as they must have timely warning of people who might be approaching. Some of these murals are so large that several artists must work on them simultaneously, in order to get them completed before dawn. The execution clearly needs careful planning and teamwork.
I'm amazed that it's possible to achieve a high standard of drawing and colouring in dim light. Surely - if these are entirely unauthorised works - the wall they work on can't be floodlit? And yet, if not, then even bright head-torches wouldn't provide enough light for subtle shades and fine detail. Maybe there is, after all, connivance from the City Council or the Police. Or voluntary protection from locals, who feel honoured to have an example of modern street art spray-painted onto one of their walls. Who knows.
Some of this street art is definitely run of the mill, and some of it is crudely done. But much is striking and arresting, skilfully executed with a polished technique, the effect remarkable and admirable. I'm not saying that it's beautiful, nor that its purpose or message is understandable, nor that I myself would be pleased if any of this stuff appeared overnight next to the posh city apartment I'd just paid megabucks for. But I do assert that it's a valid cultural addition to the cityscape. And definitely worth a photo expedition.
As hinted above, there were several murals that had something to say about the particular shop premises they were painted on. For example, on the shutters of The Specky Wren, opticians:
And next door, on the shutters of a fresh fish shop:
On the opposite wall, a depiction of the typical market trader - this was the London Road Market - no doubt loosely based on TV's Arthur Daly in Minder. or Del Boy in Only Fools And Horses:
Those were benign examples. Less comfortable were these. Here's one on the shutters of Boots Opticians:
Superdrug came off even worse, with a fierce totemic head, repeated at nearby Richer Sounds, the Hi-Fi specialists:
On the side wall of Richer sounds was, however, this mural of a woman in a top hat with words coming our of her ears, which might have some connection with their area of business:
But off to the left in that shot, and still on the side of their premises, was this weird, sombre, but very well-executed picture, which I took to be a mad mastermind and his insane young assistant, abetted by huge floating eyeballs with tendrils:
Now that's most certainly dystopian - and, in its way, so is the glimpse of the real-life backyard scene in the top edge of my shot, made sinister in the half-light. Off to the left of this strange and enigmatic mural was a nightmare wall painting, possibly inspired by an historic episode of Dr Who:
So much for murals. There were also whole buildings that had been elaborately decorated, such as these pubs:
And of course, there were some 'ordinary' murals and shutter-messages around, shouting out strangely-formed words - though what they really meant, and who they were really intended for, seemed as ever to be a mystery:
There were also posters everywhere, many of them advertising musical events - events, that is, on the planet Neptune so far as I am concerned.
Damn! I missed that last one on 16th July! Oh well, hey ho.
There were other sights to be recorded, some of them quirky, others just part of the passing scene. I really liked these pirate swords made of foam in a shop window. I'd happily give them first prize in a Most Useless Article contest.
The eternal but unmistakeable Mickey Mouse, clearly escaped from Disneyland in Florida, peeping out from a jacket in a second-hand shop.
Two ads at a bus stop (buses are heavily used in Brighton, so a lot of people will have seen these ads, though without necessarily reading them). One drawing attention to getting 5G on the beach - gosh, 5G! - one alerting bus users to their Covid-19 responsibilities.
A picture that perfectly captures the flavour of the area. A Domino's Pizza takeaway shop, with a BetFred betting shop next door. The last Domino's takeaway pizza I ate - some years ago - gave me indigestion. And you all know my views on betting: there are so many other, useful, and far more rewarding ways to spend money.
Finally, a charity shop that had a Tokyo Olympics display in its window.
I'm old enough to find it odd to see the Japanese and British flags together like this. The Japanese did not behave well in the Second World War. A militaristic regime, using the revered Emperor as its figurehead, and exhorting a savage warrior code, held the country in thrall and encouraged a cruel and heartless approach to conquest in which captured British servicemen were victims. The ones that survived the Japanese camps came home changed forever, if not actually broken.
The memory of such events has faded with time, and of course present-day Japanese people are not the ones who followed orders back in the 1930s and 1940s. But wartime atrocities towards prisoners were still a burning topic in the 1950s and 1960s. By 1965, I was reading all about it in library books.
Well, it's long over, and one cannot live in the past. I'm quite sure most Japanese don't want to. What's done is done, and cannot be undone. It's best to record the facts, learn from them, move on sadder but wiser, and strive not to repeat the same errors.
It had become quite dark. It was time to get back to Fiona, and drive home.
I successfully dodged lurking robbers and ill-doers, and no concrete blocks were hurled at my windscreen.
