Is not open and beckoning, but closed and twisted. Only the back is visible. A pentagon of whiteness buried in charcoal material.
The lens pulls back: white shirt, tie, top hat. The Bank of England in the background. Hand putting away wallet, of course, yours, mine, everybody’s wallet.
Something natural, something unnatural
The Rosemary Works, a tiny wedge-shaped oasis of beauty next to the canal (I bet it’s Hackney!)
Brutal 1960s municipal architecture in the background, some remnants of industrial London to the left: yellow brick, tall windows, just a smidgen of décor.
In the foreground, standing very straight, looking into the light, a Canada goose. He owns the place, no doubt about it!
London ever changing/London never changing
Horses, horse-drawn carriages, gas street lamps, cobble stones. Everyone is wearing a hat. But the TO LET sign could have been put there last week.
(Farringdon St looking towards Holborn Viaduct, Charles Wilson 1890)
His little face. Knitted eyebrows, pouting mouth, cheeks inflated, his nose pushed down.
Mummy is looking up at him: It’s alright, it’s alright!” her concerned expression says.
The house behind them is intact, the bomb fell quite close, but somewhere else.