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A spider's web | photography/text: pablo luis gonzález |
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© Pablo Luis González 2003 Photographs can be used at no charge for non-commercial purposes, ie, community groups, students, schools, etc. To request an image or images email me with a description and location of the photograph(s), stating your proposed use of them. A JPEG file(s) at 300 dpi will be emailed back as soon as possible. No further copies can be made without the permission of the copyright holder. |
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3. Net curtains flared shyly under the thrill of the sighs and hums penetrating insidiously through the cracks of the old window, the wood too tired to be able to contain the excitement of the latest news. Yet many other stained webs hindered the advance of piercing eyes in a vain attempt to decipher the routines and rituals of every day that laid beyond a model ship or a porcelain figure or a multicoloured panel of linen, staring blankly as yet another fleeting movement was lost in the incessant road noises. The rich smell of freshly baked bread permeated Argyle Street whilst further up the road a daily dance of headlines brought the turmoil of events from far away: "Don't miss the Sun today"; "New style Daily Express on sale now"; and, oh yes, "News of the World" from about the time Rupert Murdoch bought the company. Yet, none of this was meant to last. The smell of bread can still be felt, although rising from the chimneys of industrial bakeries rather than from the in-predictability of a small oven offering every day a delightful surprise. Invisible steps echoed through the hardness of deserted streets, of alleys overflowing with the detritus of a time that no longer was; childish scratchings on the greyness of the white paint covering the impossibility of the glass still standing on an abandoned shop window, barely visible under the gentle touch of the late afternoon light, murmured of hard earned pennies and shillings and half-crowns lost in the nooks of memories, of jars of Marmite that had since long been emptied of old times. Above, bright red splashes of colour danced with impudence, swirling their insolence all over the wasted topography of the glass... Markings here, scratches there, and then scars on the decaying redness of brick walls... all over the abandoned streets, all what remained of impatient feet that once rushed to the promised splendour of golden suburbia, Volvos adorning the drives; or, perhaps, the urine stained desolation of tower blocks where the lift ride proved to be just one ride too many... How disgraceful, how disrespectful, oh look at these people, I heard voices say. Sterile voices hissing their venom from under the prettiness of their rose gardens hiding their barren cul-de-sacs. The sharp point of a key on the no longer pristine whiteness of the glass; a brush tentatively finding its way on the texture of the canvas, deft fingers spraying the poetry of a paint can on an unsuspecting wall; a camera lens encapsulating a fragment of forgotten corners, fleeting glances and hours that long time ago disappeared: all whispering on the vastness of a white surface and the roughness of time and space. Perhaps the fingers are not always so sure of where to go next, or how to move with elegance and skill. Or, perhaps, the sun was missed... "I think we are in rats' alley Where the dead men lost their bones. 'What is that noise?' 'Do TS Eliot: The Waste Land, A Game of Chess - Selected Poems. London: Faber and Faber, 1980 Pablo Luis Gonzalez / Hull: November 2003 Pablo Luis González | Hull, October 2003 Part 4 | Printer friendly | Don't Miss the Sun » Comment »
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