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Caitlin Campbell: Bombs, Fire and Time – Tales of Destruction in the Conway Library

Architecture Internship Micro-Internship Photographic Library Digitisation Project Placement Sculpture The Conway Library No Comments

During my internship at the Conway Library, I focused on finding photographs of damaged art, specifically sculpture and stained glass. What follows are three poems I wrote on what I found to be the three most interesting of these images. After this is a discussion of these pieces, examining their historical background and their worth as damaged pieces of art.

 

Poetry

 

A close-up, black and white photograph of a clover shaped recess in a stone wall, known as quatrefoil 248. [CON_B00248_F003_022 – ENGLAND, Somerset, Wells Cathedral. North face, facet: K, quatrefoil 248, N.W tower, N side, pre-restoration. The Conway Library, The Courtauld Institute of Art, CC-BY-NC]

 

A close-up, black and white photograph of the same quatrefoil pictured above. The images are almost identical. [CON_B00248_F004_010 – ENGLAND, Somerset, Wells Cathedral. Facet: C, Colchester no. 248, N.W Tower, N side, post- restoration. The Conway Library, The Courtauld Institute of Art, CC-BY-NC]

 

Wells

I was brought into creation,
With my brothers,
We three standing proud,
Brought beneath us,
Were those others,
Who curl their faces to the ground,

Beneath our feet,
I call to them, “Men,
Why don’t you rise?”
They shudder softly and say,
“You will see, when,
The outside takes your eyes.”

My brothers told me not to listen,
To men who feared the sun,
“We were created by the righteous,
See how they look on us with awe,
Brother this is our dominion,
Nothing here will slight us.”

For many years we stood,
With prideful benevolence,
For the men who cried below,
Until my brother’s hand lost,
Its finger, the severance,
A creeping blow.

“You are marked a sinner,”
Boomed my brother with hand intact,
We saw it as a punishment,
“But please, brothers, I do not know,
What I did or what I lacked.”
We did not doubt His judgement,

And those beneath us howled,
As we froze and shunned,
Our kin with his sinner’s mark,
They implored us,
“Don’t let yourselves be numbed,
Don’t let the outside take your heart.”

When my brother’s ears,
Started to fall away,
He turned his accusation downwards,
To the “whimpering, conniving hoard,
Who crouch as though to pray,
But feed the devil broken shards,

Of flesh taken from the holy.”
The grovellers tried to protest,
But my brother knew sound no longer,
And he could not hear them say,
That “the outside will not rest,
Until none of us are what we were.”

I begged forgiveness from my brothers,
For standing tall while they withered,
But only one could hear my sorrow,
And he was the one whom we had wronged,
And though I know his lip quivered,
He let no emotion for me show.

A storm took the head of my brother,
He who had squalled against sin,
And as we wailed those hateful,
Soothsayers said loud,
“We told him he would not win,
Against the outside’s great pull.”

My brother came to forgive me,
While we cried for our lost,
We cursed the snivellers in their hole,
For they had committed the crime,
Of being unblemished at the cost,
Of our dear brother’s soul.

My nose had vanished by the time,
My second brother lost his head,
And I hated the cowards keeping their secret,
Of how to remain whole,
“Why is it they are dead,
While you men meet no threat?”

“We warned you to fear the outside,”
They admonished me hard,
“You thought yourself an equal,
To its power,
You let your brothers disregard,
That which comes before the fall.”

“But how can I not stand tall!
When my creator made me so?”
They hid their answers undercover,
And so I aimed my question out,
“Oh creator, did you know,
That you built us only to suffer?”

I received no answer,
But eventually there did appear,
Disciples with wands of creation,
I could have collapsed with joy,
That they would restore what was dear,
I would cease to be a family of one.

They brought potions to clean our bodies,
Cracks they took days to restore,
But they did not return my brothers,
And when I tried to scream and beg,
I found that I had a mouth no more,
And all my noise was smothered.

I faced my recreation,
With corpses by my side,
I wish I did not see their degradation,
But the outside never took my eyes.

 

 

A black and white photograph of a neo-classical sculpture in marble, depicting the Ancient Greek mythological figure Andromeda. [CON_B04109_F002_013, ENGLAND, London, Sydenham, Crystal Palace Gardens. “Andromeda”. The Conway Library, The Courtauld Institute of Art, CC-BY-NC]

 

Andromeda

She was chained to a rock in the ocean,
Waiting for him to come,
Blinded here by the sun’s reflection,
Blinded so that she cannot remember,
Why it is that she is here,
What she did to deserve such a punishment,
As being a feast for so many monsters.

She was chained to a rock in a house of glass,
Waiting for him to come,
Stares remind her that she is frozen,
With hands that cannot cover and eyes that cannot close,
She doesn’t know if it is part of her punishment,
Being up here on display,
A feast for so many monsters.

She was chained to a rock in the ashes,
Waiting for him to come,
Hands frozen she cannot wipe away,
The soot that clings to her,
Or the weeds that grow through the cracks,
She wonders when it was she was forgotten,
Whether it is a mercy to be here alone,
And she still cannot remember what it is that she did,
To have been the prize of so many monsters.

 

A black and white photograph mounted on card depicting the interior of the choir of Aachen Cathedral. [CON_B09767_F01_010 – GERMANY, Aachen, Munster. Showing interior of Gothic choir, interior vaulting of the apse. 18 Nov. 1944. The Conway Library, The Courtauld Institute of Art, CC-BY-NC]

 

A black and white photograph mounted on card. Caption: “Those beautiful stained glass windows were the only part of Aachen Cathedral seriously damaged by war. A bomb fell through the Church roof Christmas Eve, 1943, rolled out into the street and exploded the following day, blowing out those windows, which are called “the tallest in Europe.” [CON_B09767_F01_018 – GERMANY, Aachen, Munster. Showing the damage of the stained-glass windows in Aachen cathedral’s choir. Attribution: Lawrence Riordan. The Conway Library, The Courtauld Institute of Art, CC-BY-NC]

 

Aachen

The bombs are dropping and we’ve been left behind,
Too large to move, not worth it,
Shaking in our panes,
As the world falls to pieces.

The ground is being torn up,
Every friendly thing made a projectile,
The city is being warped into weaponry,
To be turned inward on itself.

An arrow through Peter,
That once was a branch,
A bullet through Matthew,
That once was a stone,
And Mary holds her child tightly,
But is no shelter from the cannonball,
That once was a chimney-pot.

So far above, do they look down,
And see the slaughter they’re unfolding?
Or are they shielding eyes and ears,
Minds never here at all?
So far above they won’t ever know,
How Jesus’ body shattered.

The morning is come and they are gone,
But the sun doesn’t halt its rising,
And if you in the rubble were to stop and look,
You would see sunlight unfiltered,
Where once was red and green and blue,
And if you were to stop and see you’d know,
That splinters of glass look smoother when warmed with gold.

And we are gone to dust on the floor,
But the sun sees us clear,
And the cowering relics turn their heads,
Never having known a glow untainted by us.

And if you were to find them, miles away,
Watching homes burn and counting their dead,
Would it bring them relief or rage to know,
That what they did let the light come in?

 

Discussion

I wrote the above poems while examining three photo sets from the Conway Library, all showing art that had been variously damaged. What fascinated me about the pieces was that, despite being disfigured, they were all enthralling. They had inspired photographers to capture them, and they had inspired me to write about them. Would it be unfair to say then that their damage decreased their artistic value?

In the course of my week at the Conway I have researched these three photographic subjects and have here compiled short histories of each. I hope that in understanding the subjects the true impact of their being damaged may become clear.

Wells Cathedral

To begin with the subject of the first poem, a small group of carvings within a quatrefoil at Wells Cathedral, Somerset. They sit on the north face of the north-west tower of the cathedral’s magnificent west front and constitute one of many quatrefoil carving groups on the cathedral. This cathedral, along with its carvings, is medieval, having been built between the 12th and 15th Centuries, with the west front probably being completed in the 13th Century. It is the first English cathedral to have been built in the ornate Gothic style in which intricate carved representations of biblical stories were common.

The subject here is the Transfiguration of Jesus, a New Testament story in which Jesus (here carved in the middle) begins to glow with heavenly light (represented here by a halo). He is visited by the prophets Moses and Elijah, who here stand on his either side. The figures cowering below him in the carving represent his disciples, Peter, James and John, who were praying with him at the time of the transfiguration and were overwhelmed by what they were witnessing. The story is given particular theological importance by the voice of God, which here referred to Jesus as his son and bade all to listen to him. That this element of the story is not represented here is presumably due to the difficulty of depicting a vocal address in a carving, and it was likely assumed that many viewers of the group – if indeed they could see it properly from the ground – would know the Transfiguration story.

The carvings as seen in the first photograph were heavily damaged due to the simple face of having been exposed to the elements over time. What is more interesting is that the second photograph shows them after having been restored during a massive west front restoration project in the 1970s. My first thought when seeing this second photograph, was that the carvings look hardly changed from how they had been prior to having been restored. The heads of the prophets are still missing, but more striking to me is that the face of Jesus is still worn away, none of his features having been redefined.

Further research led me to summaries of the restoration work from which it was clear that the goal of the work was simply to clean the work and preserve its present state, with no aim to restore the original appearance. That the restoration had these purposes is revealing of the changed way in which we in the modern era interact with medieval Cathedrals compared to those in the time in which it was built. While in the Middle Ages the aim of such carvings seems to have been to represent bible stories, perhaps with the intention of teaching parishioners or perhaps out of some reverence to God, now it does not seem to be of much relevance whether the story is legible.

Indeed, some of the quatrefoil carvings were so damaged that one could only guess as to what they had been. When people now come to visit historic churches such as this, the interest for many is either in the history or the aesthetic beauty of the place. Even those visiting for religious reasons may be more interested in seeing the authentic expressions of faith of those 13th Century workers, increased literacy meaning there is less of a need for the bible to be told in visuals. There is an argument to be had that to repair the old carvings with modern additions, even if they look as close in style as possible to the original, would be to detract from this authenticity and, as Carolyn Korsmeyer puts it, to commit an act of ‘aesthetic deception’.

There is definitely an element of the Ship of Theseus debate in such a line of thought and, like this philosophical conundrum, there is no agreed upon correct answer. At York Minster, for example, the permanent stonemasons yard carves new grotesques to replace those adorning the minster’s exterior when they become damaged. Evidently it is the consensus here that retaining the appearance of the stonework is more important than retaining its genuine historical elements. At Wells Cathedral, the damaged state of the figures is preserved – the effects of the elements over the years have shaped the carvings into something new which is considered worth saving.

Andromeda, Crystal Palace

The sculpture of Andromeda from the Crystal Palace has an entirely more dramatic, and ill- fated, backstory. The sculpture is neo-classical in style, probably made between about 1760- 1860 when the fixation on the classical age was at its peak in Britain.

The story it represents is the Greek myth of Andromeda. In this story Andromeda, the princess of Aethiopia, is chained nude to a rock in the sea as food for a sea monster. Her punishment was not at the result of anything she did, but a response to a claim her mother made that her daughter was more beautiful than the Nereids. Poseidon, father of the Nereids, found murdering Andromeda to be a fitting revenge. In the story she is saved from her fate by Perseus, who slays the sea monster and carries Andromeda home to Argos to be his queen.

With no available information about the sculptor of this work, it is difficult to guess at why exactly the myth of Andromeda was chosen as a subject. But this certainly wasn’t the only example of a neoclassical depiction of her and comparison to others, particularly the 19th Century Italian work by Romanelli, suggests that the obscured object at her feet to the right, is the broken head of the sea monster which was originally shown circling her.

 

A colour photograph depicting a white marble neo-classical sculpture of the figure from Ancient Greek myth, Andromeda, on a black background. A naked female figure, draped in cloth, is shown chained to a rock, the head of a sea monster rising up from sculpted waves below, as if to bite her. She raises her free hand up above her head, her mouth slightly open in shock and fear. [ITALY, Florence. “Andromeda”, sculptor: P. Romanelli, 19th Century. Attribution: Sotheby’s auction catalogue.]

 

 This sculpture was one of many artworks that had its home in the Crystal Palace, the grand glass Victorian structure which stood originally in Hyde Park, where it was built to house the Great Exhibition of 1851, after which it was moved to Sydenham.

 

A black and white photograph depicting the Crystal Palace in Sydenham, London, from the air. [CON_B04109_F002_001 – ENGLAND, London, Sydenham. Aerial view of the Crystal Palace, Sydenham. The Conway Library, The Courtauld Institute of Art, CC-BY-NC]

 

In Sydenham it reportedly struggled to attract visitors, despite its large collection which included British sculptural works such as this one. Its ultimate fate was to be destroyed almost entirely by a fire in 1936 (the cause of which was never determined) with its final remaining tower structures being pulled down during World War 2 and its gardens been left in disrepair.

This photo of the forgotten Andromeda was taken in the 1970s, decades after the fire. Another image taken at the same time shows that she was stood in a cluster of similarly abandoned neo-classical sculptures, many of which miss limbs and heads. It is difficult to know whether she was inside the building when it burnt, some sculptures being designated for the Palace’s gardens. A comparison to other fire-damaged marble statues has suggested to me that the black stain across her torso is consistent with her having at least been close enough to the flames to have been scolded by them.

 

A black and white photograph of abandoned sculpture fragments in the gardens of Crystal Palace. To the right is the aforementioned Andromeda, these two photographs were likely taken at the same time. To the left of the photograph, three other fragments are visible. [CON_B04109_F002_012 – ENGLAND, London.  Sculptures in the Crystal Palace gardens, Sydenham, 1970s. The Conway Library, The Courtauld Institute of Art, CC-BY-NC]

 

Why then was Andromeda deemed worthless while the Wells carvings were preserved? Part of this will be a question of age, medieval carvings being older and so considered more valuable than neo-classical. One can be sure that, had this sculpture been genuine Graeco- Romano, she would not have been left to be broken by vandals. Another is probably a simple question of finances. Those with vested interest in the Crystal Palace would have suffered an immense blow when it was destroyed and the cost of repairing and transporting a minor, now damaged, artwork from within it probably was not worth the hassle. The final point is one of context. The Wells carvings have the benefit of being both religious in nature and attached to a historically significant building.

As such, as long as there is still a clergy at Wells Cathedral, and tourists coming to admire it, there will be incentive to prevent their further decay. A sculpture from a completely destroyed building, in a style typically associated with the vanity and pretentious tastes of Europe’s aristocracy, has less protection.

The current fate of our Andromeda is not known. The only reference I could find to her was a 2007 contributor on an online forum dedicated to Sydenham who claimed that the Andromeda ‘lost her head!’ since the 1970s image. Whatever her exact present state, it is clear that Andromeda was abandoned by those who had decided to display her in the Palace.

 

Aachen Cathedral

The final set of images was taken of Aachen Cathedral after the western German city fell to the American forces in 1944. It was the first major German city to fall to the Allies and faced heavy bombardments, by air strikes and then by the incoming American land troops, throughout late 1943 and 1944. Aachen reportedly anticipated the possibility of their cathedral being damaged in bombing and so transferred all its movable treasure to less conspicuous locations. In light of all this, the images of Aachen Cathedral actually seem remarkable for how intact the church is.

 

A black and white photograph mounted on card. Excerpt from caption: “AACHEN FALLS TO AMERICAN TROOPS. U.S. troops examine the main altar and the wreckage inside Aachen Cathedral. The cathedral was damaged during the bitter fighting for the city, which fell to troops of the first U.S. Army on October 20, 1944, seven days after expiration of a “surrender or die” ultimatum.” [CON_B09767_F001_019 – GERMANY, Aachen. “Aachen falls to American troops”. Attribution: Keystone Photo 484403. The Conway Library, The Courtauld Institute of Art, CC-BY-NC]

 

The bomb that damaged these windows was reported to have fallen through the church roof on Christmas Eve, 1943 and to have then rolled out onto the street where it finally detonated, blowing in the windows.

The cathedral was first commissioned by Charlamagne in around 796 and then was added to in 1355. This addition was in the form of a Gothic choir, the focal point of which was the magnificent stained-glass windows. These 14th Century windows were not the same ones which were destroyed in the bombing. They had in fact been shattered already by a hailstorm in 1729; those in the cathedral in 1944 were a neo-Gothic replacement.

In photos taken before the war, the windows can be seen to have detailed figural designs at the bottom, but with a much simpler geometric pattern in the rest of the space. This is quite strikingly different from the modern iteration of the windows, designed post-war by Walter Benner, Anton Welding and Wilhelm Buschulte, which have a far greater number of figural compositions as well as more intricate geometric design.

 

A black and white photograph mounted on card, depicting the untouched interior of the choir of Aachen Cathedral. [CON_B2200_F002_002 – GERMANY, Aachen. Aachen Cathedral. Int: choir looking NE. Taken before the windows were bomb-damaged. Attribution: Photo Marburg 64678. The Conway Library, The Courtauld Institute of Art, CC-BY-NC]

 

[Image to follow]

A colour, digital photograph of the interior of the choir of the Aachen Cathedral. Large, multicoloured stained glass windows wrap around the curved side of the choir and the wall to the right of the photograph. The glass is coloured mainly in vibrant blues, reds, pinks, and purples. The interior is well lit with electric lights hanging from the vaulting, visible on the ceiling. To the left of the photograph, a painted wooden sculpture of three angels or cherubs is visible. In the centre of the choir there is a hanging sculpture decorated with gold leaf. The walls of the interior are richly decorated, though it is unclear if they are painted or tiled.
[GERMANY, Aachen. Aachen Cathedral Choir. Taken after the new, post-war windows were installed. Attribution, alamy.com. DWP911]

 

It is obvious why the windows were not left in their damaged state, which would have left the cathedral completely vulnerable to the elements, but perhaps surprising is that they chose to reinvent the windows rather than recreate the old ones. Part of this is probably, like with the other two pieces discussed, a question of age. As mentioned, the windows damaged by the bombs were not the originals and as such would have held less importance to the city’s historical fabric than they would have done had they stood there since the 14th Century. Also of possible relevance is the appearance of the windows themselves. The original design was very sober in comparison to the modern one and it is not inconceivable that those in charge of arranging the cathedral’s repairs would have seen the damage as a blank slate from which the cathedral’s appearance could be altered.

Unlike in the cases of Wells Cathedral or of Andromeda, the windows of Aachen had the dual factors of being irreparably damaged and a crucial structural part of the building. The combination of these two meant that it was imperative that the windows were remade, but that they could be made potentially in any style because the historic craftsmanship which may have been otherwise preserved was destroyed.

If the three examples used are looked at as a group, then it seems clear that there are no set protocols for dealing with damaged art and while some is seen as worthy of preservation, other works are discarded. It is understandable why artwork that is damaged is sometimes destroyed or abandoned, Aachen Cathedral could not function with broken windows and  the place which had displayed Andromeda had ceased to exist. However, this does not mean that the damaged pieces are worthless or that they should be forgotten. Here is where photography can become so useful as a medium. Even if damaged objects or buildings cannot be kept in their state forever, photographs can capture them in this vulnerability beyond the time in which they have been repaired, replaced or further degraded.

 

Caitlin Campbell
Courtauld Connects Digitisation
Oxford University Micro-Internship
Participant

Lottie Alayo: London’s unknown – the mystery in Bevin Court

Architecture Internship Micro-Internship Placement Sculpture The Conway Library No Comments

Most residents of Bevin Court, Cruikshank Street, live in a state of oblivion in terms of the history of Vladimir Lenin’s time in Finsbury. This has led to a lack of understanding for many people to which they experience shock as well as newfound curiosity about Lenin’s significance, not only in London but also the USSR. Therefore, the following story draws evidence and inspiration from sources from the Conway Library and will have snippets of information throughout the piece in italics to help depict the mystery of the Lenin memorial and how exploring the unknown can lead to insightful understandings of history.

Resident 28 stood in a state of shock, tea in hand, steam rising from the mug as a detective named Bertie, accompanied by a policeman, stated the findings of a head buried under the stairwell of Bevin Court. Immediately, Resident 28 was unnerved by the discovery and, as soon as the detective and policeman took their leave, rushed to the neighbour at number 30 with the news. His eyes glinted with curiosity as much as the same shock as him. Resident number 30 was intrigued by the discovery of a head found under the stairwell. More so, he was eager to know more about anyone who had any information regarding the person that was found under the stairwell, was it another resident? Was there a psychopath living amongst them? Or was it simply a random episode that would leave a red mark over the collective housing estate? Thus, Resident number 30 started an online messageboard, with an attached photo and one message: “who’s under the stairs?”, to document his findings, for he wished to shed light on the ambiguous figure and the sudden attention the discovery had attracted.

 

A black and white image of the façade of Bevin Court, there are rows of windows and balconies which are partially obscured by rows of trees. There is a light coloured car parked at the side of the building and another, darker car is parked in the foreground. The ground is wet and there is a large puddle behind the second car. [CON_B04266_F001_019 – LONDON: Bevin Court, Holford Street, northeast façade [site of Lenin memorial]. Architects: Skinner, Bailey, and Lubetkin, 1951-4. Courtauld Institute negative L100/47(15).]

A black and white photo of the interior of Bevin Court, taken at the bottom of a short set of stairs. The ground is wet and made of a dark concrete. To the left of the image there is a curved window on the ground floor and the first floo balcony above that. The balcony stretches across the entire space. The second floor is visible at the top of the image. At the top centre of the photograph there is a stair platform overlooking the stairwell. [CON_B04266_F001_021 – LONDON, Bevin Court, Holford Place, Finsbury. Architects: Skinner, Bailey, Lubetkin, 1953-4.]

 

My idea for this story came from learning about the history of Lenin who had lived in 30 Holford Square with his wife in 1902-1903 to avoid persecution by the Tsarist regime. The actual building, however, suffered severe damage during World War II and could not be restored. As a result, with the permission from Finsbury Borough Council and with a push by Architect Berthold Lubetkin and the Foreign Office, a Lenin memorial was erected opposite the site. I thought that it would be great to include small pockets of information in the story thus, Resident 30 refers to the house number in which Lenin lived. While the detective is called Bertie as a reference to Berthold Lubetkin (the architect that designed Bevin Court). The reason I decided to make the characters anonymous is to add to the mystery itself and to create an atmosphere where the reader feels left in the dark searching for answers.


As Resident number 30 was unsure about the actual events of the discovery he sought to investigate all possible options. First, he decided to venture downstairs to the exact location where the head was found in the centre of the daunting square; his face as red as a communist’s fervour. Suddenly, he felt the need to know the history of Bevin Court to answer the questions of ‘What prompted the murder? Why the head? What is its significance?’ But, more so, he wanted to visibly see the head first-hand, he wanted to materialise the image in his head. ‘Was the person important? How did they die? Was it bloody? Was it disfigured? Did he want it to be?’ The thrill of discovery ignited a revolutionary flare within him. He posted another picture on messageboard with the caption: “Look what I uncovered! Find out who? – head found in Cruikshank Street”.

 

A black and white photograph depicting the Bevin Court entrance sign, with the façade of the building visible in the background. The sign reads “BEVIN COURT”, with the letters “B” and “C” significantly enlarged. The letter “E” is missing, with its outline faintly visible underneath. [CON_B04166_F001_007 – LONDON, Bevin Court, Holford Place, Finsbury. Architect: Skinner, Bailey, Lubetkin, 1953-4. Entrance sign.]

 

Still, Resident number 30 was underwhelmed. More had to be done. He could not fathom the unnerving power of each image he had found. The photos had awakened a feeling of need to know more beyond the border frames. Beyond the black and white.

The online messageboard sounded a notification. A reply. “Bevin”.

With that one-word, Resident number 30’s excitement grew. His heart beating like a drum, the same beat that has echoed out from the drum staircase for years. Banging to get out, to be discovered. Light cascaded down onto his notes from the window as he staggered to pile them into a folder. He fumbled with his camera. He had to go back downstairs. ‘Bevin.’ What does this mean? Bevin Court? How can a murder be so terrific and the chase to capture an image, a piece of evidence that holds many clues, so great? Never mind Detective Bertie, for Resident 30 wanted to continue his own hunt for the truth, in the meantime he took a snapshot of his view outside as he made his way towards the bottom of the stairwell.

An edited image of the exterior of Bevin Court, taken from one of the building’s balconies. The photograph is framed by the walls of the balcony and the floor of another balcony above. To the left, another exterior wall stretches away from the foreground. There is a split path in the centre of the photograph with a street lamp and several large trees. One tree in the centre has been coloured a vibrant green. [CON_B04266_F001_001 – LONDON, Bevin Court, Holford Place, Finsbury. Architect: Skinner, Bailey, Lubetkin, 1953-4. Colourised using LightxEditor. Original image is linked.]

 

At first glance he noticed nothing unusual about the photo he had taken, but on closer inspection he saw a splash of colour bleed onto the page. His image was coming alive just like his imagination and more so as he was coming closer to the clues. Bevin Court. He had to do some research. What was the history of Bevin Court? He scarcely knew much. A simple Google search would suffice as to who Bevin was, but he craved more. Heading to the Courtauld Library to look at the collections, he knew answers were yet to be revealed; the crisp images waiting to burn under his scrutinising gaze. He travelled down into the library and picked up a red box full of dust and knowledge. He began to furiously browse the web to attain his desired end. Bevin Court:

The area around Bevin Court was owned by the New River Company who leased the land as pasture and in 1841-48 a formal square was laid out and named Holford Square. It was named after the governor of the New River Company, Charles Holford. After destruction from World War II bombing, Holford Square was redesigned by Berthold Lubetkin after Finsbury Borough Council bought the site with the idea to retain the shape of the square. Lubetkin placed a block of flats in the centre of the old square. Three branches of flats radiated from a drum staircase (which I used as a metaphor in the story to describe the cylindrical shape of the stairs and the beating of the protagonist’s heart). This layout leaves no flat with a north only aspect. Bevin Court was not always named what it currently is. In fact, it was supposed to be Lenin Court, but after vandalism of the memorial and uproar by the residents it was named after Ernest Bevin, Minister of Labour (1881-1951). Throughout the story I refer to the shape and architectural features of Bevin Court throughout the story to immerse the reader and give them a sense of physically being present at the murder location themselves.

The information was a cacophony of words, a divine hell that only led him into a madness of wanting more but one word continuously appeared among the research: ‘Lenin’. Lenin, along with a picture of a stone face, somber and grey with a red hue. Colour was becoming the definition of discovery. The images were the revolutionary beginnings of his own human imagination and comprehension. ‘Lenin was a Russian revolutionary politician who served as the founding head of the government of the Soviet Union from 1917 to 1924 and of the Soviet Union from 1922 to 1924’. Still, Resident 30 was befuddled. Murder. Head. Lenin. Red. Furthermore, he was bewildered as to the explanation of the bright colours for it seemed to heavily contrast the dismal mystery. Perhaps it was the way the light hit the photo that affected its outcome. Perhaps the colour reflected his mind oozing with newfound knowledge onto the page.

 

A colour photograph of the Lenin memorial with a bust of Lenin enclosed within a glass and stone container. Accompanying the bust is a plaque, the writing obscured, and a vase containing a bunch of dried roses. The container stands on a stone platform with chains underneath, with a wrought iron fence running along both sides of it. The sky has been recoloured in a sporadic, soft blue, and the interior of the memorial a brilliant red. [CON_B04266_F001_005 – LONDON. Lenin Memorial, Holford Square, Finsbury (destroyed). Architect: Berthold Lubetkin, 1942. Colourised using LightxEditor. Original image is linked.]

 

Unexpectedly, everything poured into his brain at once and aligned themselves like the socialist’s heart and mind. Imitation murder perhaps? He rushed to Detective Bertie with the news, lungs full of anticipation and exasperation at being so close yet so far. Bertie peered upon him with disbelief, he found the information insightful but Resident 30’s passion? Intense and deranged. Surely a single murder could not have wrangled the resident’s brain in such a way. His excitement seemed to exceed the red fear and repulsion conjured by the revelation of the head found under the stairwell. For the detective’s own eyes could not see the colour on the images and understand what Resident 30 had unearthed.

Here, I took inspiration from a project by Phil Dimes called “Chasing Kersting” where he would take interest in a particular photo and travel to the location to take a present-day image himself. He would then recolour the image in a unique way. I sought to do a similar thing by gradually recolouring the images from the Conway collection as the story progresses and as the protagonist solves the murder mystery. At the end, he is surprised to find the image almost most completely coloured, bright and modern (by using a present-day photograph at the very end) which represents his own complete knowledge and the inspiration it has drawn from him.

Detective Bertie turned to Resident 30 and advised him wisely: “’Architecture can be a potent weapon… a committed driving force on the side of enlightenment’, as Lubetkin famously said himself, ‘do not fall into disillusion from uncovering nothing but a head and your own wild imagination. Leave this to empirical evidence”.

Resident 30 returned home. He was furious, he hated being undermined. He turned to the online messageboard and posted one last image of the stairwell looking upwards, clinging onto hope. The stair platforms were like thin bridges between reality and illusion. He imagined his own head, heavy and decapitated with a look of depravity and despair, lips shrivelled and sagging at the sides, eyes black, gorged and bloody. He wrote in one sentence: “Stone head – head under the stairs”. He had an inkling of truth but was still in the dark. He waited to see if the anonymous person replied on the messageboard. Meanwhile, other residents were still convinced the head found under the stairs was a crazed moment of madness, a berserk person who slaughtered another innocent one. Nonetheless, Resident 30 felt that there was still a missing link between the chains that were loose around his mind, like that of the photo he found in the Courtauld with the ‘so-called’ Lenin bust and the huge chains slithering below him.

An edited image of the interior staircase of Bevin Court. The camera is angled up the hollow space in the centre, the top floor is not visible. The floors, walls, and railing curve around the staircase. The ceilings and floors of the upper levels have been recoloured a vivid red, contrasting with the white walls interspersed between them. [CON_B04266_F001_022 – LONDON, Bevin Court, Holford Place, Finsbury. Architect: Skinner, Bailey, Lubetkin, 1953-4. Colourised using LightxEditor. Original image is linked.]

 

Waiting for a reply sickened Resident 30 as he felt like he had a brick in the pit of his stomach. Worry grated on his mind like cement against cement. The walls were starting to close in as a reply finally came with the message “Lenin was under the stairs” and three coloured images attached. He never knew who the commenter replying was. That was a mystery. Sometimes it felt as if the reply was his own mind speaking to him through the images, communicating through the lens and reassuring him with a flash of hope. Lenin was under the stairs. Lenin was under the stairs. Lenin was under the stairs. He hastily hopped out of his chair. Out the front door. Down the stairs. The hallway became darker and darker as he stumbled closer to the bottom. He began to choke on black smog which filled the hall like clouds on an old negative image. The putrid smell of blood was permanently inked into his mind as he ran past the bottom of the stairwell. He needed to see Detective Bertie again. He was terrified and could not understand what was unfolding. His mind kept replaying images of under the stairwell of Bevin Court; he marvelled at the possibility that a small catacomb could exist beneath the ground. A catacomb with yellow brown tones tinting the damp cold walls and the smell of decay permeating the air. Yet he felt doubt gnaw at his skin, had his imagination run out of bounds.

 

The following photographs were taken at the present-day site by the author.

A colour photograph taken looking up to the ceiling in the central staircase inside Bevin Court. The walls curve around a red column, and the walls are painted alternately in a bright crimson and off white. The ceiling is visible towards the top of the photograph with the curved walls spiralling upwards. [LONDON: Bevin Court. Photographer: Lottie Alayo, 2023]

 

A colour photograph of the bust of architect Ernest Bevin. The bust is bronze and is visible in a white recess in a wall behind a pane of glass. Behind the bust, there is a window overlooking leaves and trees. [LONDON: Bevin Court. Photographer: Lottie Alayo, 2023]

 

A colour photograph of the exterior entrance to Bevin Court. The entranceway and sign are visible in the foreground, the walls made of white stone with brown brick details. The façade in the background is decorated similarly. Two separate walls, each covered in rows of windows, meet in the middle with a third wall housing a connecting walkway. At the centre of the top of the photograph, the clear sky is visible. [LONDON: Bevin Court. Photographer: Lottie Alayo, 2023]

 

Detective Bertie held his lips in a thin line, the ceiling fan buzzing annoyingly like a fruit fly. He turned to Resident 30 and looked upon him with bemusement while the latter stared in shock at the photos on the table. The head was, in fact, Lenin’s very own. The detective somehow had all the images he had spent hours gathering. Lenin’s head memorial, the stairwell, the outer façade of the flats, including the ones that he had received on the messageboard which were vibrant in colour, refined, modern, real and complete, like of a piece of artwork. A new head made of bronze was now mocking him. Ernest Bevin. How had he not noticed that before? Countless times he had glided past that same spot when leaving Bevin Court and never noticed the head’s eyes peek out at him from the glass pane. Was he always this oblivious about the place around him? Another picture showed the police resurrecting Lenin’s head from its resting place underground. What about the murder? There was none. But everyone saw it, the police were there? They were only unveiling the head, like a time capsule, as the bust itself was to be placed in Islington Museum for safekeeping. Rumours travel far and murder was the subject. His thirst for knowledge, information and truth was shrouded with a red blanket of imagination politics as he finally discovered Lenin’s political past, and it was littered with red folders of untold stories in the form of photographs. The murder was never real, but the history, effort and excitement were. Lenin was discovered and the mind was opened.

To finish, Lenin’s bust is now resting in Islington Museum, though it spent quite some time under Bevin Court and then some time locked away in the mayor’s office in Islington. Therefore, this story is sort of set in a parallel world where it is present day but some aspects of the story are of the past (as if Lenin’s head was just uncovered!). I decided to include a lot of colour imagery and metaphors of red in my work. This is because red is the symbolic colour of Communism, it was a revolutionary colour. Therefore, by using red to highlight graphic details of the murder as well as gently nudge at the idea of USSR Communism, I was able to easily draw many parallels. The reason I thought this story was fascinating was because it involved a significant, historical figure who had become a controversial topic because of his politics. Lenin is known by many world-wide and yet few know of his shenanigans in London, so I wanted to explore further. I also incorporated as much information not only in the form of small paragraphs but also within the story itself and many of the descriptive elements are drawn from the facts, pictures and the Courtauld. For example, where I mention ‘red folders’ or ‘fruit fly’ (for some humour) is referring to my time at the Courtauld. This is to add a more personal experience to the writing and to immerse the reader in the short story. My overall idea was to create a story that emphasises the importance of the Courtauld for discovery, individuality and creativity, and how images can change the perceptions and understandings of the world around us.

The end.

 

Lottie Alayo
Courtauld Connects Digitisation
Queen Mary University of London
Internship Participant

Louisa Hamereras: GHOSTS – A Short Story Collection

Architecture Internship Micro-Internship Placement The Conway Library No Comments

Disclaimer – This collection is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to anyone in real life is completely coincidental.

 

Story One – scratching against the stone

 

            The birds sang with the sound of the morning light, the sound caressing each and every particle of matter until it was as soft as the hum in the air. The world was still, just for a moment, as the trees swayed and staggered, as the hay found itself tall and waving. Spring rang bright and clear, casting them all in a sea of colour and joy.

            It wasn’t until the evening that it all went away, that the sun grew tired and withered away against the evening sky, below the horizon, to grant new people the same light that blessed them. The evenings ran cool, and the birds slowed to a gentle, methodical hum.

            And then the scratching began.

            The birds screech to a halt, almost as if to sit and listen to that same etching, tearing away at the mountaintop until they saw the pictures clear and the ash and debris crumbled along the floor, ready to be trampled on so it could be at one with the floor. The stone cried, not at the act or the pieces of itself crushed against the ground. It cried at the art, the pieces of the world they couldn’t see, brought to it, carved into its flesh and bones. A bull, a bear, mammoths all cobbled together on one slab of rock.

            But why? Why had they felt the need to make their mark? Had boredom struck, with no way out other than to occupy themselves? Was this the work of a great mastermind only years before their time? Was this the beginning of genius? Whatever it had been, they carved their name in the shadows, destined to be remembered.

            The bird began again the moment the scratching had stopped, humming their peace along the silence, joining their call around that great mastermind, the painter without a face or name, the only hum in the still, the first visitor in thousands of years.

            Over the years, they returned every now and again to add to the adventures. They drew hand-carved spears and epic wins against red gazelles and hartebeest, of people and their stories, until one day, it all stopped. He never returned again. The birds sang uninterrupted, and the carvings remained untouched, preserved just as they were while the world crumbled away and built upon ruins and ruins.

            Life, empires, and people had flittered from life to memory, but what remained, what always remained, was the art.

            It wasn’t found until centuries later, eager archaeologists with nothing in their minds besides the hope for a new discovery. The strangers entered; eyes widened in admiration at the detail, the stories of hope, of loss, of food and of friends. They spoke to one another in loud, inconsiderate, ungrateful voices, only marvelling at what was not their own.

            It wasn’t until only one remained that the cave found its voice to be heard; the birds sang softly, the sand shifted around them as the wind picked up, and finally, after the myriad of peace and light, the scratching began.

 

A black and white photograph mounted on card of two people investigating various prehistoric rock carvings on a large rock surface. Some carvings appear to be horses or livestock. [CON_B00005_F05_02, Near Tiaret (Algeria), Prehistoric rock carvings at Ket Bou Bekr.]

*

 

Story Two – the circus had come.

 

            The circus had come.

            It was all they heard on that Tuesday morning; that the circus had come, to spring for joy and watch over the kids bound to cause a ruckus among the great stone walls. Workers, baking in the golden Algerian sun, whispered about it in low voices. The children jumped whenever they remembered, recalling moments of watching horses barrel around one another. One, the child of a wealthy family, told the same story: of touching the horses, the stone tracks under their feet.

            Technically the circus was always there; the building stood still among the forum, fixed in stone and sand, the workers walked among them so often they could practically have their names written on the walls. But the shows, they came on the off-day, sudden. Word spread quickly around Timgad, so the second a whisper had been sung, the cannon had been fired, and everyone knew.

            Deep in the suburbs, in houses made of stone, a boy lingered. He hid behind a partition between one room and the other, away from a woman who seemed familiarly serious. He crept along despite it, out of sight, travelling low and slow until he reached the door. His hand touched the handle, but the moment he had been beginning to move, she called his name.

            His eyes widened, turning on the heel of his foot to grin at his mother. “Yes?” she asked as she gave a reluctant smile. She gave her usual speech: be back before sundown, stay with your friends, stay away from the heat of the crowds until he could find her, and take her hand. It was only when she pressed a gentle kiss against his temple, caressing the soft skin on his cheek, that she finally herded him out of the door with a small straw basket with as much urgency as the situation needed.

            The sun was climbing in and onto them, filling them with a yearning for shade, cold wind, and fresh water. There was nothing in that crowd besides desperation, hopefulness, and a boy running through the cluster with a list of things to achieve. As he sprinted, the air moved, parting to give him the space to soar. Dust ricocheted from the floor, spraying everyone in the vicinity and leaving behind him cries of annoyance.

            “SORRY!” he laughed behind him before sprinting round a corner where he knew he could buy something to sustain him. He turned another corner, stopping directly in his tracks when he realised what it was.

            The queue for pine nuts stretched across the street, ebbing and flowing as the crowd grew stronger, fiercer, and increasingly impatient. Would there be any nuts left for him? Would the crowd take this right directly from his fingertips?

            There was no choice but to run or wait, so he waited. The crowd moved quickly, but not quick enough. He would miss the beginning if he stayed, have to stay in the highest seats, sit with those out of his social grade, and bring shame to his family by associating with the sort. His family could be pushed from their home, the pinnacle of pain and suffering, all for pine nuts.

            But the queue was moving quickly. People left on their own accord, moaning in frustration for the time wasted; the poor man at the booth scooped as quickly as he could. The boy bounced on his feet to bid the very thing that lingered on top of him, waiting as patiently as his impatience would take him. Despite it, he got to the front of the queue with time to spare – the first horn hadn’t even been blown yet.

            The vendor was an elderly gentleman with crooked and blackened teeth and eyes full of joy and light. They made him seem gentle, generous, giving. They exchanged pleasantries as the crowd behind them gathered closer. The vendor scooped a generous amount of nuts into his basket and then a little more for good measure. He herded him away, just as his mother did, knowing his reaction before it was given.

            Was the desperation that clear?

            He began to run again, just around the corner of the stone houses, temporarily shielded by the shade and slowing down to gauge his surroundings. It was a left and then a right again. He could see the amphitheatre in the distance, a short way away. The first calling horn had yet to blow. He could only wish for miracles, they seldom came to light, but this was astonishing; was he going to be early?

            When he began running again, at full speed, following the crowds that had similar journeys from similar houses, he swerved against the passing people to each and every corner, shouting his hellos at anyone who could listen. He turned the last corner suddenly and then–

            His face suddenly touched the floor, lips kissing the gravel, chin scraped against the rough stone. He groaned, hoping there wouldn’t be blood against his white toga. “NO WAY!” he heard, head snapping to the perpetrator of his assault. His mouth broke out in a grin immediately, embracing his friend and looking for his other, who had usually been by their side. His friend’s blue eyes shone back at his own, almost closed from the widening grin.

            “Where is Ixhil?!”

            “We can’t find him! We think he’s at home! He doesn’t know the circus is here!” His friend stood, looking strangely serious, picking up the boy’s sealed basket of nuts. “Let’s go!”

            They turned back just as the first of the three bells rang, sprinting faster to catch up to their crowd. Time was not on their side, the sun would dip in a few hours, and he would need to be home. They finally found the house, standing before a large, brown door and disturbing the world behind with furious nocks.

            “IXHIL! THE CIR—”

            The door opened before they could finish, and Ixhil, a taller boy with dark skin and a distinctively furrowed brow, shoved open the door with a passionate curiosity, making the two before he stumbled forward. The horn’s call had told all the village people all they needed to hear. Ixhil had dressed and had been ready to leave with them before the first word had even been spoken.

            Their footsteps lined in sync as the second horn bellowed through the town, calling freely at the people to come forward, to enter the only place they could remain themselves. Stalls were left empty, houses vacant with doors wide-open – smells of bread beaming from kitchens.

            The crowd thickened like corn starch to gravy, leaving no place to run, turn back or hide without the risk of being heavily trampled. They turned their last corner, eyes widening with wonder as the building’s shade consumed them.

            It had not been anything particularly new or strange. In fact, the theatre had been crumbling since the dawn of time, but that didn’t matter. With the moaning walls and creaking Corinthian columns, its dereliction meant this could be their final show, draped within her walls. The idea made the boy, his friend, and Ixhil sad. To them, it was larger than life, spreading across their entire world and becoming the sky. The theatre was not big by any means, especially not in comparison to the others he’d seen in Rome or in France, but it was theirs: Timgad’s very own.

            They looked at one another once they’d found their seats, eating from the open basket of pine nuts, waiting for the third and final horn to ring. They laughed, whispering among the people about anything and everything, side by side, heated by the sun against their skin. Soon they’d be golden and wrinkled, frail and old. They all knew time was a fickle thing – never on their side, but today, they laughed. They settled into silence just as the last horn rang through their small, small town.

            Hundreds of years later, after decades of myths and legends about a town hidden under Saharan sands, the laughter remained. Even when people found the bones hidden, bodies clinging to one another, they shook with mellow, joyful laughter.

A black and white photograph mounted on card of the ruins of a stone colonnade, part of the Theatre at Timgad, with a section of curved seating visible behind. Beyond the ruins, a hill and distant mountains are visible. The environment is arid and open, the sky bright and clear. [CON_B00005_F012_023, Ruins of the Theatre at Thamugadi (Timgad) in Algiers, Algeria, 1904, No. 85. Hirth’s Formenschatz Practical Art Gallery.]

*

 

Story Three – today was different.

 

            In the middle of the Kasbah, at the very top of the mountain the citadel had been built upon, surrounded by growing trees and other grand, unfamiliar houses, lay a villa fit for royalty. Royalty, however, did not own the three substantial floors, the dozen bedrooms or the twisted pillars that held it all together. It wasn’t royalty who embellished the ceilings and the staircases with gold or who etched names and initials into the same wall to scream ‘I EXIST!!!’ at the top of their lungs into every part of their quiet presence inside the house. It had been a simple family that resided there instead, filled with everything that peaceful simplicity needed; grateful people and eternal love.

            In the middle of the square, an open, flower-spun courtyard, under the hot summer sun and within the confines of four tall walls, the youngest of the family was sat practising what could only be known as a… personal piece. Yes, it was offkey, and yes, it may have been the only noise in the house keeping the sun in the sky and the world awake. But in terms of saving grace, it was not entirely awful to her. She winced as the string of her mandolin almost snapped, biting the tips of her fingers, adding salt to the already piercing wound. She was playing so her father would come back to music; she was playing for joy.

            “Can you stop that racket? You’re giving me a headache—” A boy, the oldest of the family, had stopped when he realised who he was speaking to. She looked up with a tear-streaked face and eyes of pure, clean glass, and he stepped back from the balcony. “Carry on then.”

            She smiled, wiped her tears away as if she had been entirely unaffected by the mandolin’s bite and continued onwards, louder than she had been before but careful.

            In the evenings, after dinner, the five members gathered in one large but cosy living room, finding themselves on emerald sofas lined across the four corners away from the door. They erupted into loud discussion. Sometimes, they’d find themselves outside, watching the sunset from the west balcony. Others, they’d play a broken symphony to cheer themselves up, to make them laugh.

            Today, however, an unnatural question had been raised by the youngest of the group: “When is baba coming home?” and thus, the pondering began.

            Their house had grown from ashes of sacrifice, of defeated pirates and looted ships, of gold, and the eternally fragile consequence of hard work. They all knew what it took to maintain both the money they had and the sacrifice, and they knew that it depended on their father’s fickle health. He had not been home in five months, but they knew it was all for them. Everything their father did was to maintain the glory of his family, and they thought there was nothing else so honourable.

            Their mother entered, and they gathered around her, finding a limb and clinging as she doted on each of them separately. “Fawzia, if you would like to become better at the mandolin, you must practice relentlessly… Riad, is that a bruise I see?” They listened to every word and reacted accordingly, laughing when she made a joke, even at their own expense. They sat for what seemed like hours until they began to push and shove at one another whenever their sticky limbs touched accidentally.

            Today was different; today, she stayed for longer than usual, easing each child into a hazy daze despite their apparent disagreements. Each glanced at one other individually, finding themselves in the beauty of their loving words.

            The door creaked open, unbeknown to the children. Their mother smiled, continuing to talk despite it, placing a loving hand on the youngest’s cheek and her eldest’s arm. Someone crept in just as their mother glanced back at the man, alerting them all to his presence.

            There was silence as they all slowly turned to gaze at him, unmoving. Outside, the trees were swaying, the old house echoed and creaked, and their father, a man of great height and a dignified presence that demanded respect, had come in from the overwhelming warmth.

            The youngest, the quickest of the family, left for him first, jumping up to wrap her arms around his neck. The next was the oldest, who needed no jump to reach the man who took him in the same as her. Soon, he was covered in them, each child huddled around the man for all the warmth and comfort they could ever need. It was a while until they let go, and when they did, they almost all launched into rousing stories. “Fawzia,” he called suddenly, interrupting their speaking once he realised his youngest had resorted to laying back in their noise, making space for her to move forward and in front of him. “How about you play for me?”

            They collectively held back a groan, and their mother glared them into silence. He opened his hand for her, reaching out and allowing her to lead him down to the courtyard where her mandolin awaited her. She placed her bandaged fingers against it, keeping her eyes on her father before beginning to play.

Though she was definitely not meant for an orchestra, it sounded fluid, like a relief. The sound graced the silence, smothering it until nothing was left beside their calming hum. The mandolin sang in the air, caressing every lovely thought and smiling picture and making the youngest beam at it.

 “You’re improving,” the eldest whispered gently when she had finished and sat back, nudging her arm before welcoming her to an embrace.

            For the rest of the evening, they ate, they drank, they spoke of stories of their hometown, and he told them about every single gory detail from his time away. He told them of Ottoman merchants, British ships and famous pirates, and gold mines he did business with to trade to the highest bidder. He had met with kings, Presidents and supposed heroes. He answered every single one of their questions with a confident air and infinite pride.

            Despite the world before his eyes, despite the royalty he had been in the presence of, he told them of how he found them at every turn and of his desire to be home, with them, in that very room within the Kasbah.

             A hundred years later, people returned to the Kasbah, trying to find some semblance of identity within the ashes of what was left. They walked through the citadel, soft steps between piles of cleaned-up rubble, into what could be described as the only standing house at the top of the hill. Between the walls, echoing and creaking at every movement, they could hear the scraping and screeching of a young child with glass eyes sitting against a plain metal chair, trying to practice the mandolin. They found it louder in the middle of the house, near the new fountain and underneath the lavish chandelier. Gold had been stripped from the walls, but they knew the legend of the house: that a man had lived here with a large loving family and returned from his travels more than usual just to hear that scratch and screeching of that mandolin.

A black and white photograph mounted on card depicting the upper level of a house and balcony overlooking a courtyard (not visible). A large, grand chandelier is visible to the right of the image, and a white stone bust of a woman is shown to the left. There are rows of white stone arches lining the balcony, with intricate twisted columns underneath. The lower floor is decorated with patterned tiles. [CON_B00004_F005_016, The Courtyard of the Governor’s House at Algiers, Algeria.]

*

 

Story Four – a new day had come.

 

            Birds leapt as a young man dove through, running against the speed of the wind that demanded to hold him back. Once again, his work was calling for him, and he chose to deny it until the very last moment. They had fought tooth and nail for the opportunity, contacted every sad man with an unexpected past who could like him enough to open doors for him; he hadn’t enjoyed it as much as he was expected to. He acted his way through every bit of his interview, keeping on the part until he was choking on the pressure to like it, and everybody he knew liked it beside him. The romanticised idea of a library, to sort and to catalogue, seemed beautiful on paper. Still, in reality, it made anything else feel like a holiday.

            He raced through Martyr’s Square against time in the stifling September sun, stirring every speck of the peace the morning twilight brought. He stopped for a moment to glance up at the sky, to catch the image of a single bird so he could see how it flew – he wanted to look at every speck of everything. God knows how much he wanted to know, but time, it always ran against everything he believed in.

            There was the sharp, piercing tune of his work-supplied telephone, a small, hard, handheld object that could only slip into the crevice in his bag that was supposed to hold his water bottle. He was convinced it would survive a nuclear explosion if it ever came to Algiers. He checked the name, four short letters appearing on the screen. His manager was calling. Oh NO.

            He began sprinting again, racing through empty streets until he reached the avenue where his work was. As he turned a corner, he smoothed down both his dress shirt and trousers, passing by people who maybe would recognise either him or his manager one day, smiling and pretending to be calm until he hopped into a sizeable cathedral-like building, through the lobby and up every single step until he reached the one that would take him to his desk.

            Though intrigued, he knew little about the building he called work. He knew it had been left over from French Occupation and that today it held government offices, including the records he worked with. Before that, the land held a mosque and an Ottoman trading station, but the specifics of each beguiled him. Who decided to build a masterpiece in such a boring part of town? Who had decided upon the arches of the doorway or the floor mosaic?

            He thought about it all as he finally sat at his desk, wiping beaded sweat from his forehead onto a clean paper towel and throwing it directly in the bin beside his desk.

            “Did you just come in?” someone asked, approaching him.

            The young man immediately turned to where the voice was coming from, offended at the accusation even if there were hints of truth. A tall woman, roughly his age, if not a little younger, had found his desk and sat on a pile of papers he had carelessly thrown upon it. She was holding something in her hands that he didn’t care to look at, and he chose to rifle through his bag instead. “No, I didn’t just come in. I came in at eight, like everyone else—”

            She held a hand up in defence, “Don’t play the blame game, I’m only the messenger.”

            “Messen—” she slammed a large cardboard box in front of him, interrupting the question she had been about to ask. “Oh,” he whispered, “thank you.”

            “These are from London, and they’re supposed to be very, very boring. Throw out what you want, keep what you want. It’s all supposed to go in the bin anyway.”

            “We’re not usually that careless,” he responded, reaching down to his shoe to tie the laces he had forgotten. Late, messy, and disordered, he was really showing his true colours today. “Why?”

            “This box has driven six different people insane apparently. I’ve looked through it, there’s nothing special so you should be fine.”

            He allowed for an annoyed sigh, moving onto the second shoe before realising. “If you’ve already looked through it, why don’t you do it yourself?”

            “Because I’m not stupid,” Her face brightened suddenly as her words twisted into thorns in his head, stabbing themselves deep into his back. “Good Luck!”

            It took him all his will to hold back a groan, staring at the closed box as if it was his mortal enemy, someone he constantly lived in frustration with, a friend that was never meant to be. If he was to ever get started, now, when the heat hadn’t smothered them yet, was definitely the time.

            The young man coughed as the box was opened, as a balloon of dust exploded into his face, shielding him from it for a few seconds. He glanced away, finding his elbow to cough into, and just as if it had never happened, found the box again with newfound eyes.

            He pulled out the first photograph, and the second that he did, he found a figure moving across and back out of the frame again. He furrowed his eyebrows, taking in the image of a rock behind the man in the photograph and every single curve and edge. The young man glanced away and then looked back with narrowed eyes, only just missing the movement once again. He was almost sure he had seen the rock behind the man move, something added within the bulls and the boars.

            The young man moved on to another, picking a random photo from within piles and piles he had strewn out over his desk and gazing at it as carefully as possible. It had been of a Roman Theatre, built in the city of Timgad before it had been hidden under the sands for a century. In the stands, there were people, and he found a small boy among his friends, cackling at the top of his lungs. He glanced away, looked back, and found pine-nut shells against the stone steps, the same his dad had bought and eaten for decades.

            He called the young woman, and when he could, he took the short walk across the fray over to her desk, prepared to be either insulted so deeply he would think about it for days or deemed a genius above all else, but more of the first.

            “Can you see that?” he asked suddenly, showing her the photograph.

            “What?”

            “There is a boy, and he is laughing. Look.” She did indeed look and found nothing. The picture was clear; there were ruins of a Roman theatre in Timgad, nothing special. She looked at him, before at the photo and back at him again.

            “Were you dropped on the head as a child?”

            He groaned loudly, moving back the short distance to his desk and returning to the box. As he picked another photo, from the compete other end of the box than the first, he assessed it all. It was a palace he had been to once before, walking within the walls – it was now a museum, but with the same air as a house lived in. In the middle, he found a child sitting against a smooth metal chair in its courtyard, holding something on her lap. He squinted, trying to get a better look – was that… a guitar?

            No, it couldn’t be. What she was holding was wider, had a shorter neck and presumably sounded different. He could imagine it sounding higher than a guitar, more fluid. He’d seen it once before, at a Raï concert he went to against his parent’s wishes. If only he could remember what it had been. A ma—man—

            A mandolin.

            This was no coincidence, he realised after the first dozen. The young man furrowed his brow and continued, looking at each and everyone with the same process. He glanced once, turned away, and glanced back again to see the change, and in every single moment, he found happiness, love, and then joy. In many, he found the architect, the maker of the madness, a crafter. In others, he found people laughing, men amongst men, and revolutionaries before their time. He could see their faces before the blur of the camera, a symphony of all things good in the world, all things he didn’t have.

            On his lunch break, he considered handing himself into a mental hospital and letting them run as many tests as possible to see what was wrong with him. Is that what the others that touched the box had done? It could not be expected – he was seeing things, people in pictures that didn’t exist. Only when he returned to his desk did he find them kinder, smiling softly instead of their usual mocking laughs, looking directly at him as if he was a kindred spirit.

            He took the photographs home against his better judgment. If his colleagues wouldn’t believe him, maybe his family would. Perhaps they would give him the validation to make him feel normal and not completely insane for seeing an arm where nothing should be. The young man understood the moment he saw the house was empty, barren of all happiness, filled with only his misery: this path was his to walk alone.

            Once he had finished the final photo in the box, out of hundreds, he sat back against his desk chair with his hands before his face. On the side, there was a filled plate of washed and peeled fruit, on the other was his phone. Only then did he realise the task that he had been given that morning – whether to keep or throw? They could not keep everything; they needed to make room to grow.

            But it was magic. They were ghosts, waving back at him, telling him how to go on. It was more direct than he’d found in himself in years because they chose him. He couldn’t dare to throw away ghosts or discard magic like it was the skin of one of his fruits.

            He picked up the first photo from the back of the stack, of the little girl and her mandolin. He looked away before looking back to her kind, glass eyes. No, he thought, this ghost deserves to be seen and found.

            The next day, he woke from his bed as a man on a mission. He drifted through the square, holding the cardboard box as tightly as he could, ignoring the horrid ring that followed behind him. He was late, always late, but never for this.

            When he reached his desk, he sealed the cardboard box, scribbling down the first address he could find for an Art Institution as far away and sent it down to the building’s postal office. He then approached the young lady, leaning against her empty, well-balanced desk.

            “Can I borrow a pen and paper?” She slid one over to him without looking up. She only listened as he scribbled something against his thigh and folded it when he was finally done. It was only then that she looked up. “This is the last thing I’ll ask; can you please just give this to him?”

            Her eyebrows furrowed, “Don’t let the box get to your head.”

            “I’m letting go,” he confessed, “I honestly quit.”

            She stood when he did, following after him to his desk. “I didn’t mean it, I don’t think you were dropped—”

            Despite it, the young man laughed, placing the now-worthless papers right into the bin. “I think I might’ve been.”

            The young man didn’t wait for any more answers from her, hooking his bag back over his back and walking out. He left behind only his telephone and a small note explaining where the box went. No one stopped him or even batted an eyelash at the action, at least not her. He had glanced back only once to see people drifting in and past it without a second glance at his existence.

            But at least the photos will live on in a place that could be believed, in a place it could be loved and labelled, where they can have their own home with one another. It was all the young man cared about anymore, maybe the only other thing he believed in.

            A new day had risen; he could do nothing else but walk away.

A colour photograph mounted on card of Martyr’s Square, Algiers, Algeria. The square is large, open, and paved with light coloured stone slabs. Pictured is a gazebo, a large, white mosque, and other ornate buildings. There are many people visible in the square, and a number of vehicles parked towards the mid-left of the photograph. The sea is a dark blue and is visible to the right of the composition. [CON_B04241_F001_001, Beaux Arts, No. 228 – May 2003, Algiers, Algeria – Place du Governement (now Place du Martyrs a Alger)]

*

Louisa Hamereras
Courtauld Connects Digitisation
Queen Mary University of London
Internship Participant

Surya Bowyer: 9,763 Red Boxes

Photographic Library Digitisation Project The Conway Library Volunteer Voices No Comments

Audio version

Read by Christopher Williams.

Text version

 

Minimalist ink drawing showing the figure of a person sitting at a table in the Conway Library, surrounded by red filing boxes.
Illustration by Simba Baylon @simbalenciaga

It begins with a box. Not a large or particularly remarkable box. Similar in size and shape to a foolscap box file. But different: an ever-so-slightly curved spine, a coarse fabric exterior.

Actually, it begins before the box. Walk down a spiral staircase and then along the aisles. Read the spine labels. Pick a box. Take it off its shelf.

Open the box. What’s next? There are two options. Two types of looking.

Option one: place it on a table under a camera.

**

Look at your phone. The blue-yellow light of its screen. Look at an image on it. Where has this come from? When we look at an image on a screen, on a phone, laptop, tablet, we seldom think of its story.

Inside the box: paper folders, held together without glue, with creases and folds and tabs pushed into slits. A tiny structural wonder. Inside each folder, a pile of papers. On each piece of paper, an image.

Officially: The Conway Library contains over one million images: photographs and cuttings of world architecture, architectural drawings and publications, sculpture, ivories, seals, metalwork, manuscript illumination, stained glass, wall paintings, panel paintings and textiles.

Place each image, in turn, on a table, under a camera.

In Sontag’s words: The view of reality as an exotic prize to be tracked down and captured by the diligent hunter-with-a-camera has informed photography from the beginning. [1]

In Barthelme’s opening sentence: The captured woman asks if I will take her picture. [2]

In Blake’s lines:

He caught me in his silken net,

         And shut me in his golden cage.

 He loves to sit and hear me sing,

         Then, laughing, sports and plays with me;

Then stretches out my golden wing,

         And mocks my loss of liberty. [3]

Yet something, invariably, escapes. Slips out through the gaps in the cage. And the thing that remains behind bars is not the same as the thing escaped. The camera might capture something of the image, but when you see the resulting photograph, on a phone, laptop, or tablet, something else is not there. Paper to pixel. Physicality foregone. The object’s matter remains at large.

What does it mean to capture – partially – an object? Each morning, you click off the lights. You click on the camera, the computer. Before you have touched a box, you place a piece of thick plastic on the table under the camera. A grid of squares, each a different colour. Whimsically named a Macbeth chart. You’re not sure why. The click of the shutter; the chart flashes up on the computer’s screen.

This photograph on the screen is used (officially) to adjust the colour, the exposure, the saturation. Yet as you adjust these things, readying the apparatus for the task that will follow, it becomes clear that for everything you do capture, you must miss something else. To catch the detail of a dark area, you must expose a lighter expanse. The camera sketches the object on the table under it. The thing on the table is itself a reproduction. A drawing of a drawing of a drawing.

The camera sketches the object on the table under it, but to sketch is to approximate, to decide what to keep. Something, invariably, escapes. Perhaps this is the nature of drawing.

But not all of the red boxes are ready for this yet.

**

Minimalist ink drawing of two persons sitting at a table sorting and labelling the contents of red filing boxes.
Illustration by Simba Baylon @simbalenciaga

Officially: There are 9,763 boxes in the Conway Library. Inside the boxes the items are divided into folders. A folder can correspond to a town, a building, a section of a building, or smaller features. Folders are sorted alphabetically within each box.

To ready the papers, continue inward. Within each folder, the task (officially): to recreate the experience of moving closer to the building. Option two.

**

A front projection of a building. Below the drawing, a date, 1729, in a scratchy serif, words around it, some capitalised, seemingly at random. The pillars catch my eyes, returning them to the drawing above. I blink.

I am on a path I have not yet walked. It winds forward, manicured grass on either side, trees with undressed boughs. A regal edifice up ahead, the path snakes around it. I blink.

The side of the building, closer. White framed windows, curved at the top, darkness beyond them. Blink.

A doorway, cherubs carved into its lunette. Blink. A geometric marble floor, a carved wood ceiling, space (lots of it) in between. Blink. Another room, smaller, softer, a chaise longue, a fireplace, objet d’arts on the mantel above it. Blink. Two children playing, long strands of ivy encompassing them, carved in dark metal, covering an abyss; on either side, oak leaves, carved in stone; above, the same mantel. Blink.

**

I drag a pencil across a page, charting a path I have not walked. These images – photographs, cuttings – these drawings, with them I create the experience of moving closer to the building.

A caged building. Alike but not one with the other: bricks and mortar and stone and metal that I have not touched. The other which remains at large, and unvisited. With this pile of papers (now ordered) on the table in front of me, I have created a building.

I put the papers back in the folder, the folder back in the box. Close the box. Return the box to its shelf. Pause. Then: It begins, again, with a box.

 

Endnotes:

[1] Susan Sontag, On Photography (Anchor Books, 1977), p. 55.

[2] Donald Barthelme, “The Captured Woman”, in Sixty Stories (Penguin, 2003), p. 280.

[3] William Blake, “Song: How Sweet I Roam’d from Field to Field”.

 

Surya Bowyer
Courtauld Connects Digitisation Volunteer
https://twitter.com/suryabowyer

Illustrations by Simba Baylon
https://www.instagram.com/simbalenciaga/