Thames Writings (November 2010 – November 2011)
A feeling of relief and excitement or anticipation as I find the steps and get my first glimpse (like the feeling of seeing the sea with its possibilities of escape and adventure), then descending down into the basin of the embankments. Down there it’s elemental, you could be swept away, drowned and because you are down there, noone would know. There’s the sense of discovery, and relic, but even these are exciting because of their possibilities. This piece of old wood could be a bone, perhaps it is a bone, it doesn’t really matter, what’s exciting is the ‘could be’. The relics you find are rarely perfect, they’ve been fashioned and battered by the power of the water and tide, but in that process they’ve become less certain, their possible histories and uses multiplied.
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Wash in, wash out, the tide begins its relentless return. When is the exact moment at which the tide turns? When descent becomes ascent and flow out turns to flow in. It’s not so much the history down here as the constant change. Restless, the space breathes and is washed clean, then the tide returns to fill it again with whatever it brings, to lift and deposit, to scrub surfaces smoother and rounder. And for me, being down here, my time is limited.
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I came to replace the plate for its final sojourn. As I came to the stairs, guess who was there, but my destitute man at the foot of the stairs. I didn’t want to disturb him so I went round to the next opening and climbed onto the embankment wall to look over (or jump). Next thing I know, he’s rounding the corner and I feel suddenly in a vulnerable spot. I’m here, and he’s approaching. He could push me (but why would he?) Instead, he smiles and I see that he’s actually got a pleasant face, tanned, open, not raddled by drink or drugs. He’s a wanderer of the foreshore. I say hi and smile back, our first encounter and he trudges past and on. I feel a wave of sadness for both of us, trapped in our loneliness and isolation. And he’s gone.
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The plate has gone. I am full of mixed feelings. In a way, it feels appropriate – gone, gone to the sea, gone who knows where? It had to happen and perhaps I was willing it to happen by leaving it there exposed to the tide. Perhaps I should have taken more care, imagined that a small piece of wire tethering it might have been all right for a few months, but nearly five months needed a more secure fastening. Perhaps I knew that all along but trusted to fate to have happen what would happen. If it was a part of me that I wanted to let go, perhaps that’s what’s happened. Funnily enough, I never actually expected it to have gone, but as soon as I arrived there, I knew, ‘It’s gone,’ and I felt no surprise.