Goodbye Ouseburn

Ouseburn Quays

It was always on the cards. Someone in a white Porsche would spot a 'market opportunity' arising from the 'chic' of urban lifestyle that arose in London's Dockland's, spread out to other places with areas of post industrial dereliction and produce expensive ways for the seriously better off to indulge their brush with edgy metropolitan actualité or, in theory, 'vibrant' arty people. What was once a cheap place no one else wished to live, a chance for people without money to get into interesting spaces – sometimes through squatting – became très à la mode, all over the world. 

Gradually this form of 'poverty entrepreneurship' made otherwise uninhabitable parts of defunct businesses or industry attractively picturesque if one had a creative eye attracted attention. Other places soon became a magnet particularly for the young and child free penniless – craftspeople, performance arts, makers or simply drop outs. A waterfront helped. That adventurism finally acquired what one former hippie turned billionaire describes as 'a financial character' – in spades.

In his autobiography Dancing Edge, Derek Jarman charts his own pioneering time in the abandoned Butler's Wharf, London in the 70s – a mini Warholian factory of his own – a creative experiment to match his painting and films, at once invigorating and sad; because 'market opportunities' evicted Jarman and others from such spaces, to be taken by the very wealthy wanting to pose as Bohemians in one of the most expensive cities in the world.

That was bad enough. But what attracted Jarman and others to urban dereliction paved the way to a outbreak of hideously corporate fakery. 'Loft living', once as uncomfortable as it sounds, afterwards recreated with full insulation, security cameras and double glazing.

Lower Ouseburn – corporate space

Ouseburn, at least where the most prominent part of the valley meets the Tyne, is being anaesthetised, neutered and controlled. The sight that made a visiting friend decades ago express his own liking for urban dereliction – and the creative possibilities of such were then so evident, is now the definition of Suburban bland. It is almost as if someone has designed and built a film set for those masters of alienation, Michelangelo Antonioni or Ingmar Bergman.

So, goodbye Ouseburn. It was fun while it lasted. Photo gallery here. (off site link)