Artless

Much consternation over news of impending cuts in arts spending in the north east. The local press has details here.

Sadly, these cuts are to fall on organisations which have grown up under an enlightened view of the role of cultural activities in creating a setting for other ventures and investments. The Lower Ouseburn is a case in point. Following decades of dereliction and neglect – so-much-so few locals even realised where it was – the Lower Ouseburn attracted attention from artists and performers looking for an affordable base. It was ever thus; or, at least, since the turn of the century. Staithes on the Yorkshire coast, one of the most attractive fishing villages in the U.K. and a tourist magnet, was far from anything of the sort when Laura Knight went to live there. In her autobiography Knight describes a decrepit village terrorised by angry and suspicious drunks and incipient domestic violence. She and husband Harold were all but driven out. Similarly, other places now deemed idyllic were poverty traps which appealed to artists simply because they were cheap and no one else wanted to live in them.

Fast forward to the later twentieth century and suddenly the coffee bar and guitar culture takes off; Juliette Gréco makes the shapeless black sweater and 'Cleopatra' eye shadow de riguer and in no time everyone under thirty is dressing down like art students. Huge abandoned lofts in Lower Manhattan are taken over by the New York school culminating in Andy Warhol's (in)famous factory on Union Square near Greenwich Village.

Juliette Gréco - post war café lifestyle personified

Not long after artist film maker Derek Jarman joined with others to take space in old Thames side warehouses the property sharks saw the potential of 'loft living'. These early moves eventually led to the re-development of the huge and derelicit London Docks.

Unlikely entrepreneur: Derek Jarman (1942-94)

London Docks warehouses in the last century.

Abandoned by the 60s, these became studios and 

workshops until property developers moved in

and the creatives were moved out

Back in the States, artists and galleries moved on from 'The Village'. 'Tribeca' ('The TRIangle BElow CAnal street') was the once the home of meat packing amongst other operations and about as charmless as the industry it once supported. Quickly in the late 90s and early 00s it was a very 'hot' place to be and attracted widespread interest from artist's and 'culture vulture's' looking for cheaper rents. Actor Robert Di Nero was a seminal figure in this re-birth, helping to inaugurate the now internationally known Tribeca Film Festival amongst other ventures.

Tribeca, Manhattan, New York

The Tribeca Film Festival. A new and now very 

influential film festival based in what was the 

former meat packing district of Tribeca

It was unfortunate to say the least that these facts were lost on the chief executive of a government quango I met at a gathering in Newcastle to discuss urban renewal on Tyneside a few years ago. When asked by me to comment on the contribution of the arts to urban renewal this well fed friend of Tony & Gordon gave me an abrupt dismissal. He turned away and began a much more agreeable conversation with a like-minded and suited figure from the world of corporate investment. Shops and offices not artists was the order of his day.

I will be covering the astonishing decline of the 'shops & offices' sector soon, but in short there are rows of closed posh retail outlets in the city matched only by unoccupied offices, some brand new.

I hold to my own view that the art's are not a career except for administrator's and a very, very, few practitioners. Most artist's and performer's subsidise themselves and some have found ways to practice without receiving much if anything from the arts gravy train. This is actually very much in accord with history; the idea of being a paid artist would have struck many a household name as pipe dreaming. But as long as there are a few who feel it's their 'right' to receive financial support the money men in suits will make the rules.

Going, going

Gateshead's multi-storey car park is being demolished. The B.B.C. web site has a short (1 minute 18 seconds) video of the demolition together with interviews here.

Myself, I have to agree with architect Owen Luder who says on the tape "In ten years they will wonder why they knocked it down".

There is a post on this site devoted to the Gateshead multi-storey, famous for it's part in the seminal British gangster movie "Get Carter", here.

The Gateshead multi-storey car park will be replaced by a large Tesco super store. The video also features a short clip of Gateshead Councillor Mick Henry speaking on camera. Cllr. Henry is the brains behind such dazzling local initiatives as 'The Angel of the North' sculpture by Anthony Gormley and the Baltic Contemporary Art Gallery and the vast Sage concert hall along Gateshead's formerly run down quayside. In contrast over on the north bank of the Tyne, Newcastle's own forays into culture in recent decades have been disasterous. Twinning with 'poor relation' Gateshead has helped disguise this fact. The centre of Gateshead was largely destroyed in the construction of huge traffic interchanges in the 60s. From there it could only be up.

"Summertime – and the something is something ..."

Up early – very! But what a delight it is on days like this. The street was quiet and the shadows long. A cool breeze blew when I looked outside. We have had some humid weather; much rain and warm nights.

Over on the 'Battlefield' the grass is newly mown. The Council's grass cutting teams are based conveniently nearby; little electric driven mowers, very agile and so noisy the drivers wear ear protectors. Wonder how they get on in traffic? Everything looked clean and green and so ..., well, verdant is the word.

Lush. A weed bed left uncut attracts numerous butterflies.

Lots of students have left town. The open space is almost deserted. A runner here, a dog walker there and a stroller like myself. From some angles one might be far from the city. Yet my anxiety over the strong possibility of loss and transformation of this precious space won't go away. But it is here now, all around me.

I said it before but ... We are under a mile from busy roads, a city and a mainline railway is feet away.

The children are outside in playtime, playground unseen behind a wall of vegetation, almost a school in the woods.

New accommodation block for Northumbria University.

I take a photograph of the nearly complete student housing block on Shieldfield. No sign of the larger development yet. Problems, I wonder? Universities are facing a tough time financially. The last two attempts to develop the old paint factory site foundered on questions of financial viability; over-supply of office space, then a collapse in the housing market followed one after the other. Student housing seemed a saviour two years ago. But today? Much student accommodation has been built in other places and a scheme on nearby New Bridge Street is proceeding quickly towards completion later this year. Maybe someone has had cold feet about the paint factory scheme? When will we learn? If Newcastle keeps up its fine old tradition, not until it's too late to do anything about it.

Cobbles. Once part of a back lane behind terraced homes demolished 

to make way for a new primary (junior) school nearby.

Here I met one of the nice people who work for Recyke y'Bike beside Byker rail bridge. He was road testing a handsome racing green tourer put back together with care. Their's is a work shop to behold; two railway arch 'caverns' filled with bikes of all descriptions waiting for another careful owner. We stand in the sunshine talking and enjoy the morning. That's what it is for.

Hidden highway. The mainline from London to Edinburgh, Scotland, 

runs alongside (left) the old back lane (beyond the bollards).

UPDATE 24th July

Link to Newcastle Journal article on Recyke y'Byke.

Craning

The weather today has been superb – the summer we are so frequently promised has arrived.

Moving around with unaccustomed freedom without a coat or jacket, my wallet tucked into a shirt pocket, taking in the sparkling views as I plied my way back and forth across the city, exchanging words with disappointed football fans ("there'll be a revolution") and greeting an old friend off soon to Africa. Making my rounds, doing chores ... But in weather such as this it's a pleasure.

I looped back towards home carrying shopping just as parents fetched tiny children from nursery school, pushchairs rattling as they passed under the railway bridge in deep shade. School is out so boys on thick wheeled bicycles appeared. Students in shorts earnestly discussing something hurried by. The trees, so recently bare, hung low down under the weight of their own foliage, holding to themselves deep pools of darkness. Then I heard it.

Somewhere ahead high up in a tree beside the railway a bird was calling. Not the beautiful run of trills and pauses of a true 'song bird', more a persistent call sign. It might be saying "pick me up, pick me up" – indeed probably is if one thinks about why birds sing at all. What drew me towards it in the grove of trees which is so much more than a single specimen, more a self enclosed world, was the possibility it might be a Chiff chaff ...

The Chiff chaff is a migrant bird about the size of a sparrow but less bulky, sleek and has a slender bill. It spends the summer here in the north and in the autumn flies south to Africa for the winter months. A bird which weighs less than a few coins and is of a size to fit into a cigarette packet flies thousands of miles.  It took centuries for people to believe that fact.

Where was it? I entered into the wood. At once one is plunged into a world of softness, contrasts and fleeting light. I could see the sky, bluer than even outside and the pattern of leaves against it far above. I craned my head back. It was hardly enough; I had to bend my back as well. The sound was coming from somewhere overhead. By turning on the spot I could try to find the direction, narrow the search.

There is in my book, no certain way to distinguish the call of the Chiff chaff from that of the native Great Tit than by sight. Other people with better hearing can 'pick' them. I cannot. At least, I don't trust myself to do so.

This was beginning to hurt. Dizziness crept in. I inched forward hoping no one would come along the path and see me like this ... Then it moved and I saw a shape against a branch. I moved and lost it. Had it flown off? The song restarted. It was ignoring this animal far below thankfully.  I located it again, lost it again trying to get into a better position. Then I thought I saw a dark head. So it was a Great Tit. But hang on, in that case where was the yellow breast with its highly visible central black marking? I edged forward. My neck and head were getting uncomfortable and I was in danger of falling over. Then I was there, right under the perch and watched as the bird preened and straightened up and sang its brief ring tone call. A Chiff chaff!

By the Ouseburn Community Centre the parents, dad's displaying tattoos were supervising a children's play time, people walked purposefully off along the pathway towards the city centre and a couple of sunbathers took proud possession of the City Stadium. All's well with world, Financial crises come and go. Somethings are still free.

The Chiff chaff. bbc.co.uk

Where there's muck ...

Oh, dear ...

An artist's impression of the proposed 'Science City'.
Sunshine courtsey of global warming.

Another master plan for what little remains of this historic and, at times and places, beautiful city. Get the 'full' (sic) story here.

I note that one voice remains to be convinced:

"Nick Kemp, who leads Newcastle Council’s regeneration scrutiny panel, welcomed the overall “positive” move, but argued that clarity was needed over some of the developments. 
He questioned the “obsession” with plans for a conference convention centre on Gateshead Quays, saying he had seen “no response still as to what other options were considered since the location is an accessibility nightmare and the infrastructure required will add massively to the cost”. – The Journal Ibid.

I do not see a glittering career ahead for Mr Kemp, somehow. He had better learn to toe the line and quick.

Schemes like this (and there are many, with all the U.K. regions involved in a pitiless battle to make themselves attractive to scarce 'inward investment') make money for professionals – consultants, building conglomerates and planners. Less frequently they pay for themselves and leave something useful behind. Too frequently, they do not. Newcastle is currently awash with three decades worth of unlet office blocks, some brand new.

The announcement in the Journal casually throws in this gem:

" [The scheme] will prioritise efforts to build new business premises on either side of the River Tyne, set up a new home for the cultural sector in the Ouseburn, ..." 

'New' will amuse many. The Smazz Jazz organisation has been putting on national quality performers at the Cluny venue over the years. Recently the Arts Council North turned them down for a measly sum of money. When I last looked, Cluny, set up by arts activist's and paid for chiefly with their own time and money, was in the Lower Ouseburn . The Waygood Affair is a saga in itself – I will not say much except that it does not sit well with these soothing words of a pay off for the arts in these ambitious schemes; surely, people are getting wise to the use of the arts as a fig leaf for rapacious developers? Artist led organisations must be waking up the realities of jumping into bed with developers whose main task is to attract corporate investors? "He who pays the piper" is another saying which still has life in it.

Meanwhile, another round of gimcrack building is being planned as we sleep.

It will all end in tears ...