As a lunch-time exercise in a workshop, I took this suggestive, close-up picture, abstracting it from its context, seen better to the left.
Given the strong shadow against the building, I thought this might make a good black and white image. But it turns out I prefer the colour version.
A train trip to North London.
Whilst waiting to meet my wife for the train home, I was taken by the wavy reflections of the many passersby on the floor of the station whenever the sun shone in brightly through the skylight. Thus end the series of photographs from my London excursion 3 weeks ago in mid-October.
I don’t know the history but there are several graffiti areas in the vicinity of Waterloo Station and the Southbank. I’ve previously shown the graffiti tunnel. I found more along the River Thames edge that had been turned into an open air, underground skate park.
Walking back to Waterloo station on the Southbank and the sun came out illuminating the dome of St Paul’s, I stopped to take an in-camera jpeg sweep panorama.
Finally get to see myself in the window of a London Gallery – alas, it’s only my reflection (nor was it really a gallery – it looked more like a hotel lobby to me).
There’s more going on here than meets the eye. Below this statue on the plinth is found a plaque reading, “Non Plaudite, Modo Pecuniam Jacite,” which translates from Latin as, “Do not applaud, just throw money,” perhaps a comment on the assumption of the art world into that of commerce so nearby?
I discovered this piece changes in response to the viewer at Atlas Obscura (although I did not witness any change myself).
An example of newish architecture coordinating with its surroundings, perhaps.
All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms;
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lin’d,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well sav’d, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion;
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
A man was accepting donations in a hat for the large strings of bubbles he was producing.
Continuing my walk along the South Bank after seeing the Sugimoto exhibit at the Hayward Gallery, I came again to the Tate Modern with, for some reason, this quotation from the end of Voltaire’s Candide struck in lights on a frame at the back of a lawn where pigeons flatly rested. Uncanny.
This scene looked like it might have potential for the series Urban Tree Portrait but I couldn’t get the right distance and angle for the image I wanted.