The mystery of a street, unknown or familiar, is the same as encountering an enigmatic person: incomprehensible not only to themselves but to others. They were made in that mould and just are. That's how they formed and that's how they'll always be like a abstract sculpture, devoid of manipulation, which doesn't mean neither will weather but each will remain just as puzzling as they were at their conception.
original concept was good, but it was an idea which none of the
creators knew how to shape and so the material was allowed to be
whatever it wanted. To flow where it wanted like bubbling lava or to
come to a halt and accumulate in a towering mass; to meander and set
with twists and turns that could infuriate and beguile; and to choose
anomalies above a more favoured conventional design of the times they
developed in that way will not desert its originality: how it came
into being and how it's since learned to live. It will age, as
anything living does, concrete or transient, yet it will always
honour what from the outset it was. Its humble beginnings – the
innocence of its truest nature, from whence it sprung.
living and breathing; living and breathing is art.
object that first took form as a mantle of art lives and breathes.
screams, just as everything retains memory, and burrows in those
remembrances. Nothing is completely without a sensory experience of
some kind or another.
streets surround us, and yet comprehend the meaning of things. Silent
though they remain, without the features we consider human, as
witnesses to the passing of time, until that time wrecks them; takes
its revenge at its appointed hour. Drills down into them, tears up
paving slabs, and plugs the square chasms with an alien substance. A
sticky substance that suffocates rather than breathes. A dark
substance that doesn't record but bleeds black clotted blood.
levelled surface with no distinctiveness to speak of. No dust that
flies, no chips, no cracks, no wobbles. Nothing to differentiate it
if God forbid its even bleakness has formed a new path over historic
walkways like an unfurled black carpet for commoners for all
occasions. Each path alike in its solid black uniformity and
therefore in keeping with the homogenization of the modern world. The
placement of ourselves, which proved easier on paved, sometimes
cobbled, streets, disorientating, and further hindered by its
expanse that knows not how to communicate nor recognise the language
of feet, nor when it's in shade or sun. Unresponsive, cheerless tar
has no stories to tell. It just is. And is too young to be
inquisitive. It's still learning to breathe. And is too firm once set
to be influenced by individual pieces that have grown wise through
use and age, and yet can still be moved. It's more accepting of what
is and does not question. Its existence is dull and unmoved.
by happenings on its drab streets, by the ordinary, the melancholy,
the wonderful exchanges that take place on and around, by the
different feet these exchanges are propagated by, and by the softened
sound of several footsteps, rushed or unhurried, light or ponderous,
which transverse its surface with no intervals.
old, old streets, paved or otherwise, could tell much about such
occurrences as could the people who walked them and the people who
walk them still, where they are still part of the scenery. Still very
much a part of local life. As old as the Bard, of Shakespeare
himself, had he been living.
streets are like people persuaded to homogenise their behaviour: they
have no aura of mystery.
Picture Credit: Mystery and Melancholy of a Street, 1914, Giorgio de Chirico