Richard White

explorations in place and time


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Sweet Waters Holburne Museum to Beckfords Tower

A first stab at writing up my notes:

I come back from a walk a different person

Walk 1 From the Holburne Museum to Beckfords Towerbriefing at Holburne
Bath’s Last Legal Slaveowners
2 proper tour guides on this first day walking team and I’m on stage edgey
One from the buses, the other from mad max.

and me.

Gathering in the sun outside the pillared temple of the museum at the top of Pulteney Street. Architectural icons from ancient slave economies fetished to represent learning and authority. The Roman Baths were discovered under the offices of Bath’s Poor Law Guardians. (archaeologicial irony)

Slaves ancient and modern, just like the poor of the City have no voice here.

Don’t mention the sugar.

Sugar that sweetened the tea and transformed chocolate to sweet treat.

Sweet ease of polite society hiding in glass cabineted silver bowls and tongs

No tongues for the sugar nips

Don’t mention the sugar, the Holburne doesnt

 

First thing in the high ceilinged morning cool gallery we talk in hushed tones. We drift toward Gainsborough’s portrait of slaveowners. One of the largest canvases he painted, it says. These were the people who came to the enchanted city to take the waters, to recover from the heat and disease, to network, to speculate, to gamble. The Byams, a family with its feet deep in the blood and flesh of the slave worked plantation economy. Gainsborough painted them. Pulteney financed accommodation for them, speculating with profits won from stolen land and stolen lives. The enchanted city flourished on their wealth and patronage

Gainsborough George Byam
Out to the pleasure gardens to alert senses and sensibility.

Listen. Touch. Feel. Think.

Get the Jane Austen lived there, walked here, bit. Over.

out into the park

And we walked too, stopping at the claimants addresses for:
A ritual reading of the ‘charge sheet’.
The address in Bath, where we stood;

The name of the slave-owner who lived there
Date of the court order;
Number of enslaved people;
Name of the plantation, parish, Caribbean island;
Number of pounds paid out in ‘compensation’ to the slave-owner
Those released received no compensation

I heard echoes of Linton Kwesi Johnson and the New Cross Fire

“13 dead and nothing said”

I try to break the silence of this enchanted city
A run of performative statements repetitive intentional becoming disturbing:

20 million paid out and nothing said

How many lives lost, how many lives never lived. How much life blighted.

 

Sweat in the water. Blood in the sea

Reading Dabydeen aloud and suggesting Turner’s hypocrisy

Slavers Throwing Overboard the Dead and Dying – Typhon coming on. 1840

The water cycle brings it all back to us now.

 

A Turner painting survives as the only record of Beckford’s monumental plantation-wealth funded Abbey

Did Beckford introduce Turner to a speculative money spinner, spun on lives and sugar?

Was he feeling guilty by 1840, decades after the Zong massacre?
In Bath no memorials only silent monuments to slave generated wealth:

Pulteney bridge

Guinea Lane

Beckfords tower.

We walk a city inscribed, the origins of its wealth obscured

 

Braikenridge collected watercolours of the rural South West,

just bought more with his compensation.

It was for others to create the plantation picturesque.

On Queens Square where Braikenridge claimed his share of the £20million there is no letter box for me to deliver his souvenir plaque. (architectural irony)

jamaican_plantation_1050x700
A conversation at a hotel on Pulteney street.

George Orwell’s grandparents claimed compensation from here.

The re-writing of history. (literary irony)
Outside the Park Street residence of Nathaniel Wells

First black JP and Lord Lieutenant of Monmouthshire. (no plaque)

Slaveowner. (no irony)

A conversation regarding family and loyalty.

The training of the white landed elite.

Power. Ruthlessness.

Hold a mirror to our modern European sensibilities and assumptions.

Raised as white elite, why would Wells have felt any more responsibility to his kin than to his class?

 

A conversation regarding performance…overkill? Repetitive?
Does a performative walk on such a theme need to be fun…does it need a distance?

What to do with the upset and anger.

Are we afraid of what we might unleash in ourselves?

Or had we just walked too far in the same direction?
Mad max suggests a making link to the Romans and get a laugh from lazy ‘locals’ enslaved to work at the baths.

It connects Horrible History style but denies.

I want to connect emotionally empathically. Taste the sweetness and think of human flesh digested by cowries in the ocean. Feel the rain and wonder about the memory of water. Hear the beat and dance to it.

The senses connect differently

towards the tower
At last bursting out to country

The finest view in England, so Beckford said.

Green treed river snaking through the valley

Watered with Atlantic rain.

Down there driven by water wheels

brass mills battered and thudded

Neptunes and Guinea pots

Brass manillas by the hundredweight

The currency of the slave trade

To go on the river to Bristol

For the slave ships across the sea to West Africa

To trade in human lives

Turner Beckford

On the grass at Beckford’s grave, the gilded tower behind us

Reading Dabydeen’s  Turner and looking at Turner’s slave ship painting

A conversation on scuba diving in the Caribbean connects:

Heritage in the water.

Or as Derek Walcott put it far better than I

Where are your monuments, your battles, martyrs?
Where is your tribal memory? Sirs,
in that gray vault. The sea. The sea
has locked them up. The sea is History.

We conclude with the sweetness. Sugar cake.

Kendal Mint Cake for walkers, Wordsworth and sensory memory

Mindful of the cycle of water

Even if it the molecules don’t hold

We make memory at this place, at Beckfords grave.

 

We connect, bear witness, then climb the tower.

I came back from the walk a different person

 

(quoted The Sea Is History – Poem by Derek Walcott)

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Doing time in Somerset and Portland

Portland B-Side Festival for the last weekend of Katrina Palmer’s piece  The Loss Adjusters. Not quite a locative media piece but certainly more than an audio trail.

The Loss Adjusters: Katrina Palmer

We begin entering a shopfront office in Easton Portland, up on the top of the island the town has barely changed in the decades I have been visiting, a chunk of isolated Yorkshire that somehow drifted south. Looks hard and grim even in the summer sun. Poor. Strange half open shops with sun bleached goods half heartedly displayed. A town that sat above the high tide of the wash of Olympic cash, the tide now receded, life continues. Heavy flat bed trucks trundle through with huge chunks of stone strapped to their decks. Holes in the ground get bigger, a cricket pitch, a church, standing alone as the ragged quarried cliff edge approaches under the brambles, the process of extraction continues. Not at any great speed, but it is inexorable.  The extracted rock has been used to build the cities and temples of the old empire and the strong houses of the new from St Paul’s Cathedral to the United Nations HQ in New York. The Cenotaph is made of Portland stone as are all the official British and Commonwealth war graves. There is a part of a foreign land that will always be Portland. Something of this Jurassic island becomes imbued with the dreams, stories, sorrows and memories of all those people in distant cities but at the same time something of this island is shipped out …. and its not just hard white stone. So what is left?
That broadly was I think the context of Palmer’s work, The Loss Adjusters, were the ones trying to work out what had been lost and how to compensate for it perhaps. Something more than the physical fabric of the island, something more had been undermined, ‘destabilised’  well spoken queens english they whispered in our ears. Strange to walk into that abandoned office shop front on the high street, the Loss Adjusters had left and so had the author, still trying to complete her story. We wandered the office willing the photocopiers and faxes to burst into life and the phones to ring, but the story we were being told was working on another dimension.
strimmers and grave diggers
Out on the island and weaving through old quarry workings, the boundary and fence of the cricket ground a green island on the island not yet eroded. Crossing a busy road we walked to the quarry’s edge and listened again. Looking across the graveyard of packed and finely hewn memorial stones towards the old church and prison beyond, we picked up a story. A convict, a body, a burial, an unaccounted-for corpse hidden. Something that came out of the quarry that should have stayed in those depths. We looked for the convict grave digger pushing his wheel barrow and heard the man strimming the long grass in the graveyard. Daily maintenance of the stability, echoes of another place.
wheelbarrow walk
Walking the narrow vertiginous track between quarry edge and cemetery wall almost giving way to your panic, feelings in legs and ears, palm sweating. Dont stop now. Keep walking. Dont look down into the open raw wounded belly of the island.  Thoughts of the gravedigger shifting that unaccounted for mass on his wheel barrow every night like Sisyphus.
At the church we bypassed the Wren myth and strimmer, sat again and listened. The quarry mens daughter described their bond to the island. Looking at the fine cut teeth of the memorials each with their back to the prevailing winds a story of patriarchy and rape unfolded. The island as woman, destabilised, the Loss Adjusters more than just complicit in riveting her to the stone. Powerfully echoed by the old recordings of the stone cutters, their work song and rhythm inexorable until the stone cracks. In the breeze a discrete public announcement cable tied to a lamppost that the burial ground is identified for ‘mineral extraction’ flapped. A dark bird on a gravestone.
listening to the quarrymans daughter
We walked back along the far edge of the quarry past huge cut white stone, some of it like frozen shrimps revealing the shells and forms of the creatures that had died and sunk to the bottom of that warm shallow sea so many millions of years ago. Their crushed lives became the stone, a passing echo of the crushed lives on the island told this piece. If the Loss Adjusters are complicit, with the substance removed and the office closed and ghostly who can tell this tale. Well spoken outsiders are not bound to the stone in the same way as the convict gravedigger or the quarrymen’s daughters. At the pub on Easton High Street a group of women dressed in carnival dragon outfits, raucous.
And for the second quarry visits in a week….

Step in Stone: Artscape in Mendip Quarries

Deep time in Somerset. Walking with Step in Stone in the Somerset Quarries. Out of these vast holes in the ground came stone to be broken and graded for roads and runways. Motorways, military runways and the foundations of nuclear stations. Once the mythical Swampy tried to stop an access road being built to take the stone out. Damming the source. Condemning the locals to the endless roar of trucks. The road got built. Stone millions of years old. Compressed life.
We gathered at the Somerset Earth Science Centre for a minibus ride into a maze of lanes and gulleys that would eventually lead us to Westdown/Asham Quarry. To follow a trail of art works down into the quarry on the way lead artist Fiona Campbell offered orientation on the art works and botanist from Somerset Wildlife Trust and quarry expert from the centre offered orientations on pretty much everything else.
 Somerset pyramids2
Given the scale of the stage, the story of the stone and what has become of it the art work we saw on this trail was largely overpowered by the context. Fiona’s work referenced the creatures that had lived in the seas and had eventually formed part of the stone all those millions of years ago. The work was made from scrap but not materials found on the site. There was something about brought in materials by humans and non humans that needed to be further explored. The huge ‘toast rack’ like ancient pyramids where once gravel was graded and the unofficial art in the form of graffiti offered other challenging readings to the artwork and to the location.
 sea creatures scrap
As ever found myself thinking about the people who worked there and that enormous absence left by their presence. In the distance we heard the rumble of trucks and  imagined the sound and power of the blasts that broke the rock loose from the ground. Beside the track a fast running stream and slowly life reclaiming the surface…grasses and mosses, flowers, shrubs and small trees. A once blasted open area colonised by silver birch and I thought again of that place in the birchwoods of eastern europe.
 lime colour stage
A stage surrounded by birch and hazel decorated with the ancient colour of the quarries red, black and white…a human geometric design but the colours from the same palette as prehistoric cave paintings.
At last my doubts were silenced as we walked towards a circle of chairs in plastic, they looked white like a Ku Klux Klan gathering, then I saw the water and the grass, life reclaiming this from the inside. Sally Kidall’s piece ‘Lest we forget: is enough enough?’  was a powerful statement in the space working at each scale and wandering through it I thought of the Somerset quarry men and their Portland counterparts. What had been removed and where it had gone. Perhaps there is something of the Mendips in the roads we drive on, it all seems such a huge and terrible waste of life. For some the return of wild life as flora and fauna was seen as a sign of hope, amused that garden shrubs were colonising the surfaces alongside the birch, hazel and elder out of the valley. In an instant of geological time the sediment of hundreds of millions of years had been removed and used, the cycle continues but however dense and green the thickets that form here slow time has been interrupted. Deep time exposed. Something very violent had happened in this place, committed by men, with the story of the Portland quarryman’s daughter in my head, I was in mourning.
 chairs ghosts
chairs people quarry
chairs
Not sure if the artwork here entirely lives up to the enormity of this place, the project continues, this visit only scratched the surface, but it moved me deeply.