Shoreditch and Spitalfields
The land of the artist, the artisan and the gloomy, this district of London is a go-to for fruitful afternoons for drinking in the sun, or moping around for a deserved gift for your mother. This area combines perfectionism with apathy.
The first time I visited Shoreditch, I was drunk, so I couldn't write about how the area made me feel. but I remember staring in bewilderment at graffiti dotted around the area. It was the end of my birthday and I was catching up with some uni friends and whilst we were stumbling at the bus stop,i noticed there were loads of people around me in the same boat as me: buzzed and ready to travel the lengths of London to get home. I managed to snag one picture at that time, of red buses and neon fast food lights from signs of takeaway shops churning out meals for the ditsy, all of this seemed to complete the atmosphere of post-party wistfulness and contentment. But, as I mentioned, this steamingly fun ambiance couldn't be documented through the fault of alcohol (apparently not my own…). Or, we could blame it on the bus showing up to take me back to The Isle. So I decided to visit when I was sober.
It was a Saturday and whether I was in Shoreditch or Spitalfields, there were always parties of young people, dressed up to the T, travelling from pub to club. You, passing by them and observing their outfits or conversation, wouldn't think that the place that these people stumble into would be a club, though. Instead you'd think you'd time travelled to 1920, standing in the realms of dark, smokey Victorian buildings, terraced grey homes that used to style red or beige brick once upon a time. The weathering that they were exposed to has meant they truly took a long, stretched out hit from the labour endured within them and, subsequently, from the Force up above… like scars on an experienced veteran, to whom work and storm became synonymous. The chimneys are still undergoing the same toil, churning out plumes of smoke, charring its entourage. And you speculate, could all this nearby graffiti possibly be in protest of this churning and charring, a grunge-artistic revolution against industrial greed. It's where the mysterious action happens.
I felt as though I was stepping into a community, rough and gritty, embellished with challenging characters. While stopping for a drink, you could meet artists who have found their footing in this area, or young families working to make things work; they know what they're doing – be it useful or not. Or, maybe after a few minutes of small talk, you might discover that the near-30 lad is a delinquent, or an academic or that he considers himself to be both. And suddenly, ambling towards the market, the smell of smoke and tobacco graces the air, an ambiguous grey settling in its home in the East London boroughs. Gruff grumbles from burly giants in thunder clouds and pattering rain come down on the grey, the sounds dissipating like a blanket on the town, encasing those cigarette clouds and cigarette users. And this ambiguous, mysterious cold comforts you somehow. It refreshes your skin, but as you think twice about it, it's the warmth under your skin, your own body keeping you moving along, that tells you everything's okay.
Unbeknownst to everyone, the dark grey that has fallen on Earth, has caused the dim lights in each pub and corner shop to shine bright, like refuge, sanctuaries from the humanitarian weather outside. You want to go in badly, and you start to form a sob in your throat, these angel homes are going to be warm and fun inside filled with absorbing conversation. You hadn't noticed the glares directed at you. What are they thinking? What are they going through to have to stare like that at an anybody like you? It's fine because you know how to deal with peering eyes – sometimes even they are human, too, just a different kind. You know that if worst comes to worst, you have your handy little self-defence alarm.
Let's ignore the intensely curious eyes and come back to the small shops. Looking closer, it seems that these vendors will sell anything: smokes and smells, novels, empty jars, impressionable works of art by their children. There must be a great reason these people can actually make a living off of these products, so you begin to ponder possible stories – they may be related to history, or future of history. Could they involve family drama, or speak about a random person? Possibly including yourself in the tale? But these market shops don't have much; they stretch their items and establishment as far as they can in order to make that living. Authentic survivor-core is the story.
