The second of a collection of corny sunsets in tough places. While in Brixton one might feel in the utopian London where Marley hang out in the 70’s, the west indian heritage is quite strong and the city and culture are constantly in ones face. it has a hectic atmosphere where the newcomer feels invisible to the resident eyes. In a hidden alley I found this lovely corridor and decided to photograph it, taking away the intimidating aspects of its surroundings.
Olive O. Hoxton Street Market, London. Spring 2013
From what I’ve heard this street is been up and coming for years, yet it doesn’t ever seem to take off. The Olive is cheap, decent walking distance pizza from my place. As I usually do when I find something affordable I like, the past month its been constantly on the menu.
Must infatuate the fact that I enjoy the sort of run down atmosphere, the resistance of the locals to the gentrification of their street by 3 quid coffee places. After all we share that piece of land, and must of us are already paying more than we can afford to live there.
Hasta la Victoria, Siempre. London 2013. Mobile Phone
This morning I woke up feeling like I had being dumped by me precious, inexistent, girlfriend. Yesterday, around midnight, by bicycle was stolen.
In a decisive pursuit to feel better about myself (it was my fault the bicycle episode, didn’t lock it properly) I made some eggs, and started sending applications to perspective jobs from my very long list of possible employers. Suddenly, I remembered weeks ago I booked a talk with The Photographers Gallery with a magnum photographer. It was time to hit the road, besides it was 20 degrees and around here that doesn’t happen.
After a very active afternoon of gallery and museum inspection around the, prohibitively expensive, west side of the city, I arrived to the gallery. Still feeling like like shit and envying every hipster, yuppie or mum who past in front of me riding a beautiful bike, went downstairs to the book shop. Rene Burri was sitting right in front of the stairs, I stare at him, as I usually do when dont know what to to, and he laid his hand and introduce himself.
After hearing him talk about his life, the trips he made, the people he met, how he had to chase Picasso for six years to get the portrait of the painter taken and what a paranoid egocentric El Che was, I left feeling slightly better and manege to give some sense to his dedication. Now i have two heroes in the same book.