A time to celebrate

Flat50arts continues to promote my art exhibition in Stratford Picture House and I am grateful. I was marking International Women’s Day. The fever passed.

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People are busy painting their scarf art after joining the Headscarves 1950 exhibition launch in Hackney. I gave each person a blue hemmed piece of material 26″ square and asked them to design in the 1950s style so watch your colours; better, study my exhibition.

My time has been taken up by preparations for another exhibition in North London after Easter which involved writing out invitations as my mechanical hardware had broken down and I refuse to pay out for printing. All done.  The exhibition space is a hall with more windows than wall area. I have devised means to display my canvases and there is a stage. What can I do but my best and I have supportive friends around me.

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Two artists are embarking on art projects. One is working on the area around the station about to be completed and opened in Lea Bridge Road on the border where Waltham Forest meets Hackney. The other is interviewing past and present residents  or workers in Clapton. That is an area undergoing gentrification and of course has a fascinating history what with the “Murder Mile” adjacent to the boarded up and disappeared underpass where my friend’s husband was mugged and murdered in the seventies.
The houses around the Lea Bridge Station revived are selling for half a million . Ridiculous and could only happen in London. I was along Burwell Road today and was disgusted at the amount of filth on the pavement. There are piles of fag-ends all over, dog-poo and thrown KFC boxes. The end bin is a collection point for idiots who don’t know how to use their three Council given refuse bins. No excuses. Young families now live on the Burwell Estate  next to age old long term house holders who moved out from Clapton in the sixties. They all deserve cleaner streets.

In the early eighties, I  used to turn from Lea Bridge Road into Burwell Road and say,  ” How can people bring up children in this road?” as newspapers swirled around my legs. They did: They do.

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