What’s The Point?

So irritating to me. It’s nigh on Black History Month. I think the theme is maybe this year Caribbean Memories. I watched Great Western Railway’s latest telly ad with my mouth open. It’s based on The Famous Five books and shows Five having an Adventure. It’s 1950 England so not a hint of multi-cultural UK. What’s the point? Puts me off totally because for sure there’s a target client and I sure as hell don’t want to be included as and presumed to be part of that clientele. If anything, I don’t want to travel on a route which seems to exclude as paying customers my neighbours and myself. I checked Twitter to see the photos of Production at Tate. I was there: Couldn’t have been whiter.

It’s nothing to do with there not being enough BME actors or sufficient stock photos showing people of colour or an inadequate supply of people from all backgrounds coming through the doors. The  prick is at the director stage whether that director be in a major art gallery or at a telly company and how that person demands the promotion of the publicly owned venues and private companies. It’s keeping the establishment nice and happy and its members living the 1950 dream. It’s the way they tell ’em.



Production at Tate Modern

Today some intrepid Up Your Street seniors found their way to meet BN Neu in the Blaveknik building at Tate. A great day, weather-wise, not too hot and not raining, a 56 bus on diversion which was even better because we saw roads we’d heard of but never smelt and a great welcome which left us fiddling with our Apps stores on our mobiles as we were introduced to interactive art through stations along a  ceramics pottery factory workers’ lines.20170928_120757.jpg20170928_120807.jpg20170928_124018 (1).jpg20170928_123906 (1).jpg

It was a professionally staged experience with the doors opening on time, a clean and airy Tate Exchange floor and smiling assistants. We punched in our time cards put on our aprons and set to it making pots with slip and moulds or flowers with the finest ever porcelain clay all guided by teachers. When we’d made a piece we had it scanned and recorded then swapped the wet one for a biscuit fired other work.

What a fine thing that was, What a concept to actually materialise and deliver and it was great to see Emily from Soapbox as she’d been a mover and shaker in the whole production of Production.

My Day Out

A day and a half it was. To start with the buses were on diversion so good that it was fine and dandy, weather-wise. My first adventure was taking part in a community hub’s seniors’ fashion parade under the title International Day. I’d cooked jollof rice and black-eye bean fritters as an offering and my plantain ‘dodo’ had been gobbled up by my family before I’d opened the plastic containers in which to transport it. So what. They come first and before any group of strangers.

I suspect that a mostly very white audience and a ninety-nine per cent white staff  were starting a journey through a little bit of tokenism as they clapped along to efnik music tracks and watched the smattering of foreigners amongst the membership strut their national costumes on a catwalk. I think someone said that the glaring evidence of non-diversity amongst the membership was not solved and so the lid was opened and out popped multi-culturalism in all its 1980 thrills of international food, exotic patterns and nods to cultural facts.

Quietly spoken women became lionesses when walking past silent other women, those in the community hub audience. They had home dresses to wear and show. They used dance moves to fill their one minute and forty five seconds of showing off and having fun. They were from all different parts of the world. They engaged with the audience.

Whatever the motives, there was a togetherness. The organisation was supreme.

The choice of MC was very good. The camera flashing was perpetual.

I changed into my civvy clothes and rushed onto any bus to get me eastward and after a Mars Bar to help me work, rest and play reached Chef’s Corner although it’s known as something else too. This is a Leytonstone eaterie on a corner next to traffic fumes and noise. Twelve of we seniors were going as “Ladies Who Jerky” to munch the night away á la Caribbean fare. I’d already primed the owner with hand-written clear lists of names and menu choices and even place-cards exposing the choices of food for all to see. Well. that was a waste of time as the waiting staff and chef hadn’t a clue. The service was poor. The curry goat was delicious. The rice ‘n’ peas was stale. The fish was spice-less and over-cooked. The macaroni-cheese was tepid, badly presented and mostly hard. Nothing was glorious.

We paid our money and left.

Lo and behold, there was an end-of-day bus diversion as something had happened on a major highway. Either a gunning, a knifeing, a road traffic accident or a mains water-burst. We’ll know tomorrow.

And to top it all, no Corrie today because of football.

Most people don’t know how to complain in a restaurant. I do but I didn’t because the state was beyond saving. I never wanted confrontation at any point in the evening either. Only I left a tip out of custom and pity.

Tomorrow it’s breakfast at Tiffany’s, I mean Lamb’s Café to thrash out how seniors can be a presence in community radio.

I’d painted some of our Ladies Who Jerky and presented their pictures. One lady forgot to appear tonight so never received her portrait.

Clouds, silver linings. Rainbows, pots of gold. Life.ppaddyangela ayemobasal 3details Jananna 22017-08-18 12.39.45


The problem is…..

There’s a thing going on and it’s been going on for a few years now, that the seniors making up the ageing population growing old in London’s high and low-rise front rooms are victims in a digital self-centred urban environment. That thing is like a business. It is a business, a growing concern with a target consumer. Seniors are portrayed as static and ready to consume maybe, sometimes.

Seniors are shuffled into get-togethers where they’re coerced to keep-fit gently, shown how to  eat healthily by chewing on massaged kale and unheard of nuts and to ward off dementia by sharing a memory lane in which Victor Sylvester conducts a bit of ballroom. And let’s not forget here the basic computer classes for those who will never return with the same password or even to the same hub. There’s a hint of judgement and solution all at the same time. There’s a prescription being dished out as a sure means of getting older people visible and not forgotten. It is assumed by the task masters and mistresses that seniors cannot possibly fathom out the ways of the twenty-first century and that a devised programme will solve everything from social isolation to cuddling with gusto every art installation just waiting to enhance the concrete walls of a pensioner’s gaff.

Stop it. These services via local government sponsored agencies describe and label a whole cohort of seniors in the age bucket  from fifty  to eighty eight years old as vulnerable and lonely and it’s understood that the lumping together includes the ethnicity as British and White. We can make assumptions judging by the ham based community dinners and the sausage roll buffets sitting on AGEUK application forms for heating assessments and basic computer use sessions that the white working class alone is being nurtured for social inclusion programmes whether in our vast population of over fifties, people actually describe themselves as Black Power Fans or Bob Marley’s Children, Pratibha’s Redbridge Scouts, Sid’s Lot, Marcella’s Churchie Crowd or Middle Class Mixed Race And Fallen, Vegan included. The promo literature kinda gives it away. Despite a gorgeous mix of older people in London for years, still the brochures have pictures like the telly insurance adverts of old ladies with white curly Twink perms or men pink-headed and nicely shaved thank you.

Things take time to change. I have been observing the slow crawl then for ten years, writing to magazines to change their pictures, suggesting to outfits that older people and I mean both sexes can learn something besides crochet. How about coding? It’s all because other people are prescribing treatments for the old. A huge conglomerate ready to please the government of the day trains its staff in their mantras and decides what they can offer the old with public funds from screwed tightly purses. Shocked will be the Coop today when seniors say what they really really want. A cup of tea is always a welcome and then a comfy armed chair to rest weary fifty year old bones. For ten years the same ole same ole has been dished up: basic computer use, healthy eating and gentle keep-fit. A change is gonna, has to come. I despair when a sixty something begs me to find them a computer class; They are the fodder for the government tick- the- box- we- did- well schemes. Once a Luddite, always a Luddite. You do not do we seniors proud.

At the Dalston pavement level going towards the Pie and Mash caff, things are different. Knowledge by seniors about seniors is different in the extreme. Last time I looked into my memory sink, sixty somethings were once jumping around in pub function rooms to punk rock or ignoring it and loving their classic cars. Seventy somethings were the birth pill generation who pushed against the establishment doors to enter fashion boutiques and indulge in the literature of metaphysics whilst hair- spraying their shoulder-length hair and practising moving their parts to imported reggae. They shacked up, baby-downed and shook off stereotypes on building sites. The eighty somethings whom now we salute for even getting there were the ration foodies who struggled to eat to survive. Massaged kale. Garlic bread.

I just feel that the machine keeps turning and that’s it. The intern dishing out leaflets in English about loft insulation has no face. She is temporary like all the six weeks only cos that’s how long the funding lasts shows. There is no community engagement as long as one side has superior notions about what’s best and the other is tuned out by stale, non-person engaging activities. No-one asks their name.

The computer and eating and armchair exercise programmes are in most community centres uninspiring and no-one really examines whether that wonderful notion of social engagement means the provider revisiting a place and certainly at least remembering someone’s name. The participant is not usually acknowledged in the short or long run. One white head looks like another. And yet “being invisible” is a conscience-spiking  phrase. It is a term that just won’t go away yet because it’s a business model component. It’s also the shame of a nation in terms of how that nation describes its old (white people).


well that was a surprise

Online I ordered tickets for Late Night tonight at Tate Modern. How beautiful is St Paul’s and the River on an August evening. Of course I didn’t read the Tate page properly where it said the event was for 18-25 year olds and so I phoned the events team and was told that there was no problem at all and just come and enjoy. I did.

Soul Of A Nation, the art of the Black Power era at the Tate, is smashing. It is well-curated and well-documented. It’s a journey through revolutionary newspapers and  artists’ statements whether in their words or huge canvases or through symbols and collages. It is visually stunning.The huge selection of work is spaced out such that spectators get a chance to breathe in the power of paint and images. I loved it. I felt comfortable and at home. I know the subject matter from knowledge of US Civil Rights in the sixties, through petitioning for fair trials for Angela Davis. I feel for artists who have or had nowhere to display their craft and soul.

The spectators or participants in the free evening surprised me. There were plenty of Nubian queens and African prints and hair-does celebrating natural hair. I’d say there were about a hundred  people who queued outside and possibly ten people not of colour, not Black. I was surprised. The evening was well advertised and the only criteria was age and that was a loose stipulation. What made an art exhibition and music thrown in which was superb too over free refreshments become an evening of black togetherness. It’s an art exhibition firstly. Where were the white girls and boys? Absolutely their loss for not coming along tonight I’d say.

There were cartoons all about police behaviour and young people tonight were referencing Charlottesville August 2017.  The trio of musicians gave us beautiful renderings of Alicia Keys and Bob Marley’s songs and when the soul shone through, a light crashed down from the bar ceiling.. We continued to munch our nuts.

There was much inspiration for an artist in terms of colour and audacity, the boldness over using different material in different ways, the sheer courage to mount colour over massive canvases or on hung cloth, the pride in experience expressed in figurative work but just as equally relevant in abstract shapes and the enduring perseverance to share art whichever way or means are or were available. I applaud all those artists I’m about to google.


It’s a break not the final cut

Gave notice to my subscribers that Up Your Street is taking a break.
It’s a break, not the final cut and I shall return.
Had a great meal at Butler’s Bakery last night with Ladies Who Jerky. Cheap as chips. Delicious food. But ain’t it just the case? You find somewhere good and then it closes down. We were told last night was the last night.
No point me promoting my art exhibition there as obviously the new tenants will have their own stuff to hang.
Onwards and upwards.