Thirty six – CoolTan Arts

I stood outside the Maudsley Hospital, Denmark Hill, South London. I was surrounded by people wearing matching bright orange tabards.  I was going on a sponsored walk. The only problem was that I didn’t have any sponsors.

Tall banners advertised the work of CoolTan Arts, a mental health charity that I had never heard of. The starting point of the walk was pertinent; the Maudsley is one of London’s largest psychiatric hospitals. It’s a famous institution; it’s a place where psychiatrists and mental health professionals go to get trained.

After completing a substantial health and safety questionnaire, I moved along the registration queue and paid a fee. I felt slightly guilty. I was, in effect, a gate crasher to an event that turned out to be an annual fundraiser.

I looked around: everyone seemed to know each other. People were chatting in small groups, sharing greetings, stories and jokes. I wandered over to the event photographer to find out more about what I was getting myself into. The photographer was called Ana and was from Madrid. She had moved to London to take a course in photography and had volunteered to take photos for the event. We didn’t chat for long; she had a job to do, and new people were arriving and things were starting to happen.

The chief executive of the charity, who was also the custodian of a megaphone, assembled everyone on the steps of the hospital for a photo opportunity. The mayor of the local area, who had joined us for the start of the event, gave an appreciative speech. This was followed by another speech by a taxi driver who had another life as an artist. The taxi driver’s speech had a particular tone: it acknowledged the challenges that people with mental health difficulties face; it was personal, it was political, and it was tinged with a touch of anger. Government policy, he said, was affecting both the charity and those who need its services. After his points had been made, the organiser dragged the taxi driver away; it was time for the walk.

The event was described as a fun guided walk through ‘little known parts of Southwark’ ending by the South Bank; it had a broad theme of ‘innovation and transformation’ and was said to focus on how the First World War affected society. According to the event description ‘absolutely everyone’ was welcome to participate.

I was struck by the odd name of the charity. I wondered whether ‘Cooltan’ might have been either a name of a key member, or perhaps a significant artist that I had never heard of. The real explanation was a little less exotic: CoolTan, it turned out, was in fact, a sun tan lotion. The charity adopted the name of the old CoolTan factory, which later became its art studios.

The charity is situated in a part of London called Walworth, close to the Elephant and Castle. It offers a range of different workshops designed for people who have experienced mental health difficulties. These range from creative writing workshops through to sessions about self-advocacy; sessions that empower participants so they’re more able to fight for what they need.

Our first stop on the walk was to the Institute of Psychiatry, which was quite literally, just around the corner from the hospital. I faintly recognised some of the streets: I had been here before, over fifteen years ago. They needed a computer technician in the neuroimaging centre who was able to manage the huge datasets that were produced from brain scanners. I didn’t get the job but I wasn’t too surprised: I had only a few months of experience of using the type of computers that the researchers were using.

We were given a short lecture about a psychiatrist called William Rivers, who is noted for his work with First World War soldiers who were suffering from ‘shell shock’. I understand that he was notable for his use of a talking therapy. It was difficult to hear the short lecture, but we were shown some old photographs that had been laminated, to protect against the elements.

On our way to our next destination, Camberwell Green, I got chatting with another walker: Anita. She asked me the inevitable question of what connection I had with the charity. I came clean: I told Anita that I had randomly chosen to come to the walk, and I had made a decision a couple of hours earlier.

‘You didn’t strike me as someone who is wacky, but you do now!’ said Anita, processing my confession.

The truth was that I was enjoying myself. I told Anita something about my day job, that I was a co-chair of a university group that runs equality and diversity events. A couple of months earlier a colleague made a passing suggestion that perhaps we might do something about mental health. This idea was accepted, and the group created a ‘participatory exhibit’. There were display boards, a shared lunch, and a talk by a mental health advisor.

As we walked through one of South London’s parks, Anita told me about how the area had changed, that there were some new tennis courts that could be used by kids from local families.

‘Over there is Camberwell, and over there is New Cross’, Anita said. I looked in both directions. Every event was exposing me to new places, helping me to forge new links and memories.

When we left the park, the tone of the walk changed. Some members of the group chained two ‘ghost bikes’ to nearby railings. These bikes, which were painted in bright colours, signify the life, and death, of a cyclist. Someone who had a connection with the charity, a film maker, had died at a benign looking junction. We milled around the side of the road for some minutes, before moving onwards.

Our next stop was at St. Peter’s Church, Walworth; a striking building. We were directed into what appeared to be the crypt which had been converted into a cozy café. We sat, chatted, and warmed ourselves with soup. I chatted with Faye who was a full time student at a local university. When we were suitably refreshed, we moved out to the court yard to hear a further talk: we were told stories about German zeppelins dropping bombs on Camberwell and the difficulties faced by conscientious objectors.

As I was taking a photograph of the church, one of the group leaders walked towards me. ‘The architect was John Soane’, he said. ‘He’s the same guy who designed the Bank of England and the Dulwich Picture Gallery’. I later realised that Soane had been buried at the family tomb that was located in St Pancras Churchyard; another site where we had lingered during the River Fleet Meetup.

We crossed the Walworth Road and walked through a series of back streets which told us that we were now walking through the London Borough of Southwark. We passed a series of urban allotments, and entered into another park that formed the centre of a Georgian square. The park was immaculately maintained and was wonderfully quiet. It was away from the main streets that carried traffic to and from the middle of the city. The leaves of mature trees were changing colour. I remember well-ordered flower bed; roses that had seen the summer. We stopped walking. It was time for another talk.

The talk comprised of a brief introduction followed by a series of poetry readings. Following the theme of the walk, the poems were by First World War poets: Wilfred Owen and Siegfried Sassoon. Sassoon had been apparently treated by William Rivers. The poem by Owen was called ‘Dulce et Decorum est’ which I remembered from secondary school. I hadn’t heard it for decades.

We left the cosy square and soon found a series of tennis courts and another park. I quickly realised where we were: just around the corner from the Imperial War Museum. We stood on an area that was close to a pair of huge guns that guarded the entrance of the museum; macabre sculptures that, to me, represented industry and death. It was the time for the final lecture of the day. I was getting tired and I wasn’t taking much in, but I recognised it as a good speech. We were told about the horrors of disfigurement, and development of reconstructive surgery. We were shown photographs and told stories about a soldier who was evicted from his lodgings due to his appearance.

As we walked to our final destination, I chatted with the walk journalist, Frankie. I had seen her scribbling in a notepad. Frankie had the job of writing an article for the charity newsletter. I told her that I would send her my own notes of the event after the event. I enjoyed chatting to Frankie; she was currently studying a course to teach English as a second language. I told her about the ‘conversational English’ meetup that I had been to.

The final part of the event was a surprise. We took a footpath that went underneath Waterloo train station. It was dark. I smelt paint. The walls were covered with colourful street art. Small groups of people were congregating, creating new paintings; this was obviously an area where it was okay to create street art. We were led into a railway arch that was called ‘The Vault’, which was part art shop (selling paintings and sculpture), and part nightclub. It had become a spartan impromptu café for our group. We sat, drank tea, ate cake and took even more photographs. I managed to have a very brief chat with the leader of the charity, just to say hello, but she was very busy; I didn’t want to be a distraction.

After a cup of tea and a chocolate brownie, it was time to go home. I emerged from the darkness of The Vault, blinking, and walked towards Waterloo East train station for my short train ride home.