I’ve heard it said that London has more parks and green spaces than any other city of its kind. I have no idea whether this is true or not, but I’ve come to appreciate these green havens; these spaces away from the constant chug of taxi engines and whine of buses. Each park seems to have its own character. The park that is close to my house is small and compact; it feels quiet and homely. Primrose Hill, where I went ‘dance walking’ is rich, spectacular and busy. Richmond Park, with its deer, criss-crossing footpaths and hidden formal gardens is a rural idyll, filled with visitors energetically getting away from the city for a few moments of escapism. Burgess Park is different: it is a new park, and it has its own vibe.
I walked past a big lake. A group of men had set up a small camp of three small tents. Bicycles and expensive fishing rods sat on the shore; two of the men were drinking beer. A sign said that fishing was permitted; a surprising anomaly: I was used to signs forbidding activities rather than permitting them. Ducks and geese paddled on the shore, and a bird that I took to be a heron was standing on a man-made platform in the middle of the lake.
I stopped to take a photograph of a blue plaque that was attached to a fence: ‘the lake was built in 1982, featuring the world’s largest plastic sheet lining, 12 million gallons of water, 11 thousand fish and sailing dinghies for school children’. The plaque advertised a heritage trail and an organisation called ‘Friends of Burgess Park’.
In the distance, I saw a large group of people. Wondering what was going on, I walked towards the group and discovered that that the local authority had erected rows of permanent barbeques. The air was thick with the rich smell of charcoal and seared meat. I heard laughter; young children and teenagers with their families. I envied them; it looked fun.
After a few minutes of walking, I found myself at an old looking building that seemed to be some kind of conference centre. I later discovered that I had stumbled into an area called Chumleigh Gardens, and the building used to belong to an organisation called The Female Friendly Society. I wandered around the gardens, trying to find someone who might be a potter, but I didn’t have any luck.
I followed a path to what I thought was the furthest extent of the park, and walked onto the adjacent street. I found an impressive building that used to be a public baths, which had been converted into a boxing club, which was apparently one of the oldest in the country. A couple of questions rushed into my head: could I do boxing? What would it be like? Was I too old?
I went back to the park and found a passage under the road, and another plaque. This time, the plaque described something called the Surrey Canal. I walked through the passage to the other side and decided to turn back: I couldn’t see anything that hinted at art or pottery.
On my way back through the park, I found a map. After studying the index for a few minutes, I soon realised where I had to go. After a short diversion to look at an impressive BMX track, I walked towards an adventure playground, which took me close to Chumleigh Gardens. In the distance I could see some low-rise buildings. This was my destination: I had found ‘Art in the Park’
‘Are you Chris?’ asked Nam, as I walked through the main entrance of a rustic looking building. I found myself in a large room. Two potter’s wheels were in front of me. I could see a small area to the back of the building and a large table that could be used for meeting, discussions or workshop activities. There were shelves which stored paints, art supplies, and ceramic figures painted with bright colours.
Nam was the organiser of the Meetup and is one of the artists in residence at Art in the Park. His event was described as a ‘drop in ceramic classes’, and five people had signed up. I was the only one there. We chatted for a couple of minutes about how it would work, and what I would do. It turned out that I would have an opportunity to make a pot on a real potter’s wheel; something that I had never done before. Nam started the class by demonstrating.
‘You throw the clay in the centre like this, and then you use the heel of your hand to centre it, using your other hand for leverage, like this’. Nam added water. Within minutes he had tamed a mass of spinning clay. I drove the wheel. Nam gave me instructions to increase or lower the speed. ‘With these two fingers, you make a hole in the centre’. The mass changed its shape. ‘You can then start to move the clay with fingers from both hands, changing the pressure from both sides, to raise the height of the pot’. Gradually, a perfect cylinder emerged. Minutes later, he was done. He picked up a wire, and cut it in two, to highlight its structure: a firm base with more clay towards the bottom of the cylinder to give it strength.
Nam had studied ceramic design at Central Saint Martins and been the artist in residence for a couple of weeks. In exchange for free studio space, he had to run workshops, classes and outreach events for the local community.
‘Okay, it’s your go.’ Nam threw another piece of clay on the wheel, and I had a go to centre it. Nam helped. I made a hole in the middle, and expanded the clay outwards. Nam gave me direction about how to raise the sides of my pot, gently telling me when the clay was getting a bit too thin; I remembered his demonstration piece, where the base was thicker than the top. He was a great teacher; it didn’t break, it didn’t wobble, but it was nerve wracking. As I was working, Nam’s gran was in the kitchen, cooking. Nam offered me five gyoza dumplings for a pound.
I asked Nam more about his work as an artist. He told me that he regularly worked with other artists, and had recently held an exhibition where he had made ceramic replicas of a popular children’s toy. His main income was through commissioned pieces.
It was back to work: I decided that my cylinder was, perhaps unimaginatively, going to be a mug. I tried to roll a clay sausage between my hands, but it ended up being all lumpy. Nam had a back-up, so we used his. I tried to attach it to the delicate cylinder, but wasn’t making a good job of it. Nam finished it. I messed about with it, trying to smooth other some of the bumps and cracks, not really knowing what I was doing. He told me that it would be fired later that week, and I could come back and paint it if I wanted to. I was definitely going to come back. I wanted to use the mug. I wanted it to be a tangible souvenir of my quest.
It had been fun. It was new, different, and unexpected. It had been an afternoon of discovery. I had discovered a community project, an artistic discipline that I had never really thought about before, and a part of London I had never visited. After leaving Nam’s studio, I walked past an adventure playground, and traced my steps back, passing the fishermen who were drinking beer by the lake.
The Friends of Burgess Park website told me about its transformation from industrial landscape into a much needed space for leisure and relaxation. The development of the area first began with an area called Addington Square and construction of a shipping canal that ran to Rotherhithe. Availability of cheap transport led to the construction of factories, housing and pubs. I read of a factory that made gramophones and radios, a factory that made lemonade and ginger beer, and even a store for Norwegian ice.
During the First World War, the area was bombed by a Zeppelin that had been blown off course, whilst on its way to industrial Sheffield. A zeppelin had also dropped bombs on Camberwell, a story that I had heard on my CoolTan walk. More bombs fell during the Second World War; I saw a photograph of a shattered street; a tenement block made inhabitable. Changes in transportation led to changes in the area. Factories closed and the disused canal was drained. A once grand cinema, attacked by bombs and fire, was demolished. Due to the absence of workers, the once busy pubs were closed.
Following the Abercrombie Plan, a plan to rebuild London following the Second World War, local authorities started to buy parts of the area with the intention of creating a new post-industrial park. The park is named after Jessie Burgess, Camberwell’s first woman mayor, and was officially opened in 1982. When I was walking around, looking across the lake, dodging cyclists, and thinking of my time in the art studio, I knew nothing of this history. As far as I was concerned, Burgess Park had always been a park.
I found my way back to the Old Kent Road, and crossed to the other side. Cars, buses, and motorbikes whizzed past; I had returned to a familiar, busy, different urban environment. Gone was the rich tantalising smell of barbeque. Instead, it was replaced by the acrid odour of diesel fumes. A bus to Lewisham arrived. I got on the bus, climbed to the top deck, sat down, and thought about pottery and the park.
No comments:
Post a Comment