Farewell Liverpool

A couple of weeks ago, I graduated in an incredible city. A ruthless, chaotic and beautiful place called Liverpool. The 48-hour celebratory stint was marked with conflicting emotions: relief, anxiety about the future, pride and most of all nostalgia. Yes, I had dodged a Desmond and could now turn my back on deadlines and the dreaded dissertation - the conclusion of which I seem to have already forgotten, much to my bewilderment. Academic grievances aside, saying goodbye to Liverpool itself was not something I had contemplated…

The city’s most memorable quality is one that hits you, turbulent and unforgiving like the baltic wind on arrival at Lime Street train station. The first and last people you’re likely to encounter there, Scouse taxi drivers could be anything from your new best mate to your worst nightmare. There is no way of telling, and the suspense this creates is only the beginning of the fun. On some journeys I’ve grown so fond of a cabbie, and so involved in their absurd stories about the city that I’m reluctant to get out of the car, obviously goodbyes are not my strong point.

In fact, the immediate closeness you feel to Scousers is a phenomenon much farther reaching than the safe confines of a taxi. The idea of “stranger danger”, a concept taken so painfully seriously in the South of England, seems to lose some of its significance up North. The warmth and humour of Liverpudlians and their welcoming demeanour is but a distant dream to “posh twats” on the London underground. Thinking about it, it’s probably for the best that there is no tube in Liverpool, or no one would ever make it to work for all the socialising and/or orgies bound to take place in the carriage.

But of course, Liverpool cabbies are much like the poet Longfellow’s little girl: “When she was good, she was very good indeed, but when she was bad she was horrid.” One Liverpudlian taxi driver who always springs to mind is a devout Everton fan who, terribly pleased with himself, told me that “in me life yer, it goes number one Everton, number 2 me wife, number 3 me kids. I’m not even messin’”. I’ll just jump out here please, keep the change.

That brings me onto football, a defining feature of Liverpool. The pub atmosphere it creates is unparalleled. I admit, my loyalty to the Reds is borne out of a desire to maintain a good relationship with my father, and therefore doesn’t quite qualify as a zealous following. However, when you’re in a sweaty pub, surrounded by men who would probably give their left bollock to see Liverpool win – whilst some of us are absent-mindedly admiring the gentle curve of Sterling’s buttocks – you can’t help but get caught up in it all.

Speaking of pubs, err ma gerrrd so cheap. The notorious Raz is so tremendously inexpensive that a friend, when visiting from London, put £20 on the bar and asked for as many pints as he could get with that note. He turned away, momentarily distracted and assuming that he’d be met with four or five beers, only to discover twenty pints of non-descript lager on the bar. Ye wha? TWENTY. My god we were spoilt rotten there.

Has Liverpool changed me? I reckon so. In my first few weeks there, I remember marvelling at the sheer depth of foundation on the faces of the McDonald’s girls. They were more dolled up for a shift at Maccie’s than I had ever been. So on my last day as a student there, I succumbed. In a Scouse salon on the morning of graduation, I adopted what can only be described as a “bouffant” hairstyle which made me look nothing short of extra-terrestrial, honestly I was less mad than impressed. Thankfully, it relaxed as the day went on because as the hairdresser kindly pointed out, “you’ve got limp hair, love.” Liverpool taught me not only to embrace hair spray and cheap bevvies, but also to take it on the chin, to talk to strangers (controversial though it may be), to laugh when things aren’t going so smoothly, to always pack a brolly and how to make a strong cup of tea.

On leaving Liverpool, a wave of nostalgia came over me… I was proper devoed, like. I was already pining for its beaches and sand dunes, rich history and architecture, art and music scene. I knew I would miss the people too: from my waxer the (self-proclaimed) Hairy Godmother, to the commuters and the cabbies. Alas it is time to bid farewell to Liverpool, whose grit and charm I will miss the most. Ta-ra for now. 

Red Eye

Imagine being constantly followed, watched, exhibited. Every minute detail of your life laid out bare for the world to see. The impossibility of forgetting, of removing all trace. Sound familiar? It is.

Increasingly, we are documented through the power of the image, succumbing to selfie sticks, under surveillance – but should this picture of modern Western society be embraced or rejected? Framed or deleted? Liked or untagged? I could go on…

Universal access to photography could be resisted and labelled as the death of an art form, if only for the association of “selfie” with words such as “narcissism” and “exhibitionism.” With the dual power of images and social media, we are at risk of an invasion of privacy and a complete loss of mystery evoking George Orwell’s 1984. Living in the context of Snowden’s revelations of mass-surveillance and the phone hacking scandal, this dystopian fiction is not so far from reality. However, didn’t Orwell once write that “he who controls the past controls the future”? And isn’t the will of the populace to capture their lives on camera – albeit tiresome – an indicator of happiness?

Surely, then, our eyes can afford to be reddened. At least for art history’s sake. Somerset House recently exhibited photography pioneer William Henry Fox Talbot’s early works of the 19th Century, and his “Veronica Bloom” was valued at £300,000. Reportedly a bargain. This figure illustrates the rarity of photographs in 1840, compared with the prolific output of William Eggleston, Joel Meyerowitz and Bill Brandt in the 20th Century, who all exhibited in the same space this May as part of Photo London. Brandt’s beach series, in particular, is an example of the potential intimacy of photography, and the unique perspective it can offer.

Photography is pertinent not solely in the art world, but also in politics and current affairs. Looking back to the Vietnam War, also known as the “television war,” the impact that visual media has had on public consciousness is clear. This war was the first to be televised, and therefore politicised the American youth, leading to the anti-war movement. This in turn led partially to the defeat of the American army. Fast forward almost half a century, to now, and John Moore wins L’Iris d’Or for his photo series “Ebola Crisis Overwhelms Liberian Capital,” a collection of photographs which help to communicate the extent of the tragedy. Photography past and present, therefore, is a vital part of human expression. It is becoming more and more accessible in the digital age, and gone are the days when only the elite could afford self-portraits.

Red Eye is something to be celebrated if it means photography is prospering. Never again will we have to resort to a handful of clumsily captured photographs on a Kodak Fun Saver circa 1993. We can look at the past and use it to shape our future, even if that sometimes comes at the price of sharing every intimate personal detail, and hence every goddamn meal containing an avocado on Instagram. So long visual amnesia.

Talbot

Eggleston

Meyerowitz

Brandt

Moore

Scouse Perseverance

Ambrose Reynolds, the curator of Liverpool’s Bombed Out Church, is pensive, his eyes twinkling over a Scouse brew. “This space is an oasis. Here, stillness can be found amongst the chaos,” he says.

The Bombed Out Church stands tall if a little unsteadily over Liverpool’s city centre. It adopted its title after the Blitz in 1941, and its survival has hung by a thread ever since. Roofless, consumed by nature and possessing a “micro-climate” of its own, the church is symbolic of the city’s proud history.

Though protected by covenant, the crumbling building was on the verge of being abandoned when Reynolds came along in 2003; since then things seem to have, sometimes physically, “fallen into place”.

An attempt by Signature Living, a hotel operator, to buy the space last year was met with public outrage. The council rejected its plans and a £19,000 Crowdfunder gave the church a new lease of life. Today, it is conserved by English Heritage.

Home to film screenings, Shakespeare plays, craft fairs, live music events, and public forums attended by the local community despite “Siberian weather”, the church’s popularity is soaring, Reynolds smiles. Last Sunday he welcomed Bonobo and Gilles Peterson to its grounds, a show that sold out in ten minutes. Gilles’ show was infallible, and a Brazilian bucket hat was rather aptly doing the rounds as he played jazz, electro, and new releases from Romare. Bonobo put on an eye-wateringly beautiful set which matched the surroundings perfectly.

Scouse perseverance is to thank for the revitalisation of this Liverpool landmark. That and a stubborn stand against commercial gentrification, or “poncifying” as Reynolds calls it. What next for the Bombed Out Church? Well, the sky is quite literally the limit.