During reading week Mr. Transport and I trundled through south London’s suburbs, dreary under the muted light of fat, grey clouds, to Keston Common. Descending the steps towards the ponds, Mr. Transport and I noticed that a sluiceway guiding the River Ravensbourne from its brimming source up at Caeser’s Well, was carving its own slow tributary and puddling at the foot of the steps, as if to protest its containment.
Short after compiling my map, The Watery Part(s) of London, I ventured out to Crystal Palace Park to start filming.
Mr. Transport lives in Crystal Palace, so I am familiar with its small cafes, superlative bookshops, and excellent furniture shops, but I am, from shame, not at all familiar with the park, despite having lived in its semi-immedeate environs on and off for about 10 years.
In some delicious ramble he had found
A little place with boughs all woven round
And in the middle of all a cleaner pool
Than e’er reflected in its pleasant cool.
On Tuesday I had no ideas. On Wednesday I had to present my profound idealessness to a class full of students expecting me to have something more to say than ‘Um, idk… WATER!’
My friends, Artists and Other Creatives™ assured me that my ideas would emerge organically from practice. Film, they said, and so I did. Often, they said, and so I did. But the ideas didn’t come. Or at least, if they did, the profound wedge of self doubt that governs my life’s work quashed the satisfying buzz of an idea bubbling into consciousness. Continue reading