Atget's Paris and Ollie's Brighton

One of my photographer heroes is Eugène Atget who in the late 19th Century and early 20th Century methodically captured old Paris, photographing it street by street. I have a treasured book, Atget's Paris, containing some 800 images, most of which were taken in the early morning light suggesting a 'mysteriously deserted city', yet with a 'haunting, poetic quality', as the foreword described it.

During this current extraordinary time, I felt the need to occupy myself by trying to capture some of the same solitude that Eugène Atget found on the streets of his beloved city - on the deserted streets of mine.

I am not an early morning person, but I went out when I could during the day and evening to photograph the remarkable emptiness of Brighton & Hove's streets and open spaces, which would usually be thronging with visitors and revellers, particularly in fine, summer weather.

Amid the trauma of the news, my daily outings have proved a solace, knowing that I am recording Brighton & Hove in a situation that may never occur again in my lifetime.

Eugène Atget's photographs were not entirely devoid of life; sometimes some shadowy citizens, a cat or a horse-drawn carriage would appear. 

I also found the occasional visitor entering my pictures, escaping, like me, from the misery of lockdown for some exercise.

As a commuter, Brighton Station, devoid of passengers with just a couple of staff on the spotless concourse, struck me as particularly strange.

On my daily traipses, I encountered little acts of kindness and signs of love, as well as misery and despair.

It helped me. This has not been an easy time for anyone. 

Many of us are shocked by the inept handling of the crisis by a government that seemed to get off to a fair start. 

The daily news updates have scared half the population witless, while the police seem to have lost the plot, virtually giving up on crime busting.

One hell of an independent inquiry is needed into how Britain got it so wrong.

Meanwhile, runners and cyclists have gone feral, taking over the roads and streets; the air has been cleaner, and the birds have been audible.

Everyone has a viewpoint. Almost no one agrees. 

Like Eugène Atget, I have simply tried to observe and record.

I haven't enjoyed lockdown. But I have tried to accept the situation, stay positive and make the most of it.

One day, perhaps, schoolchildren will study this most strange period in our history - and I hope these 35 pictures of mine will give them an inkling of just how surreal life truly was in the Summer of 2020 in Brighton & Hove.

Lockdown

Life in Brighton & Hove, life in Britain, life almost everywhere is surreal in Covid Lockdown.

In my exercise hour, I have taken some pictures of what it looks like where we live: the beautiful scenery, the empty spaces, the sense of desolation.

An iconic holiday resort in excellent weather with no people, a Marie Celeste city - something straight out of a science fiction movie.




The drip-drip-drip of terrible news from around the world, with many thousands of deaths, makeshift mortuaries and unconscionable suffering is hard to comprehend in the context of the empty beach, the passing joggers, the relentless sunshine.

Sometimes it seems unbearable, the tidings too painful to absorb.

Yet there is no doubting the immense spirit of the people of the UK, and of every country stricken by this terrible virus.

Yesterday (Sunday, 29 March 2020) I spoke on the phone to a friend who was celebrating his 90th birthday.

He said he was reminded of 1940 with the 'general feeling to pull together'.

I have noticed that too. People are often kinder and more generous than they usually are.

Hundreds of thousands of good-hearted citizens in Britain have volunteered to help, possibly putting their own safety at risk.

People who are fortunate enough to be still working are making a huge effort to keep their organisations, companies and charities going.

Sometimes, of course, signs of public discontentment bubble to the surface.

Food hoarding in particular has been insane, an animal reaction against the forces of reason.



But on the whole, people have understood the need for social distancing and the stay-at-home-where-possible policy, and are acting responsibly.

They understand the colossal battle the National Health Service faces to keep the unfortunate alive - a fight that, sadly, all too often it will lose to the hearses and bodybags.

Everywhere life is different.


Marrocco's restaurant and cafe, where habitually I enjoy my early morning cup of tea, has closed for the first time in more than half a century, although, strangely, work is allowed to continue at pace next door where a pop star is building a modern mansion for himself on the site of the former far-smaller bathhouse.

In Brighton and Hove, almost everything else is closed: only supermarkets, corner shops and pharmacies remain open to customers - and takeaways deliver, scooterists the unsung heroes.

A police officer told me that most people in Brighton & Hove are being sensible and social distancing - only a few teenagers clumping in groups.

Rough sleepers are being given hotel rooms to self-isolate in, he added, many of them staying in.

The people out are exercising alone or in couples and, maybe, enjoying a few rays of sunshine at the same time.

It is the strangest time in my life, stranger than the Falklands War, stranger than the Miners' Strike, stranger than the time of the Three Day Week, with its delightful power cuts.

But every day I count myself lucky to have what I have. I count my blessings.

Tour of Britain in Brighton and Lewes

'I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride my bike, I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride it where I like' Queen
 
Cycling has always been an interest of mine, so I was delighted to learn that the Tour of Britain was coming to my two favourite places: Brighton and Lewes.

Studying the predicted race times and the railway timetable, it seemed just about possible for me to see the race in both places.

So, on my own for the weekend for once (my girlfriend Laura had to work), I went to Lewes on the train - and checked out the celebrations.

It was great to see Lewes all decked out to welcome the cyclists. The old Harveys depot, next to the station car park, I have never seen in use before (over the past dozen years). It is generally a great, gated empty building and large yard without any activity going on whatsoever. So, it was a joy to see it in full swing - turned over to the religion of cycling.

The chap at the entrance did not want any money from me. He simply needed to know how I had travelled there.

The answer was cycling from my flat in Hove to Brighton Station, taking the train to Lewes and walking the short distance to his portal. To keep it simple, I said: "cycling", which seemed to please him a great deal.

Inside was a chaotic combination of cycling and sustainability stores, kids cycling round in circles, burgers grilling, an energetic lady taking an exercise bike fitness session, and the race live on a big screen in the old Depot (with a lot of children's noise in the background). A delightful Lewes scene. 

Judging by the live coverage, the Tour of Britain was at that point tearing through a housing estate somewhere near Horsham. It did not seem real that within 40 minutes or so it would be with us, streaming past the Depot.

I went out to inspect some of the route. On Southover Road and Priory Street (my former address for 10 years), little groups were gathering. The Kings Head pub was almost empty, the barman hardly aware of the race.

However, outside, the excitement gradually grew. A chap and his friends started chalking "Viva Lewes" on the road.

People came out of their houses. Almost no one I recognised.

As the time drew on, the Tour of Britain "circus" made its first appearance: tour motorbikes that whizzed round the block at high speed, the rider sometime showing off by standing up; a tour car, a bit battered, also passing at speed; the sense of a whirlwind approaching.

When the first of the riders appeared, they were gone as quickly as they came.

It is hard to appreciate a few racing cyclists charging along at 30 miles an hour.

They are a blur as they pass.

After a surprising gap, the main group - the so-called peloton - arrived. It is easier to enjoy because there is more of it.

What you don't appreciate watching on the telly is what a circus the race is.

As well as a large group of cyclists, at least a dozen support cars and as many powerful motorcycles also pass at speed, breaking the Priory Street 20mph speed limit just to keep up with the cyclists.

And then they are gone.

It did seem incredible the Tour of Britain had just gone down the street.

I hopped on the next train to Brighton and popped on my mum's old bike and caught at least some of the race again arriving at Brighton seafront.


The crowds were bigger than the ones I had seen in Lewes (although I did not go up to Lewes High Street).

It appeared the cyclists were now in several groups, several minutes apart, so there was plenty for all.

There was a lot of flag-waving and excited commentary in Brighton.

The presentations which, strangely, took place while some of the cyclists were still racing, were an odd spectacle.

A pretty, young woman helping the grinning, victorious cyclists in jerseys of various hues. Plenty of staged kissing.

The race was a great spectacle, a real joy to watch, and it was wonderful to catch it in Lewes and Brighton - thanks the use of my mum's old bike.

As always, it has been a mixed time for me. 

What is most sad is that my Dad, Robin, is now very sick with Alzheimer's Disease and rapidly losing his memory and powers of recognition.   
 

Life goes on. I have put a lot of effort of late into building and painting an allotment fence made out of pallets.
 

What I thought might be a relatively easy job took several days and evenings to complete.

It is pretty well hurricane proof and, if I say so myself, beautifully painted, the same colour as the shed, with the compost bin enclosure also matching.

To paint around the compost bin, I had to cut down the ivy, put it into bags and take them to the nearby Lewes Dump.