London's working class epuration and others scattered thoughts.
For many, many years I worked and lived in Brixton - London.
Before the present location on Atlantic road, Blackline, my shop, was inside a cover market that used to sell mainly African and Caribbean groceries and textiles. There were also a lot of pop up shops selling packaging and other random stuff: from rasta incense to old unusable vinyls.
I remember massive snails cramped in buckets - I assume - sold as delicacy, the smell of dry fish and meat, so overwhelming to force me to walk holding my breath. Pigeons were flying everywhere, and reggae music was playing at unbearable volume. On Sunday gospels concerts improvise at every corner, and in summer the smell of Jerk chicken pervades everywhere.
There was, and I suppose there still is, also a submerged market of illegal goods.
But that is not the focus of my attention.
Brixton was a village with a lots of noise and buzz, where everybody knew more or less each other.
A various humanity inhabited those roads, some of them I haven't seen in years, some others are still there: like me, dwelling.
Difficult to leave Brixton, it's a sort of noisy and embarrassing family that you hate and love at the same time.
There was Gareth the jolly fishmongers to whom I owe a house move, Ola, my Nigerian neighbour with a big heart and her witchdoctor remedies, the 'preacher men' outside the tube station, going around with a megaphone and his arm left in mid air, reminding us all, that the end was coming soon. For many years he was one of the landmark of Brixton, the low loud voice shaking the surroundings with his bible's quotes, you will never think he would disappear, an icon, like Lambeth town hall, always there.
I recall also the 'bearded men' a timeless tiny individual, that seems he carried the whole world at every steps on his shoulders, always with a rough aspect but the friendliest of the smile, and the respect nod in your direction, once he had acknowledged you as a part of the community.
It was a time in which Brixton was a synonymous of thug life: young kids hanging around with trousers so low that my hands were constantly urging a wedgie, their favourite colony smell being 'Eau de pot', tattooed gang acronymous all over their necks or hands: PDC, SW2, SW9, and other more or less mysterious tags.
All with their favourite uniform: nike and 50% hats, so much for being at the margin of society; they fell victim twice, as the failure of the social services and indoctrinated by the TV mass consumption models: they were nothing other than a mere instruments of ruthless capitalisation on drugs. But still even this is not the point.
As a tattooer I have many stories and anedocts to tell, and I'll certainly do at a later stage on this blog, but not now.
This morning I was reading an article on fb, in which was announced a re-devolopment by the Network rail that was planning a mass eviction of the shops under the arcades.
As a shop keeper and a dwelling member of Brixton community my heart crunched.
A famous radio broadcaster, few years ago prophetised as the bedroom tax was a step in the direction of the epuration of the poors from urban centres, especially London. The gentrification of Brixton, certainly falls under this aspect.
Few months ago, I personally had to re-negotiate a rent review that pushed up the rent of our shop of 45% in a mere three years.
Unscrupulous estate agents and greedy landlords are depauperating Brixton of what has made its character, its beauty, its complex diversity. They are simply obliterating the people.
So this is to help to raise voice of this community, and to keep a fragment of memory: already the voice of the preacher man has disappeared.
A line of Eliot's Wasteland keeps echoing in my head: 'My people humble people who expect Nothing...', because this is happening now, and you - miserable lecteur, mon semblable, mon frere, - may be the next of the list.
Ps: the image of the preacher men at the top of this page is of a talented Swedish artist whose website you can see here: http://gnosspelius.com.
Years ago he made a series of prints of Brixton and his people. Hope you don't mind Staffan. :)
by Klaus tattooer
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