island

grand old townhouses, an abandoned project of Victorian seaside developers to turn Hayling into a mecca for rich socialites, with a racecourse in front no less. Taken over by the council or somesuch, brutalised with fire doors and communal staircases with shabby carpet. the steps, like a genteel New York with men sat whiling away the hours in the glimpses of October sunshine. friendly and frayed at the edges, my efficient communication hangs terse in the salt sea air. I slow down, come to rest, and make more room for time. trying to remember something I can't quite put my finger on.

there is very little evidence of waves on Hayling until they rise up on the shore and dump into the banks of pebbles brought in to hold back the winter storms. only a small swelling of the water is visible before they erupt. in the photographs yesterday the horizons wander - only noticeable when posted on instagram. as you slide through them the horizons flick up and down. unsettling. instagram is a poor substitute for a gallery. you lose yourself in that tiny rendition, striving to punch through two inches of backlit lightless artifice.

i think i am going ot have to try and remember how to develop film and make prints on paper. I cannot find a local darkroom so far so I'll have to set one up here at the house. I can probably develop the negatives, it's the printing where it starts to get difficult - getting an enlarger and a space to black out. oh maybe the attic actually. or the utility - at least that has a sink.

I didn't photograph any people. I wandered around with something else on my mind, past the townhouses, and only this morning did I start to think about what a place that is. A little edge of time place with windbreaks and old TVs and piles and piles of bike tyres and an old Hayter 48 lawnmower just sitting on the street waiting for nobody to notice.