stefano cipriani
Battersea Power Station #2
Twenty years ago I lived the eastern end of Lavender Hill, in a flat, two floors above a Tennessee Fried Chicken shop. My days were fuelled with a daily dozen mugs of tea, and my insomniac nights were spent painting the sodium hued view from my bedroom window. North London had its palaces and Parliament, we had Battersea power station. The chimneys clawed the sky, the brickwork spoke of dirty days, it stood isolated in a wasteland, and it was magnificent. My painting was crap.
Two weeks ago I saw plans of how the area will be redeveloped into a glassy condo-land. They will tuck the great building up with a blanket of expensive dwellings. One day there will be hundreds of chrome framed Pink Floyd posters adorning the walls of identical Poggenpohl kitchens, that each own an intimate view of Battersea’s brickwork.
Two days ago I was about to fly out after a visit to Britain. I found myself back in South London, in my old neighbourhood. I got lost. The old pubs had gone, what was once a Carphone Warehouse is now a swanky shop selling Eames furniture. I emailed the man I married, who used to live with me in the chicken scented flat on Lavender Hill. He said It’s nice to take a place as your own and then leave before everyone else gets it.
Today I woke up, still a little fuzzy from messy sleep patterns, I saw this picture, I read Stefano’s line … Well, if you cannot avoid extraneous items, turn them into image’s primary features… Wise words. He has taken Battersea Power Station boxed up and scaffolded, but to me it is still magnificent.
Also the Tennessee Fried Chicken shop is still there too.
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