Bench Marks has always been about real lives; the idea that no-one is boring. And a few weeks ago, reading about Anthony Gormley’s 4th Plinth, I had something of a light bulb moment: could his concept – to give the supposedly ordinary a chance to be represented – be transposed to a park bench in a disused shop in Camden Town?
Offering a democratic wooden platform for everyone and anyone seemed a fitting, lively climax to a year covering the quiet stories commemorated by London’s park benches.
Serendipitously I discovered, along Chalk Farm Road, that a company called Camden Town Unlimited is busy taking over vacant shops and turning them into ‘creative spaces’ and, a quick meeting with the boss later, Tales From A Park Bench was born.
So, in the bare spaces of the C22 gallery on Chalk Farm Road, we will install a park bench for a week, from Aug 3-9, and invite locals, strangers, tourists, musicians, artists, businessmen, housewives, writers and everyone else to come along and do whatever: tell a story, tell a joke, sing a song, tell it like it is. You don’t have to register, you don’t have to book. You don’t have to say a word.
People will simply be encouraged to engage in story in some way. A litter bin installed by the bench will brim over with hundreds of crumpled photocopies of the 60 Bench Marks columns, which you can read, chuck on the floor, or take home with you. In fact, you can do anything you like.
So what if no-one actually uses the bench at all? It’s a risk we take. But at least every evening will be unique. Whilst the world media spotlight is on the 4th Plinth, I like the fact that our little project will be going on simultaneously in Camden Town, a true celebration of regular lives and real life.
Then again, it may just be a bunch of drunks in a room slugging back beer.
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Blog: http://www.talesfromaparkbench.wordpress.com/
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Thursday, 16 July 2009
Sunday, 12 July 2009
It's about ordinary lives, isn't it?
You know, the ones that don't leave headline-making legacies.
Or win Oscars.
Or appear on dumb-ass reality TV shows.
These are the quiet human stories that would otherwise slip under the radar.
Got something to share? Email me.
benchpoetry@gmail.com
Or win Oscars.
Or appear on dumb-ass reality TV shows.
These are the quiet human stories that would otherwise slip under the radar.
Got something to share? Email me.
benchpoetry@gmail.com
Admiral Duncan memorial bench, Soho W1
Katherine William-Powellet (Soho Green charity): “I don’t think Soho will ever forget that night. Although not directly involved, I have vivid memories: hearing the bomb, smelling smoke, and taking in a shocked man on my doorstep who had been in the loo – a very lucky escape. The bench came about as there was a need to “do something” and people readily donated money for a memorial. Soho Green was approached as we look after the garden: initially three cherry trees were planted, but we still had money left over and commissioned a local furniture maker, Simon Kidd, who wanted to use three different types of wood to represent the three victims and three communities struck by the bomber, but in the end funds allowed just a simple triangular bench. Organised and funded by and for the community, it’s a symbol of unity, equality, balance, and strength in collaboration.”
Lord Pitt of Hampstead, 1913-1994
Dedicated in Fond Memory by the Lord Pitt Foundation, Royal Free Hospital NW3
‘Some black people regard me as an Uncle Tom,’ David Pitt once said, ‘while some whites regard me as a Black Power revolutionary. So I imagine I got it about right.’ The longest serving black Parliamentarian, Pitt was born in the West Indies, moving to London in 1947, where he established a long-running medical practice. From the 1950s he fought against discrimination and prejudice, organizing help for immigrants and improving race relations. In 1959 he sought to represent wealthy Hampstead in Parliament: despite losing the election after a campaign plagued by racist insinuations, 15 years later he was finally appointed to the House of Lords as Lord Pitt of Hampstead. His most valued honour, however, was his election as president of the British Medical Association – hence the bench’s location in the Royal Free Hospital’s garden.
‘Some black people regard me as an Uncle Tom,’ David Pitt once said, ‘while some whites regard me as a Black Power revolutionary. So I imagine I got it about right.’ The longest serving black Parliamentarian, Pitt was born in the West Indies, moving to London in 1947, where he established a long-running medical practice. From the 1950s he fought against discrimination and prejudice, organizing help for immigrants and improving race relations. In 1959 he sought to represent wealthy Hampstead in Parliament: despite losing the election after a campaign plagued by racist insinuations, 15 years later he was finally appointed to the House of Lords as Lord Pitt of Hampstead. His most valued honour, however, was his election as president of the British Medical Association – hence the bench’s location in the Royal Free Hospital’s garden.
Monday, 15 June 2009
"Deep peace of the quiet earth to you," Regents Park
Thomas Deighton, 26.5.1924 – 30.4.2004
Head Gardener
Michael J Fitt OBE and Jennifer Adams (colleagues): “Tom Deighton was responsible for the extensive plant nurseries in Regents Park, a hard but passionate task master. Back in the 60s we used clay pots, and late afternoon he would come round with a stick tapping them to see if any were dry (which would make a unique ringing sound). With tens of thousands of plants it was hard work and if Tom found a dry one you’d be told in no uncertain terms to correct it. He smoked heavily, his arrival usually being preceded by his hacking cough, but his knowledge of plants, flowers and fruit was so vast that he spent the last years of his career as Head Gardener at Buckingham Palace, where he introduced many unusual trees and shrubs still there today.”
Head Gardener
Michael J Fitt OBE and Jennifer Adams (colleagues): “Tom Deighton was responsible for the extensive plant nurseries in Regents Park, a hard but passionate task master. Back in the 60s we used clay pots, and late afternoon he would come round with a stick tapping them to see if any were dry (which would make a unique ringing sound). With tens of thousands of plants it was hard work and if Tom found a dry one you’d be told in no uncertain terms to correct it. He smoked heavily, his arrival usually being preceded by his hacking cough, but his knowledge of plants, flowers and fruit was so vast that he spent the last years of his career as Head Gardener at Buckingham Palace, where he introduced many unusual trees and shrubs still there today.”
“Eternally holding soul catch the dew of heaven and blossom"
In Loving Memory of Marie Elisabeth (Lisa) Roche Bragg
From Marie Elsa Bragg & Melvyn Bragg”, Hampstead Heath
Tucked away on the edge of bushes off East Heath Road, this bench commemorates the tragic story of Melvyn Bragg’s first wife, Lisa Roche. Bragg, a working class Northerner, married aristocratic Frenchwoman Lisa Roche, in 1960 when he was 21, and they had one child, Marie Elsa. He did not know that Lisa had a history of suicide attempts, and 10 years later, she killed herself after divorce proceedings were about to start (he had left her for another woman). Bragg has said (in an interview with The Guardian) of the tragedy: “I could have done things which helped and I did things which harmed. So yes, I feel guilt, I feel remorse.” His last novel, Remember Me, was a fictionalized account of the marriage.
From Marie Elsa Bragg & Melvyn Bragg”, Hampstead Heath
Tucked away on the edge of bushes off East Heath Road, this bench commemorates the tragic story of Melvyn Bragg’s first wife, Lisa Roche. Bragg, a working class Northerner, married aristocratic Frenchwoman Lisa Roche, in 1960 when he was 21, and they had one child, Marie Elsa. He did not know that Lisa had a history of suicide attempts, and 10 years later, she killed herself after divorce proceedings were about to start (he had left her for another woman). Bragg has said (in an interview with The Guardian) of the tragedy: “I could have done things which helped and I did things which harmed. So yes, I feel guilt, I feel remorse.” His last novel, Remember Me, was a fictionalized account of the marriage.
“For Jack Hutton, a very special man, editor and Jazzman, who always had a place in his heart for those less fortunate than himself”, Regents Park NW1
Joy Hutton (widow): “We were both working class people, and not religious at all, but after he was cremated I wanted something to remember him with. Jack became editor of Melody Maker in 1960 and later went on to start magazines like Sounds and Kerrang! Over the years, it’s fair to say he met all the greats, including Louis Armstrong, in Paris, where they chatted backstage about trumpets and horns; Mick Jagger, who he interviewed in our flat (although I had to drag the au pair outside to stop her gawping); the Beatles, who he travelled round the US with for a week on their first American promo trip (but slipped off to New York to hang out with the jazzmen afterwards); Charlie Chaplin (he couldn’t believe that one, either); but most amazing of all, he encourage people to better themselves; he would see something in the office boy and send him off to nightschool to become a reporter.”
A Slack Handful of Luck, Gallery at 94 Clevelnad St
Ray Lonsdale (artist): “This piece was derived from a conversation with my father in law, Terry, about his time in Korea during his national service. Passing through a minefield along a previously cleared single track, they were instructed to keep to the right hand side of a particular tree but Terry's friend went to the left, stood on a land mine and was killed. This set me thinking: I realised that I had no idea what the Korean war was about, yet soldiers were killed there just as they were in the more publicised World Wars 1 and 2. I wonder if in 20 or 30 years whether the next generation will have the same ignorance of Iraq and Afghanistan? Will it be conveniently forgotten; will the veterans embarrass future governmentson Remembrance Day? I hope not.”
THE STRANGE CASE OF CROY DEVENISH PHIBBS
In my year covering the stories behind park benches, I’m thankful for the many contributions I’ve had from eagle-eyed readers (not to mention more surreal requests like ‘where can I find a reasonably priced bench on Hampstead Heath?’) Yet nothing piqued my curiosity as much as the strange case of Croy Devenish-Phibbs.
Last September, an email arrived from reader Ben Spedding:
“Has anyone contacted you about a plaque on a scruffy looking bench near the reservoir in Dartmouth Park? It had a weird inscription (“Winter Devenish-Phibbs liked to have everything just so”) and the plaque was at a lop-sided angle, but it's now vanished.”
Curious enough, I’m sure you’ll agree. Then, ten weeks later I received another from Simon Jones in south London: “I saw this inscription in a rough park in Wandsworth: “You’re born, you’re dying, you’re dead. If your relatives are cheap they get you a bench. Monty Devenish-Phibbs 1847 – 1910.”
Surely the best inscription, ever, but who were these Devenish-Phibbs? And, yes, it had to be a hoax, but one grey November morning the dog and I headed down to the park, behind Malva Close, in Wandsworth to check for ourselves. Quelle surprise: a few benches, but none with a Phibbs inscription. Monty, like Winter, had vanished.
Back home, I discovered Croy’s “official” website (www.croydevenishphibbs.com), a veritable goldmine of humour, and learnt that he purports to be a “103 year old silver surfer” offering rewards for information about his family’s memorial benches. I emailed asking him about the Monty bench, adding that the project was “a great hoax.” It took a week for his response:
“Firstly, I apologise for the delay, I only access the internet during my Silver Surfer course on Wednesdays. The reward for Monty's bench has already been claimed but I’m happy to give you some information. Monty was my grandfather's brother's son, a notorious curmudgeon, which he claimed stemmed from his job as a children's entertainer. His wife Modesty said that despite his grumbling, and his incessant bah-humbugging, his heart was in the right place. Personally, I'm not sure that being anatomically-correct is much of a testament to a human being, but there you are.”
So far, so funny. He continued: “I’ve never heard of Time Out magazine, but you're welcome to the story. Also I'm not entirely sure what you mean by a hoax. As I explain on my home page I'm appealing for information about any of the hundreds of Devenish-Phibbs around Great Britain and sending out rewards for people who pass on details and photographs. Winter is beginning to take its toll and three residents have died in recent weeks. There's a rather macabre sense that The Bingo of Eternity is in session – whose number will be called next? With warm regards, Croy Devenish-Phibbs.”
Beautifully written; perfectly droll. One razor-sharp centenarian. A regular email correspondence followed, but every time I asked who was behind all this, or to speak to “Croy” on the phone, he would brush me off with an (admittedly humorous) joke: “Gary, who runs our Silver Surfer course, has given us a very stern warning about sending phone numbers over the internet. It seems that in the second week of the course there was an incident with Edith and some Nigerians and this rather reinforced his message.”
No closer to unmasking him, Scooby Doo-stylee, I emailed a photographer named Nicolette Wells who had snapped a plaque for Bonnie Devenish Phibbs on Flickr (“If you can read this you’re less dead than me,” Bonnie Devenish Phibbs 1899 -1942). She responded: “I didn't believe any of it for a second but after numerous witty emails and a 'reward' I received in the post, there doesn't seem to be any harm meant. But why might someone do a national treasure hunt?”
Who knows? And still the “sightings” continue apace (surf Croy’s website for laugh-out-loud plaques), their irreverent nature ensuring that they are removed, no doubt, whenever spied by the powers that be. A great art project, then – perhaps Croy’s the new Banksy? – but where’s Poirot when we need him? Any clues to benchpoetry@gmail.com
Last September, an email arrived from reader Ben Spedding:
“Has anyone contacted you about a plaque on a scruffy looking bench near the reservoir in Dartmouth Park? It had a weird inscription (“Winter Devenish-Phibbs liked to have everything just so”) and the plaque was at a lop-sided angle, but it's now vanished.”
Curious enough, I’m sure you’ll agree. Then, ten weeks later I received another from Simon Jones in south London: “I saw this inscription in a rough park in Wandsworth: “You’re born, you’re dying, you’re dead. If your relatives are cheap they get you a bench. Monty Devenish-Phibbs 1847 – 1910.”
Surely the best inscription, ever, but who were these Devenish-Phibbs? And, yes, it had to be a hoax, but one grey November morning the dog and I headed down to the park, behind Malva Close, in Wandsworth to check for ourselves. Quelle surprise: a few benches, but none with a Phibbs inscription. Monty, like Winter, had vanished.
Back home, I discovered Croy’s “official” website (www.croydevenishphibbs.com), a veritable goldmine of humour, and learnt that he purports to be a “103 year old silver surfer” offering rewards for information about his family’s memorial benches. I emailed asking him about the Monty bench, adding that the project was “a great hoax.” It took a week for his response:
“Firstly, I apologise for the delay, I only access the internet during my Silver Surfer course on Wednesdays. The reward for Monty's bench has already been claimed but I’m happy to give you some information. Monty was my grandfather's brother's son, a notorious curmudgeon, which he claimed stemmed from his job as a children's entertainer. His wife Modesty said that despite his grumbling, and his incessant bah-humbugging, his heart was in the right place. Personally, I'm not sure that being anatomically-correct is much of a testament to a human being, but there you are.”
So far, so funny. He continued: “I’ve never heard of Time Out magazine, but you're welcome to the story. Also I'm not entirely sure what you mean by a hoax. As I explain on my home page I'm appealing for information about any of the hundreds of Devenish-Phibbs around Great Britain and sending out rewards for people who pass on details and photographs. Winter is beginning to take its toll and three residents have died in recent weeks. There's a rather macabre sense that The Bingo of Eternity is in session – whose number will be called next? With warm regards, Croy Devenish-Phibbs.”
Beautifully written; perfectly droll. One razor-sharp centenarian. A regular email correspondence followed, but every time I asked who was behind all this, or to speak to “Croy” on the phone, he would brush me off with an (admittedly humorous) joke: “Gary, who runs our Silver Surfer course, has given us a very stern warning about sending phone numbers over the internet. It seems that in the second week of the course there was an incident with Edith and some Nigerians and this rather reinforced his message.”
No closer to unmasking him, Scooby Doo-stylee, I emailed a photographer named Nicolette Wells who had snapped a plaque for Bonnie Devenish Phibbs on Flickr (“If you can read this you’re less dead than me,” Bonnie Devenish Phibbs 1899 -1942). She responded: “I didn't believe any of it for a second but after numerous witty emails and a 'reward' I received in the post, there doesn't seem to be any harm meant. But why might someone do a national treasure hunt?”
Who knows? And still the “sightings” continue apace (surf Croy’s website for laugh-out-loud plaques), their irreverent nature ensuring that they are removed, no doubt, whenever spied by the powers that be. A great art project, then – perhaps Croy’s the new Banksy? – but where’s Poirot when we need him? Any clues to benchpoetry@gmail.com
Thursday, 14 May 2009
Allies, Bond Street W1
Lawrence Holofcener (sculptor): ‘Roosevelt and Churchill were two of my heroes; one for his brilliance at politics, the other for his erudition and wit. For their sculpture I played with bas-reliefs of them, finally moving to England to complete life-size portraits. Always impatient, I didn't use maquettes, so had to set up my studio right there on Bond Street without anything but photos. Imagine the commentary from bystanders, all severely proprietary critics: ‘Cigar's too short! Where are Franklin’s braces? Don't forget Winston's zippered shoes!’ When millions marched against the invasion of Iraq, I placed a black satin sheet over the statue, and sat beside it. To passers by, I said: ‘This is a protest against the 'special relationship' that Bush and Blair have trashed.’ The police asked me to remove the sheet (‘this is a public monument!’) and I complied – but only until they were out of sight.’
Thursday, 7 May 2009
All You Need Is Love, Regent's Park
Darius Claude Boman-Behram - defying all the odds, he led a very different, yet inspiring life
Mother, Hilde Holger - an expressionist dancer, championed the therapeutic value of dance
Father, Dr. A.K. Boman-Behram - formulated a non-toxic treatment for cancer
Primavera Boman-Behram - artist, and sister of a true ‘super genius’
Primavera Boman-Behram (sister, daughter): “This bench is dedicated to the memory of my inspirational family. My brother Darius always had a glint in his eye and a huge smile radiating from his face, but he was born with down syndrome, congenital heart defects and given just two weeks to live. In fact, he led a full life until the age of 59. Our mother, Hilde Holger, whose path took her from Vienna to Bombay to London, was an innovative dancer who, in her Camden studio, developed her teaching to allow people with learning and physical disabilities the opportunity for self expression. And our father Dr AK Boman-Behram, on investigating homeopathic ways to save his son, ended up exploring a non-toxic cure for cancer. All you need is love.”
Mother, Hilde Holger - an expressionist dancer, championed the therapeutic value of dance
Father, Dr. A.K. Boman-Behram - formulated a non-toxic treatment for cancer
Primavera Boman-Behram - artist, and sister of a true ‘super genius’
Primavera Boman-Behram (sister, daughter): “This bench is dedicated to the memory of my inspirational family. My brother Darius always had a glint in his eye and a huge smile radiating from his face, but he was born with down syndrome, congenital heart defects and given just two weeks to live. In fact, he led a full life until the age of 59. Our mother, Hilde Holger, whose path took her from Vienna to Bombay to London, was an innovative dancer who, in her Camden studio, developed her teaching to allow people with learning and physical disabilities the opportunity for self expression. And our father Dr AK Boman-Behram, on investigating homeopathic ways to save his son, ended up exploring a non-toxic cure for cancer. All you need is love.”
Two Musicians
"GORDON LEWIN & MALKA COSSACK"
Two remarkable musicians, who gave the joy of music and inspired so many. They are together, and their love and passion for music, each other, family, friends...and this park, will live for ever. Their sweet music lives on." Regent’s Park, NW1
Janetta Lewin (daughter): “My mother, a cellist, and father, who played clarinet and saxophone, used to take me to the sanctuary of Regent’s Park every week from the smog of Baker Street. Music filled their days: they were in orchestras, shows and musicals, as well as performing on TV and radio, with my father even becoming a prolific composer. Their lives ended sadly last year, when my father died at 86, and my mother passed away just twelve weeks later aged 87. I sit on their bench, gazing across the lake towards their beloved scented rose garden, and hear their music, and feel their love. No gravestones for them: they loved life too much.”
Two remarkable musicians, who gave the joy of music and inspired so many. They are together, and their love and passion for music, each other, family, friends...and this park, will live for ever. Their sweet music lives on." Regent’s Park, NW1
Janetta Lewin (daughter): “My mother, a cellist, and father, who played clarinet and saxophone, used to take me to the sanctuary of Regent’s Park every week from the smog of Baker Street. Music filled their days: they were in orchestras, shows and musicals, as well as performing on TV and radio, with my father even becoming a prolific composer. Their lives ended sadly last year, when my father died at 86, and my mother passed away just twelve weeks later aged 87. I sit on their bench, gazing across the lake towards their beloved scented rose garden, and hear their music, and feel their love. No gravestones for them: they loved life too much.”
Peckham Rye
Donated by the Peckham Society in memory of PETER MORRIS (1936 - 2001) who loved this park, Peckham Rye Park
Peter Frost (member): ‘The Peckham Society exists to encourage interest in and to care for the environment and history of our area. Peter Morris was an enthusiastic committee member, and would run our bookstall at various events. The seat was made of yarran wood by Mark Folds, who used to have a studio off Blenheim Grove, and has carvings which represent Peter's love of the park and also his membership of a rifle club. It’s close to the five trees planted to commemorate the centenary of Peckham Rye Park, and adjacent to the Japanese garden, which is marked on the map at the gates. When I walked round with the park manager to find a suitable location, this one presented itself clearly: it faces east so it’s a sunny position, perfect to sit and remember.’
Peter Frost (member): ‘The Peckham Society exists to encourage interest in and to care for the environment and history of our area. Peter Morris was an enthusiastic committee member, and would run our bookstall at various events. The seat was made of yarran wood by Mark Folds, who used to have a studio off Blenheim Grove, and has carvings which represent Peter's love of the park and also his membership of a rifle club. It’s close to the five trees planted to commemorate the centenary of Peckham Rye Park, and adjacent to the Japanese garden, which is marked on the map at the gates. When I walked round with the park manager to find a suitable location, this one presented itself clearly: it faces east so it’s a sunny position, perfect to sit and remember.’
Thursday, 16 April 2009
"I sit and watch the children play"
Seana Culwin 1981 - 2007 , Hilly Fields Brockley
Fintan Culwin (father): “Seana loved, and was loved by, every child she met. She always knew what she wanted to do and for 8 years worked at the Hilly Fields day nursery, where she'd have a child on one hip, another by the hand and several in tow. She looked after the parents as well as the kids, showing wisdom beyond her years. In time she outgrew the nursery and moved to Surestart as outreach worker, teaching parents how to play with their children. She contracted Lupus in 2007, became extremely ill and, after three weeks in intensive care, died aged 26. The inscription is from ‘As tears go by’ by Marianne Faithful, the idea being people can ‘sit and watch the children play’ on her bench, as it overlooks the park where she played as a child herself.”
http://www.lupus.org.uk/
Fintan Culwin (father): “Seana loved, and was loved by, every child she met. She always knew what she wanted to do and for 8 years worked at the Hilly Fields day nursery, where she'd have a child on one hip, another by the hand and several in tow. She looked after the parents as well as the kids, showing wisdom beyond her years. In time she outgrew the nursery and moved to Surestart as outreach worker, teaching parents how to play with their children. She contracted Lupus in 2007, became extremely ill and, after three weeks in intensive care, died aged 26. The inscription is from ‘As tears go by’ by Marianne Faithful, the idea being people can ‘sit and watch the children play’ on her bench, as it overlooks the park where she played as a child herself.”
http://www.lupus.org.uk/
East End History
'Presented by the members of the New Cambridge Boys Club who used to meet at Virginia School, 1954 - 1989'’, Arnold Circus E2
Naseem Khan (Friends Of Arnold Circus): “Behind this vintage British Rail bench lies a slice of East End history. The New Cambridge Boys Club (nobody knows why 'Cambridge' became part of the name) began in the 1920s when boys at Marlborough School turned their attention to poverty in the East End, in particular the Jewish immigration around the Boundary Estate. Taking over a floor of Virginia Primary School, they laid on table tennis, billiards, a snack bar, and holidays for local boys, all for the affordable sum of sixpence a week. As time went by, the need for the Club declined, but members still fund local endeavours with grants, and around 130 of them (the oldest being 98 years old) gather together for dinner every year. They funded the bench because it overlooks the school where they met, and on a site that they remember with such warmth.”
Naseem Khan (Friends Of Arnold Circus): “Behind this vintage British Rail bench lies a slice of East End history. The New Cambridge Boys Club (nobody knows why 'Cambridge' became part of the name) began in the 1920s when boys at Marlborough School turned their attention to poverty in the East End, in particular the Jewish immigration around the Boundary Estate. Taking over a floor of Virginia Primary School, they laid on table tennis, billiards, a snack bar, and holidays for local boys, all for the affordable sum of sixpence a week. As time went by, the need for the Club declined, but members still fund local endeavours with grants, and around 130 of them (the oldest being 98 years old) gather together for dinner every year. They funded the bench because it overlooks the school where they met, and on a site that they remember with such warmth.”
The Talking Bench, Wildlife Garden, off York Bridge Road, Inner Circle, NW1
Catriona Corfield (Project Manager): “I was inspired by a chance visit to Rye Harbour, which has a solar powered soundbench, and thought the concept would be perfect for the oral histories we were gathering to record the experiences of the Londoners involved with our 3-year project, Wild in the Parks, which encouraged locals to help create a wildlife garden in Regent’s Park. The oral histories – which any visitor can hear by sitting on the bench and pressing one of four buttons – include teenagers talking about the value of green spaces, non-British born kids on the differences between their home country and the UK, and, of course, tales about the creation of the park itself. Happily, the project really did seem to improve lives: one woman from Pakistan was afraid of birds but, after getting involved, said, with a smile: “I’ve changed my mind. I love them now”.
Thursday, 26 March 2009
Running Silent, Running Deep, Highbury Fields
Matt Faherty, 1949 – 2007
Marianne Floy (sister): "When I hadn’t heard from Matt for a week or so, he used to say he was silent running, a reference to submarines during the war lying on the bottom of the ocean, with their engines off to avoid detection. Matt was not one for small talk when silence would do, yet he enjoyed the craic, was utterly dependable, and so terribly missed that 400 turned out for his funeral."
Janette Faherty (ex-wife): “In his youth – circa 1971 – Matt wrote a couple of record reviews for an ill-fated attempt at Time Out North West. But although he was a music fan all his life he followed his father into property, and worked in an office overlooking Highbury Fields. He was the developer behind much of the regeneration of Clerkenwell, even rediscovering the original Clerks Well which had been covered over for many years. His favourite song, which he chose for his funeral, was by 1960s artist Roy Harper, which starts with the lines, ‘Come and be buried with me, down in Highgate Cemetery’: it would have tickled him to know that he was literally looking down from his plot over Karl Marx’s tomb – and across the London he helped develop.”
Marianne Floy (sister): "When I hadn’t heard from Matt for a week or so, he used to say he was silent running, a reference to submarines during the war lying on the bottom of the ocean, with their engines off to avoid detection. Matt was not one for small talk when silence would do, yet he enjoyed the craic, was utterly dependable, and so terribly missed that 400 turned out for his funeral."
Janette Faherty (ex-wife): “In his youth – circa 1971 – Matt wrote a couple of record reviews for an ill-fated attempt at Time Out North West. But although he was a music fan all his life he followed his father into property, and worked in an office overlooking Highbury Fields. He was the developer behind much of the regeneration of Clerkenwell, even rediscovering the original Clerks Well which had been covered over for many years. His favourite song, which he chose for his funeral, was by 1960s artist Roy Harper, which starts with the lines, ‘Come and be buried with me, down in Highgate Cemetery’: it would have tickled him to know that he was literally looking down from his plot over Karl Marx’s tomb – and across the London he helped develop.”
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