An Illustrated Guide to Our Landscaping

I don't have much for you today. I'm about to skedaddle out the front door to French class. (And what's French for "skedaddle," anyway?)

I talked to our flat's managing agent yesterday about the front garden, and they said they'd sent my photos to a gardener for a price quote. As soon as the landlord approves the quote the work can begin. I have a feeling we'll be living with our fallen bush and overgrown shrubbery for a few more weeks, at least.

By request:

Here's the front of our house. (Nice recycling bin, huh?) Our flat is on the bottom. There's another family upstairs, and I believe they own that unit -- how they fit into the question of front garden maintenance I'm not sure. Anyway, as you can see, the bushes are quite overgrown and could use some pruning and shaping.

These tall, pointy Italian cypresses are the trees that bother the neighbor (who lives to the left). As you can see, they're not particularly close to her window, but whatever.

I've pretty much washed my hands of this whole situation. They aren't our bushes, and we're not responsible for them. I have to just let the landlord, the agent, the gardener and the neighbor sort out what happens.

(This is far more than you wanted to know about our landscaping, isn't it?!)

(Top photo: Police box mural in Streatham, South London.)

Sculpting with Light

I'm kind of embarrassed about that last post.

Instead of complaining about our neighbor, again, I should be bridging the gap between us. Shouldn't I? Perhaps I should talk to her about the trash cans, even.

But first things first. I took my photos of our collapsed bush yesterday morning, and I also knocked on the neighbor's door and talked to her about which bushes she's unhappy with. Turns out she's targeted the tall Italian cypresses in front of the house, which she says are blocking light to her front window. (For the record, her window is about 10-12 feet away across two alleys between our houses.)

So I photographed those too, and sent the pictures to the landlord's agent. I said that I couldn't see how the cypresses could be pruned without ruining them, but I'm leaving it all in the agent's hands. At the end of the day, they are not our shrubs. (I did say that the rest of the front garden needs some pruning, which is true. Maybe if they tidy it up, that will be enough to please the neighbor.)

Last night, after work, I had a Royal Photographic Society meeting. But it didn't begin until 6:30 near Baker Street, and I got off work at 5 p.m. There's an exhibit of light-based sculptures and artworks at Canary Wharf right now, so I decided to hop on the tube and go check it out. I knew the schedule would be tight but I thought I could do it.

What I failed to remember is that Canary Wharf is a huge banking and business center, and everyone gets off work at 5 p.m. or soon after. So the tube station was immobilized by crowds of people trying to get home. It took me much longer than I expected to get out of there, and I was late for my meeting.

The sculptures were cool, though -- at least the few that I was able to see. The one at the top, "Fantastic Planet" by Amanda Parer, consists of a huge inflatable humanoid figure crouching as if "it has just landed and is quietly and gently exploring our fantastic planet." (According to the exhibit's web page.)

When I visited, it was sitting back on its haunches a bit, as the evening was very windy.

And this one, "bit.fall" by Julius Popp, creates a waterfall of words taken from live newsfeeds. It was mesmerizing to watch! See it in action in my video here.

As I said, I was late for the RPS meeting, but as it turned out that wasn't a big deal. I was there long enough to see a few people and have some quick conversations. We had a little mini-photo exhibit and competition based on London open spaces, and I entered this photo (top) of Olga, but it didn't win. One guy immediately recognized it as mine, though, based on our famous dog!

The Neighbor

We're still trying to deal with our landlord and the collapsed bush. I think I mentioned that while the bush is no longer blocking our front door, it's now lying on its side across the landscaping at the front of the house, which is not a satisfactory situation. It's too big for us to remove ourselves, and besides, the front garden is the landlord's domain.

So this morning, during the 1/2 hour of sunlight I experience while at home on a weekday, I need to take pictures of the bush and send them to the managing agent, at his request. Maybe then he can get it resolved.

He's also asked me to photograph a tree or bush that our neighbor has complained about -- something about it blocking her window. I'm not sure which tree or bush he means. Our neighbor doesn't like one of the trees in the back yard because a branch overhangs her property -- she's complained to us about it before -- so I'm going with that one. But I can't see how she could possibly argue that it interferes with her window. It's 25 feet from her house.

We've tried to like this neighbor, but she's the same woman who uses our garbage cans and then expects us to do 100 percent of their care taking -- moving them back into the alley after the garbage men come, that kind of thing. She's hyper-attentive to all of Dave's gardening, often critically, and she's been known to suggest that we mow our lawn. (We're not super-meticulous but we never let it get crazy.) Basically, she's Gladys Kravitz. Why is she all up in our business?

I have the terrible feeling that she's targeted some other bush on our property, and I'm going to make clear to the managing agent that we want to be consulted before they make any changes.

In other news, my French classes start again on Saturday. I wish I could say I'm looking forward to them, but frankly, I'm kind of dreading them. If I'm ever going to learn this language I need to keep plowing ahead, though!

(Photo: A cactus in the fogged-up window of a florist's shop, West Hampstead.)

The Bowie Mural

At lunch yesterday I hopped on the tube and made a quick trip to Brixton, in South London, to check out the scene at the David Bowie mural near Brixton station. Bowie spent part of his childhood in Brixton, before moving with his family farther south near Bromley when he was six. The mural has become a focal point of public mourning in London. (You may have even seen it on the news.)

There'd been a memorial gathering for him the night before, so I knew I'd find masses of flowers, and I wasn't disappointed.

The mural is about two and a half years old, painted by the street artist James Cochran, also known as "Jimmy C."

When I first got there, I could barely see it! There was quite a crowd.

In addition to flowers, photos, notes and candles people left a few small oddities -- a small garden gnome, a bottle of pear cider.

One woman was trying to drum up customers for a walking tour to Bowie's nearby childhood home. She didn't have any takers, at least not in the few minutes I was there.

I've thought more about what I wrote yesterday -- the fact that even though I don't know a lot of Bowie's music, he meant something to me in terms of freedom and courage. One of my commenters made the point that "some artists are not in your life for their art" -- in other words, their mere presence, the ripples they cause, the discussions they prompt, are enough. I think there's a lot of truth to that. (Not that I don't recognize Bowie's art resonates with many, many people.)

David Bowie

I was shocked to hear yesterday morning about David Bowie's death. Like most people, I hadn't even known he was ill, and losing such an eternally youthful, adventurous artist at 69 seems untimely.

I must confess, I was never a huge Bowie fan. I never owned any of his albums. While I liked some of his more popular songs -- "Modern Love," "China Girl," "Changes" -- enough to sing along when they came on the radio, the only single I ever bought was "Space Oddity," the haunting extraterrestrial tale of Major Tom. (And that primarily because I really liked Peter Schilling's early-80s Cold War adaptation.)

I laughed yesterday when I read in one of his obituaries that his grade-school music instructors declared he had an "adequate" voice. That's about right.

Bowie's most valuable cultural contributions came from breaking rules. His gender-bending, make-up wearing, wild costumes and frank declarations of sexual freedom must have been mind-blowing at the time. When I was young he was one of just a handful of people I knew to be avowedly bisexual (Elton John was another). I specifically remember an interview in which Bowie said, "I like men. I like black girls." For a gay kid like me, more accustomed to the suburban smoothness of Barry Manilow and the Carpenters, that outspokenness made him something of a role model.

I think I might have been into Bowie if I'd heard more of him, and if I'd been more musically adventurous myself. But the experimental, performance-art aspect of much of his music didn't lend itself to radio airplay -- at least not without sacrificing a lot of the effect. To this day I don't think I've ever listened to a Bowie album in its entirety. Maybe I should.

(Photo: Orange Saab, South Hampstead.)

My Name in Lights

One of the more surreal experiences I've had lately came about ten days ago while riding the bus into London from Gatwick Airport. I looked out the window and saw myself. It freaked me out, until I realized a nanosecond later that I was seeing the offices of the Member of Parliament who shares my name.

Mr. Pudding had told me about this particular Steve Reed so I knew he was out there (and thank god he's Labour), but still -- the storefront gave me a jolt.

Yesterday I went back down to Streatham, Croydon and Mitcham, in far south London, and took a long photo walk, with the objective of photographing my namesake's signage.

I saw lots of other interesting sights too, of course, such as further indications of the passing of Christmas. It was a great day to be outside, sunny and pleasant for walking. I think we're supposed to get a cold snap this week, so I'm glad I seized the opportunity.

I saw some streets with intriguing names -- Therapia Lane, Headcorn Road -- but I was also glad I was no longer doing Bleeding London and didn't have to photograph them all.

I also saw one upsetting thing: A guy who left his dog tied near a shop came outside after the dog started barking. The dog, tail wagging furiously, jumped up to greet him -- and the man smacked the dog, hard, on the head. The dog cowered and it was all I could do not to say to the man, "Your dog is just happy to see you!" Which probably would have gotten me killed.

We are once again at that time of year where the sun is so low on the horizon that it shines right into my lens. Always a photographic challenge!

Old Christmas Trees

We're at that time of year when the old Christmas trees have been jettisoned, put out with the trash or in many cases simply piled onto the curb.

They turn up in a lot of strange places here in London, and sometimes they tend to linger for weeks, looking melancholy.

Olga found a whole bunch of them at West End Green yesterday morning. Whether this is an authorized recycling location, I'm not sure -- there is no enclosure like there is at Fortune Green just up the road. And why do people wrap their old trees in plastic and tape? That seems problematic for the recyclers.

We had a great day here yesterday. I got quite a bit done around the house and then took Olga on a long, muddy walk to Hampstead Heath Extension. She had a blast chasing squirrels, as usual. I'm always amazed at how much energy that dog has.