Bonfire Night, Battersea Park
"Remember, remember the fifth of November. The gunpowder, treason and plot. I know of no reason why the gunpowder treason should ever be forgot." But we all forget and it doesn't really matter because it means something very different today. I have been trying to do a piece of work about Bonfire Night for years. I was born in York, the home of Guy Fawkes and like most other children I was only bothered about the firework with the biggest bang. But as I have grown older I have become more interested in the crowds. Those looking up as sparks of colour shoot across the sky. There is something primal and elemental about this night. It's a hard thing to draw though, but every year I go back to look and sketch the instant, the moment memorising that which sums up the spirit of the place. Children climbing trees, awe and wonder. The balance between harmony and chaos. At the moment the rest of the world resides in chaos. Other explosions have the purpose to destroy, not to delight. My childhood comes back with the taste of candyfloss and toffee apple. Sparklers arc circles and names in the night. And we are all here as one, no matter where we are from. United by memories of our past and hopes for peace in the future. United in our woolly hats, scarves and gloves.
A fire festival like so many before. They have always been around, to promote growth and the welfare of man and beast. To avert the dangers of the dark side. To protect against evil. " by God's providence he was catch'd with a dark lantern and burning match" I write these ideas by the pond at my studio. I think about transformation, of good becoming bad, of poison becoming medicine. From the murky depths of this green algae soup grows the water lily flower. Here, many at Battersea Park don't think what this land once was, a quagmire of factory discharge. They forget who this man once was too, now a burning effigy of wicker. The moment is right now. With a whoosh, and an Ahhhhhh and Eeeeeee. The music blares symphony and hints at a Close Encounter of a Third Kind. And the nimble are up trunk, hugging branch back to deeper roots from many lifetimes before. Of Jack 'O' The Green and Willow the Wisp. Of songs around midnight ember. Of earth deep in slumber. Now it awakes once more with a roar " Three score barrels of powder below"
Its July here in Wandsworth as I write this, a wet rainy July. Other seasons pass in memories. Last Winter I leave this park, paper fireflies gently float down into the dark. Children piggy back on dads' shoulders. Tired families on their way back. Its out of the mud onto the hard tarmac. The beep-beep of the central lock, the car door shut, safe indoors, Home. T.V. on. Tucked up in bed. And its forgotten that they should remember, remember the fifth of November. The gunpowder, treason and plot.