Henry VIII entrusted Trinity House Corporation with ensuring the
safety of English navigation and for five centuries they made, tested and
repaired navigation buoys at Trinity Buoy Wharf. It sprawls at the end of
a cul de sac by the confluence of the River Lea and the River Thames and wears
the air of an abandoned island.
I'm sitting in Bow Creek Café, a shack perched at the edge of
the wharf. Instead of an awning, customers are shaded by a torn sail, no longer
seaworthy but still bearing its insignia. Nautical ephemera are scattered
around. Planters are roughly fashioned from recycled metal sheets and ships'
lanterns adorn the invasive buddleia. Behind the low wall floats a
restored lightship, pillar box red and hankering for stormy seas. A memory
of seaweed scents the air. Cormorants arrange themselves neatly on a
railing, each exactly a foot from his neighbour. They stretch their wings to
dry, maquettes of the Angel of the North, and scan the water nonchalantly. The
Thames is clean now and fish are plentiful. At the next table,
entrepreneurs huddle over a laptop and discuss business plans furtively.
Across the creek, clanging and grinding from a metal reclamation yard competes
with periodic assaults from City Airport planes, a reminder that Trinity Buoy Wharf
is poised between a secure past and an uncertain future.
The site is an unkempt jumble of low buildings, yellow London
stock tattooed with Victorian soot, empty storage sheds, defunct boiler rooms
and dusty offices with cracked windows. Presiding over it is London’s
only lighthouse, not a lissom white seaside tower but a squat brick edifice
topped with an out of proportion glass beacon.
As a defence against encroaching gentrification, Trinity Buoy
Wharf has reinvented itself as arts centre, epitomising the country's
transition from manufacturing industry to service provision. The lighthouse now
emits sound not light: Longplayer is an electronic programme set to generate
music without interruption or repetition for a thousand years. Its
plangent strains creak and whistle, like whale song. The hangar-like
chain store is a hospitality venue and, as I watch, is being tricked out with
lights and decorations for a wedding. Its maritime heritage endows an
unassailable brand; shorn of this association, Trinity Buoy Wharf could not
compete with the bumptious O2, smugly astride the Greenwich peninsula opposite.
Studios are shipping containers, gaily painted in orange,
yellow, red and white. Portholes are cut in their sides and open doors frame
small balconies with potted plants. A nearby artist sketches a fire
escape supported by two figures reminiscent of ships' figureheads.
This is a junkyard of the sea curated by a rust fetishist:
whimsical metal sculptures; a moon and tide clock mounted on a reclaimed cast
iron pillar; a confection of concentric gears with bronze body parts attached
to each ring reimagine the human figure as they are rotated.
© David Thompson 2015
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