As I travelled, my mind was filled with
images that surfaced and vanished like a beautiful déjà vu. These images, which
confused stories with real past events, flashed through my mind in a blur.
Fleeting moments of my first steps through London at the beginning of the
seventies intertwined with excerpts from Edward Rutherford’s London, which I had just finished
reading. It was from this book that I learned the meaning the Thames held for
that city and its first inhabitants. The confusion and fear of flying had made
me weak. I thought only of arriving, getting through Heathrow, driving to
Northcote Road and finally resting from the anxiety produced by being
imprisoned in a massive, roaring, metal cage that is always on the verge of
falling.
I arrived. The plane,
thanks to the kindness of our pilot, toured the city of London from the mouth
of the Thames to the airport. The city looked beautiful, the sky a cloudless
blue, providing an unencumbered view of the city from end to end. On this trip,
I wanted, amongst a thousand other things, to rediscover the reality created by
Michelangelo Antonioni in 1966 based on the fictitious account written by Julio
Cortazar. The original story occurs in Paris but, in a moment of lucidity, the
Italian director changed the setting to London. The adjustments made by
Antonioni were key to making the story cinematographically attractive. London
at that time was the place where everything in Europe was happening, Paris was
no longer the scene of the party, or at least for many people like myself, it
was a boring party in the three years before May 1968. But that is a different
story.
I had promised a long
time ago to retrace the steps of the photographer who, by chance, had
discovered the murder of a man fifty years before. My obsessions made me dream
of the scene in the park several times. They also drove me to see the film no
less than six times. I left in the morning in search of a map of London. I knew
the name of the park and thought of tracing a precise route to find it. I
walked down Northcote Road and in a library near Clapham Junction I bought my
map. I sat at Costa Coffee and went through the process of identifying the
landmarks that were part of the story.
Looking at the map I
delved back into my time in that city. I discovered I had lost my bearings so I
travelled through the map with my finger, touching it, caressing it, finding
the venue of the 1981 Pink Floyd concert: The Wall. I then recalled the Earl’s
Court Exhibition Centre, a landmark of rock music. I remembered too, Zeppelin
and Wings at the Hammersmith Odeon, and then Royal Albert Hall where I had seen
Clapton, Morrison and Dylan. I lingered on Carnaby Street, an icon of the
sixties that had become a dull and unattractive street populated by uninspiring
stores. The invasion of brand names and their monopoly over innovative design
has turned commerce into an exercise of buying for the sake of buying. In
London this has become quite frequent as punk and hippie clothing have lost
their edge and become styles and aesthetics that people can easily consume.
I awoke from my
lethargy when an English woman about eighty years of age looked at me and said,
“Life happens without danger.” I wanted to entangle her in conversation but she
looked me squarely in the eyes and left. She could be a character out of
Rutherford’s book, but definitely not from Antonioni’s film. My mind wandered
thinking that we humans embody our own ancestors; she could easily have descended
from the family of the druid who mentored the first inhabitants of Londinium,
even before the arrival of the Romans over two thousand years ago. Her face
seemed familiar; it is possible that I had seen her in a British film. She
looked more like a Glenda than a Vanessa, with short, brown hair, light,
honey-coloured eyes and a strong face with wrinkles hidden behind a menacing
glare. I thought of her for a long time and left without escaping her memory.
The next day I looked
for her. I figured she would arrive at the same time of day and I was right.
She looked at me with contempt, her cold stare warning me not to make an
approach. I didn’t try. I laid my map on the table and traced a route between
Clapham and Greenwich, the area covered by Maryon Park. My memory of the film
had dulled and thus, fearing these lapses of recall would hinder my
investigation, I decided to watch it again. I did not know, for example, if the
antique store that appears in the film was real or a tableau. I also had no
idea where the mimed tennis match took place. I slowly sipped my coffee and
decided that that night I would go to the pub in Bedford.
I looked up thinking
the waitress had arrived with the check. Instead, the old, English woman was
standing in front of me wearing a blue dress and a hat of the same colour. She
once again stared squarely into my eyes, leaned forward, put her hand on the
table and said, “Life happens without danger.” She then made a swift exit,
escaping my curiosity. I did not go after her knowing the attempt would be
futile.
It was not full. The
house conserved the splendour of the years in which I had first visited it. The
Bedford looked the same. A large, mostly English, group stood outside with beer
pints and cigarettes in a scene now common in this city where anti-tobacco laws
have broadened the boundaries of pubs onto the sidewalk in the same way summer
makes the days stretch into night. Perhaps the worst fear that Londoners have
is that the weather turn permanently to summer, half the world would come and
live here.
I asked for a
half-pint of Stella Artois and pondered the fact that my obsessions had
changed. Not only was the photographer from Blowup
occupying my mind, it was now shared by the old woman who was slowly becoming
more intriguing, giving me the chills of suspense. I didn’t know what would
happen with her, where she was at that precise moment or even whether I would
see her again. The image of her white hand riddled with deep, blue veins that
protruded so far they looked on the verge of bursting, was with me as I
finished the beer. The musician October provided the background music to these
meandering ruminations of London, the beer and wine did the rest.
I missed the Yardbirds
and especially missed the scene from Blowup,
the rhythm, the voice, the guitar, and the percussion, everything that pointed
towards the fact that things were going well in those years. The urgency for
perfection was what led Jeff Beck to smash a guitar in public. Others would see
this as an act of protest in the face of the audience’s passivity. Afterwards
as confusion ensues in the film, the pieces of the guitar are collected by the
photographer who summarily throws them away on his way out. Antonioni imparts
throughout the film scenes created for the purpose of speculating their
symbolism, but that is not my desire.
Today I found out that
David Hemmings, the actor who played the photographer in Blowup, had passed away. I felt the same sadness one feels when
losing a friend, a stranger who nevertheless felt like a best friend. He did
not reach seventy; a heart attack took him seven years ago on a film set. He
died doing what he loved. I knew he had worked in Gangs of New York but I didn’t recognise him, the years had not
passed in vain. He was impossible to identify, in that film DiCaprio more
closely resembled the Hemmings from Blowup
than David himself.
While October tried
hard not to imitate Joss Stone, her bare feet were a dead giveaway. Her happy
voice and general cheerfulness established a dialogue with the audience that I
did not understand. We left through the back door and came upon a large dancing
hall used for classes. We danced until realising four couples were in Foxtrot
lessons, coming and going in a slow version of the dance, sliding and turning
pirouettes, making it impossible not to remember the scene between Marlon
Brando and Maria Schneider in Last Tango
in Paris.
We left without having
a destination in mind. At least I didn’t have one, unable to plan anything
because of the all-encompassing nature of my obsession. I wasn’t interested.
When I got home, I sat on the stairs of the doorway and smoked a long Cuban
cigar, entranced by my recent passion: re-writing stories that remained in the
blurry recesses of my mind but whose force I could not escape. Film is an
endless fountain for these stories, music the bridge that unites them with
reality. I also found out that Keith Relf, the blonde, lead singer of the
Yardbirds who impeccably sang Stroll On
in the film, died in 1976, electrocuted while playing the guitar.
The afternoon yielded
way to a short night in the midst of a glittering sun. A series of thoughts
paraded through my mind to the song I’m
So Tired by John Lennon and Paul McCartney, reinforcing an old idea I had
always toyed with: The Beatles are the chroniclers of an era, the sixties and
seventies, and of an England populated by the images of Penny Lane, Lovely
Rita, Eleanor Rigby and Michelle. These are chronicles of characters that
probably entered their lives in the most unexpected manner. Fleeting
appearances turned into musical icons in this country and exported with great
success around the world.
The cigar was slowly
consuming itself. A man passed by and exclaimed, “Nice cigar!” as he smiled and
glanced my way. As he departs I am under the impression he is walking to the
rhythm of The Benefit of Mr. Kite,
leaving in his wake a trail of colours in which a yellow submarine could become
shipwrecked. Suddenly, and without realising it, I too am submerged in this
colourful aura amongst images reminiscent of music album covers from that era.
Then I remember that once in a dream I learned to fly and do so, entering a
massive, enlarged picture, liberating myself from fear.
As I slowly approach
Maryon Park, I find that the antique store has disappeared. In its place are an
unsightly group of houses whose architecture speaks nothing of the London
skyline. Their presence obscures the view of the city I love. I climb the steps
to the entrance and look hurriedly for the place I have been searching for. The
same trees, thirty years later, surround the exact spot where David photographs
Vanessa kissing a man only to later discover a body and an assassin lurking in
the grainy shadows of the film. I walk unhurriedly towards the spot, images
from the movie merging with reality. My internal camera looks for the same
angle, the same light, the same backdrop and I shoot within a fraction of a
second more than a thousand pictures. The park is still; there are no birds to
be seen, no noise, like an homage to silent film.
I lean over the exact
spot where, 35 years earlier, the dead man lay. Like a forensic expert, I look
for any trace, a fingerprint, anything, that will decipher this unsolved
mystery. I leisurely run my hand over the grass and a strange feeling overcomes
me, compelling me to draw a human figure with my hand.
I run towards the
tennis courts and find two petrified mimes playing an endless tennis match,
frozen in the gaze of passersby like salt statues, ice statues. The ball,
suspended in the air precisely during match point ensures that the game will
never have a winner. I try to understand the phenomenon of the suspended ball
and look upwards. Nothing physical seems to be holding it there. I turn my head
to observe the mimes. The man is tense with apprehension waiting for the ball
to fall, his racket in place for a backhand swing. The woman, who has just hit
the ball, shows the hint of a smile. Her wide-open eyes betray surprise and
look apologetic, as if anticipating that the ball will fall out of bounds.
My mind turns back to
the man lying on the floor and I return to the scene of the crime. A black man
crosses our path wearing a set of headphones that completely isolate him from
the rest of the world. He laughs, seemingly floating on his own happiness. I see
a map of the park and stop in front of it. The park has been renamed Blowup, I
imagine as a tribute to the film and to Antonioni himself. A van approached
quickly. I rapidly climb to the highest part of the park, looking like I am
trying to escape. I turn to the tennis courts again and see the mimes climbing
into the van. I wave goodbye in response to the myriad of hands that wave at
me, as if this were the end.
I keep climbing and
finally reach the place where I drew with my hand the figure of the dead man. I
have no idea how, but the image has become embedded in the grass, looking as if
it has been burned into the ground. The drawing is of a man who is one hundred
and eighty centimetres tall and portly; a few meters from him is a chair where
people have etched their name over the years. Their name, the date and the word
Blowup. People who have visited the same spot. All of them, like me, have been
drawn to this mysterious death diluted by the scale of history.
I look towards the
entrance and see a woman approach me. Without reason, my instincts tell me to
hide behind the bushes. It is the old woman from Costa Coffee, wearing the same
dress, holding a rose in her hand. She bends over the outline of the figure in
silence and lays down the rose in the spot where the heart would be. She looks
towards my hiding place and almost inaudibly begins to whisper, “Life happens
without danger.”
I wake up to the sound
of my roaring snores produced probably in equal parts by fatigue and wine. The
woman beside me says I haven’t stopped snoring and furthermore, have slept with
a bewildered look on my face, something she has never seen before. She said I
looked like a sleepwalker watching a movie with his eyes closed. I told her I
had dreamt I was David, the photographer, whose eyes were open. I looked
closely at the photograph he took over thirty years ago; the only one he had
kept. In it, it is possible to discern the grainy outline of a man’s body in
the grass, hidden amongst the bushes in Maryon Park near Greenwich in Southeast
London.
