Going through the Canary Wharf on the DLR, especially in the haze of the morning hours, is an experience. The sun rising from somewhere beyond the Isle of Dogs, the colours of the dawn’s reflection on the walls of glass, ruled, like a notebook page; then going over the bridges and seeing everything reflected from the water, as if there being another dimension in there somewhere, thinking how bizarre it is that these structures are built as if on water, with new ones under construction and being completed, and the building that has been a skeleton for 12 years already. There are old ships and luxury apartments, looking so impersonal to live in but providing such a futuristic backdrop for my commute. 

It was foggy that morning, and I knew what I wanted to photograph. I got off the train at West India Quay station, walked at the south end of the platforms, and found a spot with the least restricted view towards Canary Wharf station. I took a few light meter readings and composed the image. Looking through the viewfinder, however, I decided to change the shutter speed from 1/25 to 1/50 (my Rolleiflex dates before the time shutter speeds were fixed to the ones commonly in use today) because so much of the area inside the frame was permeated with almost translucent mist. The fog of the early morning was already beginning to disperse. I waited for a few trains to go past and one to leave the platform towards Lewisham. Just before the next train to Bank came in full view, I pressed the shutter. 

I had seen this view when, trying to hide my excitement, I had one time gotten a front seat and at another time the very last seat on the DLR. This sight of the Canary Wharf DLR station has since been on the back of my mind. The decisive moment to take the photograph came when a day off and thick fog over London coincided. 

I wonder though if it is misleading to say that I as the photographer was the creator of this image, in the sense that I would have had an original idea and would have made this photograph as an object. I took this image; I saw it; and I copied it with a camera apparatus. And yes, I could have produced a printed image, therefore an object, out of the 6x6cm- sized frame on a reversal film. Nevertheless, the sight is still out there for anyone else to photograph when the weather so permits.  

When I have mentioned this before, some very kind people have come to my rescue and defended my artistry by saying, for example, that I nevertheless have gone and wandered looking for photographs and brought an image to the public to look at. I agree with this, and it is indeed what every photographer holds onto. I don’t think I am belittling photography or what I do in general when I question the premise of the Artist Photographer. I am merely pointing out that the role of an artist photographer is challenging because anything can be framed and made into an image. The real, if I may insist on its existence, must precede its representation.  

I know, I know. The post-structuralist theory and the merry-go-around of the real and the representation. But my point is pragmatic.  

There is, however, something (else) that can’t be replicated or represented by creating an art object: being present, even for a short while, and seeing. Looking, breathing, being quiet. In that moment, there is also painful restlessness, a piercing realisation of being next to something beautiful and harmonious but being only next to it, not part of it. I feel that pain often but haven’t, until now, wanted to put it into words and look at it. Why? Have I thought it pointless? Why am I now willing to do this, hold that pain, like one does to a stone against the light, in order to see its contours better? Or am I? 

What can be said about this image, about it specifically as a photograph? Photographs are loaded with the capacity of meaning, but those interpretations have to be communicated, said, written; there have to be words. Art criticism or a critical reception of art works is a kind of interrogation of biases, meanings and readings, an arena where philosophical undercurrents are debated. To some, it is a conversation between the viewer and the image. There is an expectation that I, as the photographer, should contribute to this discussion, but I have always found this dual role stifling. I feel that I can’t occupy both of those positions simultaneously without making work that is self-conscious, literal, or only in dialogue with the art world. 

As the photographer, as the operator of the camera apparatus — the magical black box with a mechanical eye and an ability record what it sees — I am by no means innocent or neutral. Is it obvious, for example, that I am a white European and a female by looking at this image? And if so, is it damning?  

I keep going off a tangent in trying to read this photograph. Perhaps, having taken the image, I am too close to it to do so.  

Canary Wharf DLR station was opened in 1991 when the Isle of Dogs was regenerated after the closure of the London Docks. The station is built into the base of one of the first skyscrapers on the site what used to belong to the West India Docks. The photographs below depict this site before the docks were demolished. ​

Entrance gates to West India Docks, photograph, date unknown

General view of West India Docks, photograph, 1977

The Endurance, in the south West India Dock, before sailing for the Antarctic on the 1914 Imperial Trans-Antarctic Expedition. Photograph, 1914. Images, except author's own,  reproduced with the kind permission of London Picture Archive www.londonpicturearchive.org.uk 

One of the favourite parts of my pre-pandemic days was going through Blackfriars Station on my way to work. The platforms sit on the bridge, spanning over the Thames. If I was lucky, there was no southbound train on platform 1 and I was able to see the view: London Bridge, Tower Bridge in the distance, the dome of St Paul’s and the other somewhat anonymous buildings -- were some of them originally warehouses? — rinsed with the colours of the sunrise. For this reason alone, the Blackfriars Railway Bridge is one of my favourite constructions in London. 
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In fact, there have been two bridges with that name. The red pillars in this image are from the first bridge, built in 1864. The current railway bridge was built in 1886 and is partly supported by the 1864 bridge piers. The bridge was extensively remodelled by the Thameslink Programme. The refurbishment works started in 2009. While the station was fully functional by the time of the London Olympics in 2012, the improvements continued until 2019. During these works the platforms were extended across the river; the roof was fitted with photovoltaic panels providing up to 50% of the station’s energy; and a system to collect rainwater to be used in the toilets was installed. The station is also designed for a lot of natural light to get in, further reducing the use of energy. The remodelling was designed by Pascall + Watson Architects, executed by Jacobs, Toby Gee and Partners and built by Balfour Beautty. 

The etymology of Blackfriars, the area on the north bank of the river, takes us further back in history. The name comes from the Dominican monks who built a priory in the area in the 13th century. ‘Black’ was for the long black mantles the monks wore over their white robes and ‘friars’ is a derivation from the French word ‘frères’. The priory didn’t survive the dissolution of monasteries in 1538, and Blackfriars Theatre was built on its site. The theatre, in turn, closed during the Civil War and was demolished in 1655. A part of the priory wall can still be found on what remains of St Ann’s churchyard, on Ireland Yard. 

There are many more layers of history in this area. For example, there is the once prominent River Fleet, tributary to the Thames, that is now subterranean and more of a sewage than a river. There is Baynard’s House, the brutalist office block nearby the station, that is on the site of two castles that once stood there, both called the Baynard’s Castle. Opposite to the new station, where the Unilever House now stands, was a luxury hotel called De Keyser Royal Hotel. It was opened in 1874 by Constantin De Keyser, a Belgian immigrant who later left the management of the hotel to his son, Polydore De Keyser. Polydore De Keyser was involved in the city politics, despite continuous backlash due to his foreign origin. Still, he was elected the Mayor of London in 1887 and was knighted by Queen Victoria in 1888. The hotel business stayed in the family after his death in 1898. During World War1 however, it was requisitioned by the government and after the war sold to Lever Brothers who demolished it and built their new office, the Unilever House, on the site in 1931. 

The current railway bridge is best to be experienced, not photographed. The real subjects of this image are the red pillars. I had wanted to take a photograph of them for a while after I had first taken one from the other side of the river in the early days of these wanderings, only to realise that I had over-exposed it. The river had reflected the light, bouncing here and there. The slide film being what it is resulted in a photo that I couldn’t save in Lightroom so I decided to take another one.  

I chose a cloudy day because there would be less contrast between light and dark areas and therefore the textures and colours would come through. I was pleased when I got the slides back from the lab. The red of the pillars came out very vivid, surrounded by the muted palette of greys and browns. Somehow it reminds me of all things English, this palette of comfort, contrasted with vivid red; it is that almost translucent sky, like the mixture of black tea and milk, when the milk has just been poured in, next to the red of the London buses and the telephone boxes.  

The position of the photographer and the viewer alike is almost on ground level, a point of view which highlights the scale of these structures. The photograph is divided into two by the structures that dominate this image. On the left is the current Blackfriars Railway Bridge with its pink pillars, light grey metal arches and the aforementioned platforms stretching over the river. On the right are the pillars that remain of the old railway bridge. Their incompleteness renders them into a kind of a monument. 

I took this photograph because I have both admired and been fascinated by those red pillars. And as it is with anything that one admires, it feels nonsensical to discuss it, at least at length.  Looking at them is enough. Looking and capturing, since London is under constant change, erasure and re-building. There have been several remarkable buildings around Blackfriars of which nothing but a street name survives. Who knows if and when this photograph is looked at as a window to the past.  ​

Blackfriars Railway Bridge under construction in 1864, 
​a photomechanical reproduction

Celebrations by Blackfriars Bridge, photograph taken c1910

De Keyser’s Royal Hotel, a lithograph, c 1875.  ​

A photograph of the Blackfriars Bridge and railway bridge, c1890 

A photograph of people queueing at the tram stop in Blackfriars, 1912

A view of Baynard’s Castle, with a smaller image of the previous ruined castle, engraving, 1817 

This image -- of houses on Brandram Road in Lee -- was taken in Christmas time last December during a walk with Milo, my silky-smooth canine companion. For an alert and lively sprollie, Milo is usually very patient when I stop to photograph. He often sits right next to my feet, looking towards the opposite direction to which I have fixed my attention and waits. Sometimes he lets me know that I am taking too long, like he did on this occasion. 
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I had wanted to photograph the area for some time already, after I had found it by accident. A real Greenwich gem, Halcyon Books, had closed its doors and relocated to Lee High Street. Missing my regular haunt and a source of solace one Saturday afternoon, I counted my pocket money and decided to walk there. Soon however, I deviated from the route on Google Maps because of my bad short-term memory and the fatal confidence in knowing the way, which tends to possess me whenever my feet touch the grey London pavement. It wasn’t the first time I had gotten lost in there: the heath is my Bermuda’s triangle. I seem to be able to come across yet another large patch of grass and a row of grand houses that I think I haven’t seen before until I realise that I indeed have been there before, as perplexed, but walking from another direction, not too long ago. Likewise, I keep seeing the Ranger’s House from surprising angles and distances. Eventually -- and luckily -- the blue dot on my mobile aligned with the given route and so I went along Orchard Lane, Eliot place, turned to Heath Lane, past St Margaret’s Church, down on Brandram Road to Lee High Street and found Halcyon Books. 

Afterwards I went thereabouts for a stroll several times, looking for the buildings featured on the information boards near St Margaret’s Church. I went to Cator Estate in Blackheath having read about Wricklemarsh House that once stood there, peered through the gate onto the Merchant Taylor’s Almshouses from Brandram Road, found Boone’s Chapel and the Manor House Library. I made a mental note of the Dacre Pub on Dacre Road and tried to find the Firs, not realising that it had long been demolished. 

I took that photo of the houses on Brandram Road on one of these expeditions. During those walks, and indeed when researching and writing these texts, I once again came across the question of what this project is and isn’t about. I didn’t photograph the sites of those historic buildings I went to find because they, so to speak, didn’t catch my eye. Maybe the light was wrong, maybe there were too many cars in front of them -- or maybe they were, in my mind, too charged with their past, mixed with my imagination, that I couldn’t capture what I saw in them. Unsurprisingly, I took this photograph of the houses because of the light and the harmony of the colours and structure of the building. However, I hesitate to say that this image, or any of my photos, is only about its aesthetic although those qualities are most often the reason I press the shutter.  

I got into a similar maze online when looking into Lee’s and Blackheath’s history to that I tend to get into Blackheath itself. As well as official (-looking) sites such as Borough of Lewisham, I discovered several local history societies and bloggers, a conservation report for Blackheath from 2004 and a story about a blog about subterranean Greenwich that was taken down, seemingly by the government in the months before the 2012 Olympics.  

Finding these history blogs felt akin to coming across a local historians’ assembly at a pub and, intrigued, trying to listen in their conversations. The conclusion from this ‘eavesdropping’ is that the volume of research conducted is vast and that there is more to come. Still, as I haven’t wanted to borrow from other people’s work, I have kept the historical information in my essays brief, as a kind of a pin that one puts on a map to find one’s bearings. I have, however, included a few links to their blogs as further reading after each essay. 

These sources tell me that Lee was already mentioned in the Domesday Book in 1085, to be part of the historic county of Kent, then a historic parish of Blackheath until the parishes of Blackheath and Lewisham merged in 1900 to create The Metropolitan Borough of Lewisham. These rather dull, administrative details nevertheless tell about the population growth in London. Indeed, before Lee was absorbed into London, it was a rural, agricultural, and popular place to live for wealthy merchants who built large country houses in the 17th and 18th centuries some of which are still there today. Much of Lee’s wealth in that period had direct links to slave trade, a heritage that only lately has been excavated.  

Brandram road was called Church Lane in the OS map in 1860. In the map published in 1897 it had been renamed Brandram road, after an industrial chemist, Thomas Brandram. Brandram lived in the Cedars, one of the country houses still standing today, albeit divided into flats. In 1783 his father, Samuel Brandram, together with his business partners founded an enterprise manufacturing paint pigments as well as white lead, oil of vitriol and saltpetre. Thomas Brandram was the head of the firm for almost 50 years, until his death in 1855. The family had a factory and warehouses in Rotherhithe that was in business until the 1950s, when it was sold and some of the buildings were demolished.  The warehouse building still standing, by the river, is Grade II listed and was turned into a housing co-operative, called Brandram Wharf.   

The houses in this photograph are evidently built after World War 2, perhaps in the 1960’s as the area being trendy at the time was mentioned in one of the blogs. I haven’t, however, been able to find out any substantial information about these flats, for example when were they built, by whom and about the architect team involved.  

As well as the excitement of having found such a marvellous sight, I often feel a tinge of sadness that the moment of capturing it is over, and that this denouement should be announced by the sound of the shutter and the winding of the film roll, as satisfying as these mechanical sounds also are. That December afternoon, however, Milo interrupted these ruminations with a grunt. Milo might not speak any of our languages but he communicates in his with confident efficiency. When I turned to look at him, he had already changed his tactic. He looked straight into my eyes and waved his tail. I can’t but admire his negotiation skills. While my strongest weapon is a bag treats, he only has to look at me to make me reconsider my position. And so, we moved on. 

A photograph of the Manor House, dated 1943. Now used as a library 
Reproduced with the kind permission of the London Picture Archive www.londonpicturearchive.org.uk 

An engraving of St Margaret's Church, dated 1795 
Reproduced with the kind permission of the London Picture Archive www.londonpicturearchive.org.uk