190 Wilmslow Rd, Heald Green, Cheadle SK8 3BH
The original Long Lane Post Office is still there but not here:
However – I digress.
One fine day, some time ago there popped into my consciousness a Sixties retail mosaic in the Heald Green area – I tracked down its precise whereabouts online, in the modern manner.
Thinks – one fine day, just you wait and see I’ll pay a visit to the Heald Green area.
So today I did, it started off fine and finished up less so.
Jumped the 368 from Stockport Bus Station alighted at The Griffin.
Walked aways up the road and there it was, almost intact – it’s original name obliterated with lilac exterior emulsion – did it once read healds?
Why of course it did – the local dairy and retailers were the shop’s original owners.
A few tesserae are missing otherwise the piece is as was – a wobbly jumble of text, shape and colour.
Self service – at your service.
All towns have ghosts, none more so than Scarborough.
High atop a castle topped, wind whipped promontory, lies Anne Bronte, overlooking the harbour below, wayward Whitby whalers wail, lost fisher folk seek solace.
Its walls ache with traders past, scissors that no longer snip, click-less shutters, unlettered rock and loaves that no longer rise.
Layers of sun baked, peeling paint on brick, rendered almost illegible.
As Alan Resnais would say Scarborough, mon amour!
For more years than I care to remember I have had an interest in Found Art.
The naturally occurring collision of printed material, the unseen hand and weather.
Our streets are literally littered with the stuff.
Conscious of the work of Kurt Schwitters, Hannah Hoch, Jasper Johns and Robert Rauschenberg, I’m conscientiously out and about in search of the unconscious.
Here’s a sample of my findings so far:
Ὁ βίος βραχύς,ἡ δὲ τέχνη μακρή,ὁ δὲ καιρὸς ὀξύς,ἡ δὲ πεῖρα σφαλερή,ἡ δὲ κρίσις χαλεπή.
I have no wish to take issue, with the finer thoughts and feelings of Deborah A. Ten Brink.
There is a sense that our earthly endeavours, may serve to assist us in avoiding the void, the cold dark inevitability of eternity, that everyday here today, gone tomorrow feeling.
Nothing lasts forever, except forever and nothing.
The cherished memories, condensed in a fraction of a second, rendered corporeal in photographic emulsion, carefully stored in family albums.
Are but a trick of light, a slight of hand, heart and mind.
Blink and they’re gone.
Blink again and you’re gone.
Here they were.
Here they are.