The project I am working on for the Travel and Trauma (Dark Tourism) conference (11-12th April) is now – in light of Elie Wiesel’s comments regarding the Holocaust’s visual representation – called The Gate. I shall be writing on the windows of the Larkin Room at St. John’s college (see photograph below) using text I wrote whilst sitting and looking out the window for a period of one hour on 26th March 2008, between 12 and 1pm.
The text to go on the glass is as follows:
Looking outside the windows I can see the following. A modern complex straight ahead in front of which is a lawn. The bells are chiming twelve o’clock. The lawn is uneven, partly covered with weeds and daisies. To my left are a few shrubs, most bare except for the first green leaves of Spring. A small tree grows beside it and through the brambles I can see that the sky has turned dark; I expect it will rain soon, or even given the recent weather it may even snow. Beside the shrubs are a few daffodils which already seem weary. Last years leaves are mixed with the pebbles just by the bottom of the windows and the earth is peppered with acorns. Ivy grows up the exterior wall. To my right – another tree and more shrubs which are looking in a somewhat healthier state. Again a few meagre daffodils seem uncertain as to whether they should come out or not. The shrubs have been pruned here and the leaves are moving slightly in the breeze. Across the path grows a much older and larger tree – I’m not sure of the type – is it an oak? That might account for the acorns. Surrounding it is a large flower bed – more shrubs, another tree and a much larger crop of daffodils. I start to wonder about the wall; a number of people walk up the path and disappear from view from behind the concrete pillar. I can hear voices and also the rumble of traffic from town. There’s only voices and the sound of birds. I return to the wall and wonder about its provenance. How old is it? Did it mark the boundary of something? A man with glasses and a bald head walks down the path. Someone outside is coming down the stairs – there are two of them, a man and a woman. They disappear and the birds start singing again – not that they really stopped. The wall runs round the perimeter of this garden, except on one side where it has become a part of the modern building – concrete pillars, girders and glass. A small strip light is on and seems very ugly in this place. A girl walks past checking her phone. She walks without looking as if she knows this place so well she hardly needs to look – like a ghost following the trail of their lives. There are two litter bins; one is made of concrete and has a lid – the other is dark grey – plastic and much smaller. I think it must be a blackbird I can hear – much louder than any other. Next to the modern building is another – a different design and just as ugly. It’s hard to tell its age, whether it’s newer or older than that which faces me, or even that in which I am sitting. There is a long grey piece of guttering running down its entire length; I notice as I look at it that rain is beginning to fall; not as heavy as I thought it might be, just a veil of rain. Following my eyes to the left of the gutter , I find myself looking at a row of houses. From the design and the brick work I imagine that they’re nineteenth century. Strange how they seem much more human than those ahead of me and that behind which I am sitting. A girl walks past with a purple scarf and a bag – dark hair – she’s gone. A door slams somewhere behind me. In the corner of this garden (here comes the man I mentioned earlier, bald with glasses; he’s carrying a book) is another tree; strange how they seem to appear, how I didn’t notice them earlier. Another man in a short-sleeved shirt walks past. I see his reflection in the windows as he walks behind me. I think I can see a shield engraved on one of the windows ahead of me; is it the crest of the college? I can’t tell what it is – it actually looks like a cockerel. A pigeon wanders about on the grass – another tree! A silver birch sapling. I can hear footsteps and I see someone’s reflection in the window. A girl with a dark jacket, hand in pockets head bowed against the rain. I notice now, that the roof of the building straight ahead (another man in a t-shirt – then a couple, a man and a woman wearing a hood – then one carrying an umbrella) is made from what look like old tiles. Was there a building here before from which they were taken? If not, where have they come from? A bird flies across in front of me, I didn’t notice what it was. I see now that the wall around the garden is actually breached by a passage which goes somewhere – I’ve no idea where. Also, just next to the large flower bed (a man in a blue sweater walks past, his keys or something clanking with each step he takes) there is a flight of steps. They must lead to a raised pathway. The girl I mentioned earlier with the purple scarf walks across carrying a large pink bag. There are voices just outside . They greet each other? The couple – the girl with the hood and the young man walk back. An aeroplane roars overhead as another shadowed figure drenched in a wet coat walks past. More footsteps and again I cannot see where they come from. Then I see a young woman with a purple hat. Her steps echo as she walks through the passage to my right. A young man with glasses saunters past carrying a bottle of something, he walks around the lawn and down the passage I didn’t see earlier. The pigeon takes off and flies over the wall. In the windows of the building opposite I see the pale grey sky and the reflections of the older buildings. Two reflections just like ghosts appear in the glass ahead of me then disappear just like the rising tide of the traffic. And suddenly, for the first time since I sat down, I can hear the sound of a clock ticking somewhere in the room, counting of the passing time, just as the words of the those who walk around the lawn. Another aeroplane – or is it thunder? The sky is much brighter now although the rain is falling no less hard. As I speak however it starts to come down harder. I can hear it now, before it fell and didn’t make a sound. Now I can hear it scratching at the glass – I can see how it makes people run whereas before they were happy just to walk. I notice a drain cover down to the left – on it more acorns. A young man runs down the path to my right. Someone is talking behind me. The path is now reflecting the world through the fact it is so wet. The concrete pillars opposite are fragmented in the pattern of the slabs, as is the concrete bin. A couple walk past – the girl is carrying a pinkish patterned umbrella. The rain comes even harder now; I can hear it on the leaves of the shrubs, it drowns out the clock, as if each drop is a second and all the seconds that came before are returning to the earth. The drain cover has a distinct puddle now. Someone bangs something. Voices come behind me. I see their reflections in the windows, but I don’t see them. The sky appears to be becoming blue now, but yet it continues to pour with rain. I can hear the clock but I can’t see where it is. I just know time is passing without knowing how much. Someone is whistling; there is no tune to speak of, just a vague collection of notes strung together with a breath. There is, I realise another – what looks like a flower bed to my left, surrounding the tree. I wonder how it looks in the summer. My eye holds the image of a young man in a luminous jacket. He’s gone now but I can still see him. Where does everyone go, I can’t tell from where I am sitting. The rain is easing now, and the sound of the traffic intensifies, pricked by the footsteps which echo behind me. I can hear words but do not understand them, they are shapeless. I can see another light – a round, globe light in the building ahead and to the left; there’s something so depressing about them – lights on during the day. It’s stopped. The rain, but all around, the colours are by a few degrees darker. , the pathways reflect the world around them. A door opens to my right with a creak and closes. Footsteps. The sky is brightening up and the sun picks up the wet branches of the trees,, as if the sky itself has been cut to shape and laid upon them. And some are decorated with small droplets – of course now it’s started to rain again. What’s beyond the wall? There is the drone of an aeroplane, the percussion of rain and footsteps. Harder and harder it comes now. I can see it strike the path ahead of me. It’s actually hail. The rain seems to fall as lengths rather than drops. In front of me, on the step just outside, I watch the drops strike the puddle which has formed like the arms of an old typewriter striking the letters on the page. A few hailstones leap upon the lawn, as if they have been spat from the ground rather than fallen from the sky. The pigeon takes flight – a blue and green umbrella – one with a proper wooden handle. Three people walk past. They laugh through the passage. The girl is wearing a pink coat. I wonder what they are laughing about? A man walks but I couldn’t hear what he said – now I can – his friend is talking about something with flowers on. He laughs and they’re gone. The puddle on the manhole cover gets bigger, but the drops are falling slowly now; the typewriter is slowing down, the world has a little less to say. Funny how the walls surrounding this garden seem so unmoved by the rain – how much rain has fallen upon them in the years they have existed? Who have they seen walk past? Are we a blur to them? Do we pass by so quickly that we are not seen? I see a reflection walk slowly past in the glass, as if the glass is ice and the image is slowed to the speed of its molecules. Abstract patterns in the glass ahead of me like modern stained glass. A girl walks past and into the building. I see her through the windows at the top. I see her walk all the way to the left before she is swallowed by the dark of the glass as if she was never anything but a reflection. The clock strikes the hour. One o’clock.