Anglicana
Exploring notions of nostalgia in the English landscape

Photographs, stories and music

Phil Curry

As a musician I’ve had a lifelong love of what we now call Americana, or American roots music - a term which spans everything from Delta blues to folk and indie rock. This fascination has also spilled over to my photography, through the work of people such as William Eggleston and J Bennett Fitts - those images of places seemingly in the middle of nowhere; of run down motels, signs swinging half off their hinges and empty swimming pools, all portrayed in a dusty desaturated colour.

I began to wonder whether similar places existed in England and more specifically around where I live in Kent. Recently, by chance visiting a friend, she showed me her neighbour’s empty pool, which I just had to photograph. With a bit of post-editing, it could have been taken in 1959 and this planted the seed to search for my own nostalgic locations that have a certain resonance with that Americana atmosphere.

To help reinforce this, I have written short accompanying stories, the protagonists looking back at a time when something happened that either affected them then, or sent them on a journey of discovery in later life. Most of the stories are written as 'stream of consciousness', i.e I start writing without any clear image of what the story will be about. The reader might like to imagine how the narrative unfolds, preferably in a comfortable chair with a glass of something nice.

I am also composing a ‘soundtrack to the images and stories with an underlying spoken narrative that will be available as a download or similar digital format.

I suppose you could call it ‘Anglicana’.

Work in progress:

I'm still in the process of taking the final shots, writing new stories and composing the music, a couple of demos of which I include here.

Watch this space!

Recorded and mixed at 7:28 Studios . All images and music © Phil Curry & Robin File (with contributions from Melanie and Maddie File)

Frank's Caravan

They left Frank’s caravan parked in the garden as a reminder of how his life had been and why he would never go back. Two years before, Angela had painted it using whatever paint she could find in the garage. “That’s a bit random, isn’t it?” Frank had laughed. “Well, the whole thing was a bit random if you ask me,” Angela replied, referring to the way in which Frank’s caravan had ended up in her garden. “It’s ok,” Frank said, “I never liked the colour anyway. The door to the caravan was locked and Frank had thrown away the key. Inside, it was like a time capsule, with all Franks things lying around just as they had been when his old blue Transit finally breathed its last right outside Angela’s house.

The Slide.

When I was young, my cousins were always crashing down the slide, but it never appealed to me. I was a bit intimidated by their total desire to immerse themselves in water before breaking to the surface, spluttering and laughing. It made me wonder what it would be like to drown. I tried it in the bath once, opening my mouth to let the soapy water fill my lungs, forcing me to emerge a second later coughing and choking. They never laughed at me because I had no desire swim but my previous experience in the bath somehow prevented me from ever joining them in the water. Nowadays, with a daughter who swims like a fish, I wish I’d had the courage to take the plunge.

The feed shed.jpg

In later years, when Charlotte recalled what happened in the feed shed that day and how her uncle returned from the war, the first thing she remembered was having to go out in the torrential rain to cover the horses. When she got there, two of them were standing, backs soaked but with their heads in the shed munching their way through a bale of hay. But what took her completely by surprise was the fact that there was a man curled up sleeping in a corner, with an army greatcoat draped over him for warmth. Charlotte coughed to let him know he had company. The man sat up slowly and raised his arm to his forehead as if to see the person who had disturbed his sleep more clearly, “Kto ty”, he asked in what Charlotte later discovered was Russian…

The pool.

The pool was empty now and moss was beginning to grow on the slide. There was no point in getting nostalgic, John thought, the house was sold and all his grandmother’s memories packed up and sent off to storage. One day he would have to face the task of sorting it all out. He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a faded photograph. In it, the pool was full and his grandmother was lying on a sun bed on the left hand side, dressed in a red swimsuit, wearing a floppy straw hat and sunglasses. There was a small table next to her with a drink on. She was smiling and waving at the photographer, which John assumed must have been Paul, his grandfather. Turning it over, he read, “To my only love, always and all ways, Alec.”

The Club.

In the back room, the silence was palpable although there were still a few men in the bar playing snooker, the faint click of the balls penetrating the stillness. “Bastards,” thought Gerry to himself, “…bad as scabs…” although only a few had actually tried to cross the picket lines. Now, the union men at the meeting sat with bowed heads, some clutching their caps, everyone trying to take in the reality of the situation. Snowdown pit was closing, there would be no work tomorrow and Thatcher had won.

Adelaide Farm Cafe.jpg

They used to come storming down from London back then in the 60s and the forecourt would be full of Triumphs, Beezers and Royal Infields. Inside they’d all be sitting in their leathers, scoffing egg and chips or bacon sarnies before taking off to battle the Mods on the beach in Margate. One year, though, Jim and Cynthia came down together and decided to have a look at Deal instead. When they got back to Norwood she said “Jim, why don’t we move down there? It would be a great place for the little ‘un when he comes,” and patted her stomach, where the bump was just beginning to show. At the time Jim just laughed, but one day he didn’t come home from work until late at night. “Where’ve you been?” Cynthia said, “I was worried sick. You haven’t gone and bought a new bike?” But Jim just smiled and threw some keys on the table. “I’ve done better than that Cynth,” he said. “ You’re looking at the new owner and head chef of the Adelaide Farm Cafe.”

The Vintage Sale

Clarissa couldn’t remember a time when there hadn’t been a summer jumble sale at the village hall, although she’d never gone, it was really just for the locals. And of course now, they called it ‘Vintage’ - there were signs fixed to the telegraph poles. She had no idea people would want all those old dresses her mother had in the attic, but one early evening, a well-spoken young lady had called at Grove Hall wondering if she had anything she’d like to contribute. At first she’d said no, not really, but as the young lady thanked her and walked back to her car, she suddenly had second thoughts and called her back. Twenty minutes later, the young lady looked at the dresses Clarissa brought from the attic and took a sharp breath, “Do you realise what these are?” “Oh, they’re just Mummy’s old things.” Clarissa said,“But there’s an original Chanel and a Schiaparelli… and I think that’s a Lanvin,” the young lady exclaimed. Later, Clarissa sat down and poured herself a glass of port. It felt strangely as if a weight had been taken off her mind.

The Safe House

He hung out the washing and looked around at the landscape. Apart from the wooden houses dotted about, it was so flat you could probably see someone coming from a long way off. The police had installed cameras at all the angles of the house, as well as on the telegraph poles and lamp posts along the only access road, so as long as he kept a weather eye out, he’d be ok. He wasn’t sure, but he had a feeling that the Department had also rented the white house he could see over the scrub landscape of Dungeness. Perhaps one day he’d pop over and say hello, just to wind them up. The week before, with back up - someone he’d never seen before, he’d insisted on going to the local pub. He ordered a pint and sat in a corner. They were the only ones there, both sitting at opposite ends of the long room. It was decorated with photographs of ships and festooned with items of fishing tackle and a list of boats that had gone down in the Channel, just off Dungeness. “You blokes from London? the young bar girl asked. “Not exactly,” he replied. The back up said nothing but his hand instinctively reached under his for jacket for a moment, before relaxing.

The Moon - or somewhere similar

You should get down there,” his mates said. “It’s insane!”So he did. He’d never seen anything like it. Who knew this stuff was so close to London? The landscape was like the moon… or so he imagined, apart from the skeletons of old fishing boats, stranded by the receding shoreline. And the fishermen’s huts, long since abandoned once it was finally deemed unfeasible to ply their trade from a beach that was rapidly being swallowed by the sea. Where were they all now then? Certainly not in one of the revamped summer cottages dotted about the beach, prized for their ‘artistic’ location by the ‘up from London’ crowd. More likely in a bungalow along the sea wall, from which you couldn’t even see the sea. But he loved the place; so weird and other-worldly, with its massive skies, desert-like scrubland, strange, silent nuclear power station, and the skeletons of huts and boats as a reminder that there once was human life here.

Here are a couple of exampeles the images with the music - one with accompanying story.

Anglicana Exploring notions of nostalgia in the English landscape

Frank's Caravan The Pool

Anglicana
Exploring notions of nostalgia in the English landscape