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Shown at
Upstairs at the Clerk's House
118 1/2 Shoreditch High Street
London E.1

15 April - 23 May 1999
Read the Press Release

Notting Hill

Cornell looked up from his drink and said ‘well just look who’s here’. These were to be his last words as Ronnie shot him through the eye, the bullet coming out through the back of the neck. With the words from the Walker Brothers hit ‘The Sun Ain’t Gonna Shine Anymore’ stuck on the jukebox, Ronnie Kray and John Barrie left the pub, Ronnie remarking that dead men don’t tell tales.

Steve Jones - London, The Sinister Side, 1986

(Aberfeldy Estate), Poplar

Back in London it was decidedly different - gin-palaces, saloons, beef and mutton, and mutton and beef on every side. Men and women fighting one another to live. The juggernaut car of money dragged through the streets while virtue and innocence fell under its wheels.

Cheiro’s Real Life Stories, 1934

Ironing Board,
Gore Road Hackney

The canal - a man steps forward two steps towards the water. He smiles because of the day. ‘Don’t jump, haha!’ I say. Under the bridge and round the bend, there on a bench, I see his three friends. They’re red and grey with yellow hair, brown scabs on their faces. Faces shiny and flakey, they’re crumpled up and happy because of the day, and ten cans of Special Brew. And I hear him say ‘not yet’.

Tracey Brown - On Magazine, 1996

Gate of Heaven,

From his home at Mallon House, Carr St, Limehouse, Beackon was able to tap into the powerful leyline running through his front room. This leyline is readily visible from the observatory at Greenwich. It goes through the macabre Queen Anne house, and guided by the symmetry of the Naval College it crosses the Isle of Dogs clipping the corner of the Canary Wharf complex before exactly passing through the tower of St. Anne’s Limehouse. Then it passes through Beackon’s lair before going onto Queen Mary and Westerfield College.

London Psychogeographical Association Newsletter, 1993


Victoria Park

Buskers, beggars, hard looking black boys and skinheads with union jack tattoos, art students who look like skin-heads, dm’s squeaking. Cars, buses, taxis, streetcorner newspaper sellers, vegans, communists selling broad-sheets, Pakistani girls in purple saris, an Hassidic Jew walking to work at Hatton Garden, litter, the smell of the daytime pub wafting out onto the street - beer, cigarettes, betting shop, prison, burger wrappers and crushed glass.

Simon Dwyer - Rapid Eye 3, 1995


Leaking Darkness,
Grand Union Canal

They spun on their heels to face the excitement of the city’s unskinned heart, its glittering towers and monuments. The moment was postponed, the pleasure sharpened. But not prolonged. They plunged once more by Percival Street, by Goswell, St John, Farringdon; the same tracks, towards the known enclosures, the sanctuaries of power. The city was a museum of itself.

Iain Sinclair - White Chappell, Scarlet Tracings, 1987




Portals and Spirits - page 3