Owed To Joy

For a while today in the autumn sunshine and chill air, I thought I might be able again to enjoy being in London. A part of me can; the larger part can not. There are too many pressures, too many irritations and these most often weigh against the attractions.

The hotel air-conditioning had dried my throat and it felt a little tight as I drew the curtains in our suite to view the sunshine splashing across the Houses of Parliament. I saw it immediately as a photograph, substantially unoriginal but a photograph anyway and not everyone takes theirs from the third floor of the Marriott.

Our plan was to move the car to the Trafalgar Square car park but that plan died as soon as we drove past the sign warning of today's march which had the potential to be very disruptive. We drove instead to Russell Square which would be convenient for our later plans and our eventual departure from the city. We tubed to Kings Cross and I noted cool air blowing in the passageways which would likely be missing in July when most needed. The underground concourses have been substantially upgraded but the station above is another matter. London is a city of extensive and seemingly perpetual construction offering jam tomorrow and jams today for both pedestrians and vehicles. The north London station was the first building site we came across today and here the bulk of the work is inexplicable. There is much fanfare about the installation of lifts, escalators and  a footbridge at a station which already has level access. The 45 bus from outside was a convenient way to get most of the way to Tate Modern but I soon found myself locking horns with a ticket inspector. I had a ticket of course but this pointless individual boarded the bus behind us to check tickets. I don't know how he thinks anyone on board got past the driver without one. He was in plain clothes, had an aggressive manner and was not showing his ID properly. Incredibly there was a colleague on board and when they disembarked, they joined a third. I think I could spot a few more cuts George.

At the south end of Blackfriars Bridge the protracted development of the station has created another building site and caused the diversion of the Thames Path and a longer walk to Tate Modern. From the capital's bridges every horizon is a forest of cranes. Closely observed though - and I nearly took photographs today - the key activities of the workmen appear to be, in no particular order, smoking, using their mobile phones and leaning on things.

I expected disappointment at Bankside and I was not disappointed if you follow. The removal of access to and interactivity with Ai Weiwei's 'Sunflower Seeds' has sucked the joy out of the work in the way that so much outside and around sucks the joy out of the city. An essentially monochrome work within a near-monochrome environment and one on which you can no longer sit or walk, is a work without soul. Its predecessors, Doris Salcedo's 'Shibboleth' and 'How It Is' by Miroslaw Balka, exuded joy and bound you to them through interactivity. This doomed work is dead or at least in suspended animation. To reflect this I have produced many of my photographs in b&w and my images of the explanatory placard show only fragments of its text as we now receive only fragments of the work's original intent.

Within paces of Tate is the Millennium Bridge and this was closed today for a maintenance inspection lasting and incredible four days, a period of time in which you could inspect the Grand Canyon or, perhaps, the moon. This inpsection appeared to involve a handful of men in hi-vis jackets phoning their wives in Krakow and occasionally prodding something.

Crossing Southwark Bridge takes one into one of the most architecturally dense parts of the capital and still building continues. Most notable amongst the developments is Cannon Place creating yet another buidling site of considerable proportions around Cannon Street station. It is outrageous that London Underground have used construction as an excuse to close their ticket office leaving passengers to rely on machines. The Underground is an environment which would fascinate Stephen Hawking - to whom most of the networkwould be ironically inaccessible - and Brian Cox, who has the good fortune to work in Manchester. There time stretches. Dot matrix indicators are used to presage the arrival of trains. In this subterranean parallel universe a train which is '1 min' away could be almost anywhere. A minute is used as a unit of distance rather than of time. Thus a train which is stationary - much favoured of Circle Line trains - could be '1 min' away for ever and those which follow at '3 mins' and '4 mins' might never appear. The dot matrix indicators give an impression of a service interval which simply does not exist. On the matter of accessibility my more attentive fans will recall I berated the Piccadilly Line some while ago. Today, whilst my train limped to my destination, I counted on the combined District/Circle/Metropolitan Line map 10 stepless access stations out of 55. I guess Professor Hawking won't be investigating in person. Even for the able bodied person lift and escalator service has improved not one iota. Unserviceable examples of each litter the system.

From Cox to cocks; after lunch at an adequate but unremarkable Italian restaurant near Russell Square tube, we forayed to The Horse Hospital and 'Hung' a curious low-key photographic exhibition of male nudes. It took little of our time and we were due in any case to hurry to West Drayton to collect my cousin for a lift. I should have liked however to linger longer in the unusual building.

More culture behind us, Californian sunshine ahead. For now we enjoyed the slightly chilled version of UK autumn.