Twice this week I have been mistaken for a journalist.
The first time was on Armley Town Street while I was out for a wander. It was Sunday afternoon, one of those days when the weather switches from sun to shower in moments, and I was pointing my tablet at the other side of the street attempting to frame each passing store front. I’d reached the Cash Converter.
“You shunt be taking pictures round here.”
The voice came from behind me. It didn’t sound like friendly advice. Best to pretend I didn’t hear I thought.
“I said, stop taking photos. It’s not right.”
I turned and saw two guys coming towards me, cans of lager angled in my direction. Their tone of voice indicated a strong objection to street photography.
I mumbled something about the “lovely shops” and wafted the screen of my venerable tablet in their general direction. They looked puzzled but stopped advancing
“Look, look, I’m going to write something about this,” I said, pointing at a rather grey and squiffy snap of a shuttered pawnbrokers. I have to admit I was a little concerned in case they looked at my device, looked at the shop, and made a mental calculation. Ungenerous, I know. But it’s my only electronic connection to the world. I don’t possess a smartphone.
“There’s been something in the local paper,” I offered, as if in explanation.
“Why? What have they done?” asked the vocal one.
“No, nothing like that… it’s about making Town Street the best… sort of thing.” I waved the tablet around as if encompassing the whole prospect.
“Fucking Christ.”
“Well, I think it’s a bit of a daft thing to say too,” I said.
“Wanker! ” said the quiet one.
“Journalist?… fuck off!”
I didn’t contradict him. I’m not trained for this sort of thing. It seemed the best course of action was to pocket the tablet and move on. Quickly. Consequently there are a few establishments missing from my photographic record.
The second time I was mistaken was yesterday. This comment. On the thing I wrote on Town Street last week. Calling me a pessimistic, condescending white liberal who can’t do investigative journalism.
Now I don’t mind criticism. It livens things up a bit. And I’ll gladly own up to most of the accusation. I can’t help my complexion – I blame the parents. And, yes, I’m a hapless liberal; the longer I live the more liberal I seem to become. Blame a very good state education for that.
But condescension is in the eye of the beholder, surely. The two guys I met on my walk along Town Street certainly corrected any tendency to condescension. To be honest, I find the idea that if I “really do care about the place” I have to “come for a coffee at RJFC and set up a community photo group” a tad patronising … I don’t really “do” coffee (I’m more of a pub man, sorry) and I rarely eat out, so I’d only visit RJFC as a public statement of how right thinking and community oriented I was. Which would be condescending in the extreme. And the thought of me organising a photography group to show I care… ha!
As for any imputed optimism deficiency, the reason I didn’t add any words to the photos was to allow people a space to decide for themselves what they saw. I can’t understand why anyone would interpret the pics as evidence of pessimism. I see lots of great stuff – have a look – I said so. Look at all the benches! Armley Town Street is best for benches, by miles. That’s positive?
So, I can cope with the accusation of pessimistic, condescending white liberalism. Valid opinion. I can only apologise and recheck my privilege. But I never pretended I was a journalist on a mission to investigate anything. I was walking around where I live. Taking incompetent photos on a tablet with a crap camera and a memory the size of a jam jar full of tiddlers. With no other intentions than to see what I could see. I couldn’t investigate the contents of my own back pocket. Not interested in that. And never said I was.
I enjoy talking the piss, that’s all. And I’ll write about what the hell I like, how the hell I like, when I feel like it. It would be condescending not to.
Speaking as a patronising white reactionary (of an optimistic bent), I admire your courage. When I was taking photos of the ex-Arndale Centre on Town Street for a piece I wrote last year for this esteemed blog, I lurked in the shadow of a bus shelter until the coast seemed more or less clear of folk before nipping out and snapping a few shots on my digi camera.
At least Armley has not been relegated to a quarter (yet). How many quarters make up a whole? When I did my ‘O’ level Maths, the answer was four. In its surely doomed attempt to ape Paris, Leeds has now spawned another: The Arena Quarter. This vibrant new etc – which appears to constitute the nether regions of the Merrion Centre – must be about the city’s 17th quarter. Enough already.