A lovely conversation that did crop up whilst I was trialing the mobile exhibition was how many songs there are about working at night. The anthem of the lot, ‘Nightshift’ by the Commodores was considered a classic, even with Lionel Ritchie singing. Stood in the rain, huddled under an umbrella, it was nice to hear everyone’s different rendition. ‘Harlem’ by Bill Withers, which I don’t think is about night work just the alienation that night time can bring up. The best of the bunch, and so morbid is ‘Midnightcleaners’ by The Cleaners from Venus. A grim polemic I had seriously remixed in my mind with the film ‘nightcleaners’ made in the seventies by the Berwick Street Film Collective. It’s beginning to feel like that period now.
Tested out a solo version of the mobile exhibition on the opening afternoon of the third Brighton PhotoBiennial. It was throwing it down with rain so not ideal conditions. Had to build an adhoc rain cover for the picture, good, but not perfect, though it did increase the element of photo mystery.
Having to lug the placard around, into openings and through the museum etc was perversely amusing and provoked a lot of discussion. I developed a knack of walking into a gallery, looking around, then confidently leaning it against the wall. As if convention had it that this is what you always did with your photo placard when entering any building. The way you hunt out for an umbrella stand, a coat hook or somewhere to stash your crash helmet. A while later, mid conversation it was pleasing to scan the crowd of smart people to see, literally, head and shoulders above them the smiley nightworker.
Visiting in the early hours I am beginning to realize that night time, rather than being the opposite of day is in fact a different country. A colder, quieter one with less traffic, next to no public transport, fewer people, a broader selection of music, brighter visuals and sudden, chilly breezes. Where the inhabitants are perhaps more observational and thoughtful; a place with time for discussion.
Everyone I have spoken to has been remarkably cheery and good-humoured. A common theme that crops up is how much they enjoy the autonomy, that they are less likely to have a supervisor lurking over their shoulder or other workers bumbling around. This gives the nightworkers a privileged, maverick feel.
For most, music is their thumb of comfort. ipod or radio, tunes rather than chatter based. Late night DJ as complicit friend. Some of the night workers have described the hidden bond they feel with other night workers. Once their shift is over, traveling home, stepping around the wreckage of the previous evenings entertainments industry they spot fellow workers resolutely on their way home too. They give a nod or a small wave of recognition.
Part of my current bout of interest in photography stems from a frustrated attempt to learn more about the processes of lying. This led me to concocted histories, namely the writings of W.G. Sebald and his use of (old) photographs to authenticate these stories. I had an epiphinay moment a couple of years ago when I realized that lying and fiction were one and the same. I wish someone could have told me sooner.
A byproduct, part of the Sebaldian influence, is an addiction to looking at the small stories in local newspapers. Source of most fiction, certainly TV scripts.
Yesterdays Argus had this photograph. A relative who had discovered it in a box of his aunts belongings was asking if anyone locally could explain what was happening. A great opportunity to create a complete bogus history, particularly as most of the people at the rear seem to have been pasted in afterwards. It also rhymes quite nicely as subliminal publicity for the Brighton PhotoBiennial curated by Martin Parr which starts today. If you have any information about the photograph write to Ian Prevett c/o Brighton Argus.
Talking with people about working nights has brought up some heart rending stories and Laingian approaches to recovery.
Desperate for funds following the break up of his marriage, one person managed to get a job as a night cleaner in a conference centre. The solitary vacuuming of endless floors for twelve hours a night was the only way he got over his upset. Another person owned a Kebab shop. Starting work at 8am, he wouldn’t finish until 4am. Six days a week, for twelve years. Now he runs an ice cream shop with a friend “it’s my reward.”
