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The Death of a friend

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Death of a Friend

It was Summer 1998 and today was one of my two art teaching days in the
Hostel. The heat was quite unbearable and I was wandering around the
building reminding certain residents to come to the class. I asked everyone
if they knew where Billy was today? It was rumored that he had gone to his
mother's over the weekend and not come back yet. He had been a dedicated
member of the Art Class right back to its early days over four years ago. He
had always been a good artist, helping others with their work if they needed
it and very enthusiastic in creating his own art works.

He was a born and bred East London boy. Always up to some scheme, usually it
involved finding or stealing goods and selling it on so he could get some
money for his drugs. He was quite stocky, around forty two years of age and
six foot tall.

His relationship with his mother was uneasy at the best of times. Billy told
me about many arguments and the silly things that they had done to each
other in spite or in casual haste. I've met her myself and found her a very
beautiful woman, possessing an essence that can only be uttered as proud. A
woman who has had many experiences in dealing with all types of men and
coming out of the other end with a wisdom that many artists and others
shamefully lack. One strong thing that they both had was a passion to live
and be different. This of course was a natural trait and bared no self
conscious trimmings, very real and well rounded individuals. Dysfunctional
but able to explore their identities freely because they were not scared of
it. 

His mother ran a few brothels in Soho and Billy used to do repair work in
some of them to earn extra cash. I went upstairs to the top floor of the
Hostel and got the coffee machine ready for the regulars so they could pour
themselves a cup. The room was covered, literally wall to wall, with an
abundance of the residents' art work. I always used to sit down and have a
peaceful cigarette, listening to 'Greater London Radio', looking at the
treasures created by the people who had come and gone in my class. So much
good work offering many different visual stories by the souls that had
created them. I was proud of the individuals who dared to let go, treating
themselves to the playful, experience of making art.

Conversations were always rampant in the class and the subject matter was
never boring. The Art Class was treated as an oasis by the residents and I.
A place where they could say anything they wanted without a heavy comeback
or an authoritative crackdown. I encouraged the men to talk about anything
they wanted as long as it did not offend anyone else present in the room. So
there were many conversations by certain residents talking about themselves
being sexually abused by some one in the family. Discussions relating to
politics, personal drink and drug issues and of course Art. I used to take
them to the most adventurous exhibitions and we used to have discussions
about the work seen.

It was time for me to knock on Billy's door and wake him up just in case he
was still in bed. Even though it was generally thought that he was away for
a few days I felt that I had better check anyway. My fist thumped on his
door and I shouted out his name a few times, no answer. So I ran downstairs
into the Hostel's main office and got a key for his room. I took the lift to
his room and met Frank another resident who wanted to talk to him about
something and he followed me. Suddenly outside the door I could smell
something horrible and it made my nose itch. There had been complaints about
a bad smell lingering on the 3rd floor of the hostel but no one new its
source. 

I opened the door and heard a buzzing sound and then out of the darkness
thousands of flies flew out of the room, many hitting me. I told Frank to go
away, so he left swiftly. I pushed the door open even more to see what was
inside the room. The curtains were drawn and it was very dark and the stink
was unbearable. I looked downwards at the floor and saw a dark, shadowy lump
of a figure. It was Billy. Strange, all the noise that usually echoed from
outside the street, the traffic, people's voices receded into the
background, disappeared. The flies had now all exited the room and it was
silent. Time also seemed to slow down at that moment even though in reality
I was there for just a couple of minutes. I looked into the darkness at the
male figure on the floor and noticed that his head had caved in. A black
treacle like pool of blood was encircling his head and it had dried up. The
form of Billy's body was recognisable yet it seemed completely different. No
movement, no jokes, no observations on art, no energy, no information on
secret deals. Nothing but an unbearable smell and a stillness that tortured
me as I looked on.

In that time of finding him, in those small moments before I ran out
informing the office downstairs of what had happened. A kind of realisation
occurred. And yes words are not enough to explain such a thing but I will
try my best. I instinctively did not breath any air during my time in his
room. As I stared at Billy's dead body I began to imagine that he was me. I
began to see me there on the floor, not visually but in my mind. It was as
if my mind had become my eyes for those few brief minutes. It seemed like a
message, a gesture informing me that my life is going to end sooner or
later. It hit me like a hammer. Mortality was laid out in front of me and
memories of other very good friends from the past, who had died, flashed by.
The darkness in the room seemed to reflect a kind of darkness that was
inside me. The presence of it felt familiar. Like an essence, smell or
memory that one cannot quite place yet know it well.

Weeks later the coroner's report said that he had injected himself in the
groin once to often and a vein exploded causing an instant seizure to the
brain. Because he had been a heroin addict for over twenty years his body
decayed quicker than average due the high sugar levels. I attended the
funeral in a large well known graveyard in the East End of London. We went
by mini bus from the Hostel taking a few of Billy's friends to say good bye.
The service was elegant and Billy's body was taken to the cemetery in a
horse drawn carriage. When everyone had gone and his body was placed in the
hole in the ground. I stood by and watched the gravediggers filling the hole
with earth using a large dumper truck.

end

Marc Garrett
extract from Dido diaries
http://www.dido.uk.net/mgarrett/index.htm

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