The Ambassador of Piccadilly Gardens

Anonymous

Homelessness is like a foreign country. It's like being dropped into the middle of nowhere. The first thing you need is somewhere safe, not just dry but a safe place most of all. Then food, dry clothes. Then you need to get a shower. Then try to get to know all the organisations that will help you because they're going to be your best friends. They are the lifelines, not other people who are homeless. 

For me my first night it was throwing it down raining just before Halloween when the winter kicks in. I used to sleep in the gardens under the bench for the first few months. Didn't know if I'd wake up in the morning. It was a blessing if I did. 

Close my eyes and I can put myself back there. You don't have friends you have associates. You never know if you can trust them as people move on all the time. You don't know if you see them tomorrow or if you'll ever see them again. You've got to know someone to trust them.

© Paul Jones

I slept in Piccadilly Gardens in the city centre because it was where I felt safe. It was open and I knew the area was camera-ed with CCTV. I could shout for help. If you're out in some park under a tree and something happens no one will hear you. I used to sleep for about an hour or an hour and a half. You don't really sleep you've got one eye open. There is the noise of the traffic, people passing by. You go to sleep with exhaustion. 

I've woke up and my trainers were gone. You don't feel them going but you feel the cold on your feet, that cold will wake you up alright. I've woken up with no laces in my trainers. I don't know how they do it steal the laces from your shoes while you sleep.

I used to go to Cornerstones. I'd walk up Oxford Road to Cornerstones. Sit outside the doorstep on Denmark Road. Inside sat there reading the paper all day propping yourself on the table. The manager she does her best. Leave about 4pm, walk back to the gardens late afternoon to early evening and wait for them to come out with hot food again.

The Mustard Tree opens late on a Friday, comfy chairs and you're inside. That's the highlight of the week they all talk about it, the homeless ones. The staff don't rush you to leave they know you will be back on the streets. They know you appreciate a comfy chair and a plate of hot food in front of you - won't be in a hurry to go back down them stairs.

© Paul Jones

 
Then there is Danzig Street but there's been a lot of murders in the showers. Danzig Street years ago was a school; you can still see the rooms are like classrooms. It opens at six in the morning it's for homeless people who are up at that time. 

On Piccadilly Gardens I could see people in view, but I wouldn't associate too close. A lot on the streets take drugs, I don't. I remember talking to a minister and he said you will go on drugs if you stay on the street. But I've always been strong enough to say no. Only drugs I take are ones given by my doctor.

Drugs and alcohol. Their eyes are gone and when they get beaten up for their money they don't even know who's done it. Down on Piccadilly it's like they're just waiting for new drugs. I take pictures of them all the time on my phone (shows phone picture). Try to shame them out of it. This one had been taking legal highs. Legal highs and all that. Guy the other day turning grey, dying in front of me.

I showed a couple of Polish guys a picture of themselves, they said, "No way were we like that!"  I said, "There is the picture you were hanging off the bench eyes shut." I said, "There is nothing to be proud of." When you mix legal highs with alcohol you go grey and near die. 

Homelessness - what you gain is understanding. Then you pass on the information you find. That's how conversations often start for me. Before today I've been called the Ambassador of Piccadilly Gardens. Them Community Police Officers said I should be the Ambassador. They said I've got respect and trust from the homeless. Trust is priceless. If people know you've been on the streets they know you've been through it too. 

© Paul Jones

I've got a bond with them, been homeless myself. I don't cause trouble I try to help. Yesterday I spoke to a young lad, a babyface. It was raining and I got him an umbrella - you should've seen him smile. I can afford to buy an umbrella now. Said he was called Ryan, I don't know, it could've been his street name. People are running away on the streets. They often have a street name. Could've been anything in his life: violence, family stuff, death. Living on the street is sometimes people's way of grieving. 

I did socialise I used to be in that circle. With each other they was always arguing over money drugs and beer. They used to know each other's pay days. "He gets paid on a Thursday." They couldn't seem to understand why they kept being robbed. When you're drunk on drugs you don't know what you're saying and who's listening. You tell someone who is addicted to whatever when you're getting money and where you cash it and what do you think is going to happen? Let me guess you got mugged when you got your money. Piccadilly politics they call it, knowing everybody's business. People say "I'm getting DLA tomorrow" and next thing they got a broken nose and black eyes, what a surprise. 

People want to be in the circle because then they feel protected rather than walking the streets on their own. I used to be with them but I knew when to be quiet and just listen. I knew when to keep me own business to me self. I'd go off and do my stuff by myself. But to get help or to help someone else you have to have trust - and there wasn't a lot of trust out there.

Interviewed by Phil at The Booth Centre July 2015

Sarah © Paul Jones

The beautiful, sensitive photos are taken by Manchester photographer Paul Jones and are shared here with his permission. 

lost my patience (please replace)

lost my patience (please replace)

"Saturday was a perfect example of how simple art techniques can release powerful emotive responses and generate incredibly touching outcomes. Yet another example of the importance of creative practice in allowing people to confront feelings and emotions. It was great to see the positive responses of the passing general visitors in the informal setting of the sponsored walk, as oppose to more formal organised sessions in a pre-prepared scenario." Johnny Woodhams

Johnny Woodhams and participant

On Saturday creative consultant, educational practitioner, artist, musician, writer, performance poet, comic and craftsperson.... Johnny Woodhams, joined me to work on our Lost Properties Stall at a Sponsored Walk in aid of charities 'Making Space' and 'The Alzheimer's Society.' This is an ongoing project where we ask people to simply right LOST on one side of a luggage label, and on the other side to write FOUND, then we ask people to think about someone or something they have lost, someone or something they have found and to write their descriptions on the corresponding label. It appears to be a simple idea, however the results are at times complex, and often moving. People talk directly or sideways on about issues we rarely face in our society, loss of loved ones, loss of abilities...The project is about caring, how we care, and who we care for and the impact that caring has on ourselves. 

The people we worked with on Saturday were there because they were interested in the issues of dementia- either they had the condition, or working with people with diagnosis, or their carers- so that theme often emerged. Take the image below, Lost Belt. It seems innocuous at first reading, but then the gentleman revealed that he had been caring for his father-in-law, who came to his rescue and lent him his. Or the image above 'Lost My Patience', the gentleman wrote while his family laughed out load around him, it obviously hit the right place for them.

Lost Belt

I held her in my arms

Johnny introduced a new exercise, bringing in a collection of small card containers, here we invited people to write on the label an address or part of an address of someone they wanted to remember, and inside the box a message to that person. These boxes where then tied up with string, for the messages to remain hidden. Johnny and I were particularly moved by a women who explained her box thus:

'I held her in my arms, she died before I could tell her I love her. I leave little messages for her where ever I go.' Ebun

For more photos please visit http://www.flickr.com/

Lost properties (feedback)

Just received this lovely email about the Lost Properties work we did in Manchester...

Dear lois,

Thank you so much for the experience of taking part in your project. After my daughter, Olivia, wrote on the card about my Mum (her Nana) we then spent the rest of day talking about her and reliving times that my daughter remembered. It was lovely afternoon.

It is a beautiful project and probably more relevant because death and loss is something we don’t like to discuss in our society.

Best wishes

Gail and Olivia

Lost Properties at Manchester Market

We worked with over 70 participants over the two days, with countless other people stopping and looking at the artworks and reading the labels.

Some people dealt with the issues of care and caring with humour, many where almost painfully honest about the issues, some angry, some in pain- perhaps it was that people where given the opportunity to write a message anonymously- it allowed people to give permission to themselves to express from the heart.

Many of the participants wrote comments in our book including:

Amanda: beautiful, so unusual and touching

Annie: wonderful project, really original, thanks

John: its very interesting, draws you in

Debbie: this sort of project is really needed

Barbara: it's very good, given me something to think about

Jen: lovely pictures and idea- a chance to think about what matters

Mark: wonderful idea, made me remember never forget your loved ones.

We've posted the photos from the 2 day event on our portfolio site, you can view them by visiting http://www.flickr.com

LOST: myself

It’s hard to know how a workshop will be received. Some of the best ideas for workshops – the ones we’ve got really excited about for their novelty and cleverness – have gone down like sad lead balloons. So Lost Properties was an unknown for us, as well as everyone else.

The method was slightly askew, as often with our art/poem forays. We had a market stall, a suitcase filled with random objects donated by Oxfam and a big pack of luggage labels. The idea was to ask people to discuss caring, that deep connector between us all. People would write their thoughts, then pick an appropriate object and attach the label, the final piece to be photographed and exhibited on the internet.

At 9am we strung up our banner and began laying out the stall in the art market at St Ann’s Square in central Manchester. At just before 10am we had our first participant. He was a large distracted looking man with a big, open face. In his hand was a credit card, fanning at the hot summer air.

You have to be deft if you’re working with the public in a busy space, so instead of my usual roundabout explanations, I simply said: “We’re asking people to write about someone you’ve lost or found.

Number one participant wrote FOUND: my dad because he still gives me pocket money. He grinned slyly and fanned a little more. On the other side of the label he added LOST: my mum’s friend. I think I saw you in Tesco. Then with great decisiveness he picked up a little metal toy from the suitcase, Dr Who standing in the doorway of the Tardis.
With the label attached, the Tardis transformed – just as it’s supposed to in the stories. In place of a battered secondhand toy, it became a symbol for a missing woman, melted into space – and also for the in-between state of this enigmatic man with his open face and air of puzzlement.

“It’s great,” I said.
He shrugged and handed me the credit card, “You can have this too. It was on the ground. Someone lost it.”

Our second customer wrote on a pepper pot LOST: myself and I had a mental picture of him ground to powder and scattered by the forces of life.

Just like a poem that doesn’t fully reveal itself at first, the day brought with it many people and their stories. They spoke of who they’d lost and who they’d found to bring comfort. The common thread between was the openness that people were willing to offer. It was as if by opening up they also could let go of something.

Mid-afternoon, our market stall was filled with little icons of intimacy. Many people – hundreds – stopped by to look, to read, to comment. A lot of the pieces were funny, and the onlookers often went away from the stall chuckling. But as well as smiling at the jokey pieces, they also (perhaps? hopefully?) were smiling because they recognised something more deeply of themselves.

Lost Properties was as per usual an experiment for us. We didn’t quite know how people would react. Some of the participants were intensely moved by what they found in themselves, the things unlocked. One lady wrote two words only – and then handed me the label.
“My hands are shaking,” she said.

For others, it communicated their state of mind outward to the world. One man knew all too well the things that troubled him, they came without a surprise packaging. Later in the day, I saw him look into the bin outside MacDonalds for food leftovers.