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Another Place
It was a lovely, sunny day- so we went to the seaside.
I almost packed a bucket and spade- we do have a set- but what with the picnic basket and Ailz's bag of books- for revision, you know- I thought we were carrying enough baggage.
We're about thirty miles from the West coast. I don't know why, but we go there very seldom. Maybe it's because we're Mancunians- and Liverpool- Queen of the West Coast- is a rival city state- hostile territory. Or maybe it's because we used to belong to a coven in Fleetwood and got sick of making the journey home in the early hours of the morning.
The West coast can be bleak. Our High Priestess- who was a Devon lass- hated it, and ran back down south as soon as an opportunity presented itself. But it's a kind of bleak I like- shining sands as far as the eye can see, the rain blowing in off the Irish Sea....
But yesterday it wasn't bleak at all. We went to Crosby. Crosby is- or used to be- a well-kept secret: miles of sandy beaches fringed by the villas of the Liverpool elite. It's less secret now- because of a quite remarkable artwork- Anthony Gormley's Another Place.
It consists of a hundred, life-size, iron men- dotted about- all gazing in the same direction. They were concieved as a peripatetic installation- and guested at a couple of places on the continent before ending up on Crosby sands, where they stare out to sea and are- all of them- completely submerged at high tide. They caused such a stir- and became so beloved- that the local Council eventually stumped up a million quid and bought them. So now they're fixed here in perpetuity- or until the sea eats them up.
Gormley also created Gateshead's iconic Angel of the North- so that's two obscure corners of the UK he's turned into sites of pilgrimage. I can't think of any artist in British history who has achieved anything comparable.
The tide goes out very far and comes in very fast. It was close to high tide when we arrived, so only a handful of the men were visible. I believe the ones that are very far-out have been well encrusted with marine life. The ones at the top of the beach are merely green and scaly. "Oh look, " says the very small boy, "I can see his willy!"
I almost packed a bucket and spade- we do have a set- but what with the picnic basket and Ailz's bag of books- for revision, you know- I thought we were carrying enough baggage.
We're about thirty miles from the West coast. I don't know why, but we go there very seldom. Maybe it's because we're Mancunians- and Liverpool- Queen of the West Coast- is a rival city state- hostile territory. Or maybe it's because we used to belong to a coven in Fleetwood and got sick of making the journey home in the early hours of the morning.
The West coast can be bleak. Our High Priestess- who was a Devon lass- hated it, and ran back down south as soon as an opportunity presented itself. But it's a kind of bleak I like- shining sands as far as the eye can see, the rain blowing in off the Irish Sea....
But yesterday it wasn't bleak at all. We went to Crosby. Crosby is- or used to be- a well-kept secret: miles of sandy beaches fringed by the villas of the Liverpool elite. It's less secret now- because of a quite remarkable artwork- Anthony Gormley's Another Place.
It consists of a hundred, life-size, iron men- dotted about- all gazing in the same direction. They were concieved as a peripatetic installation- and guested at a couple of places on the continent before ending up on Crosby sands, where they stare out to sea and are- all of them- completely submerged at high tide. They caused such a stir- and became so beloved- that the local Council eventually stumped up a million quid and bought them. So now they're fixed here in perpetuity- or until the sea eats them up.
Gormley also created Gateshead's iconic Angel of the North- so that's two obscure corners of the UK he's turned into sites of pilgrimage. I can't think of any artist in British history who has achieved anything comparable.
The tide goes out very far and comes in very fast. It was close to high tide when we arrived, so only a handful of the men were visible. I believe the ones that are very far-out have been well encrusted with marine life. The ones at the top of the beach are merely green and scaly. "Oh look, " says the very small boy, "I can see his willy!"
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I think the hotel is authentically deco- or at least the bit that's standing proud is- but it's current status is apartment block- not hotel- and I think it's only recently been refurbished and- perhaps- extended.
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They are men of character.....
Incidentally, they were all cast from a mould of the artist's body
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It's a happy accident that the iron men have ended up in the sea. Their first postings were, I believe, on dry land.
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Great art! :)
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The photo of teh little boy pointing is wonderful.
:)
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They wouldn't have to wait long. The tide comes in very fast at Crosby.
The picture of the boy was a lucky chance. I didn't realise I'd caught him pointing until I reviewed the pictures afterwards.
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Those are wonderfully strange. I'd love to see the rest at low tide.
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We'll have to go back again...
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My mother taught art, and she sighed every year during art history when she brought out Venus Emerging, because the boys would snicker and point.
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I loved that one when I was a nipper.
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