in new york city in the subway sometimes through the window a bit of stray neon will light up the graffiti, when the sweaty cars are delayed it slides past the windows, buried underground it’s a slice of the old city
or in the village vanguard jazz club under greenwich village when jimmy heath (age 90) the saxophonist is playing a solo you can hear the subway go past, it rumbles by and shakes the floor and the smashed light fixture destroyed by charles mingus
also where the artist brion gysin once descended into the dirty porcelain tunnels with a tape recorder the size of a suitcase
in the north of paris the metro rattles above the streets of barbes rochechouart, you can see it going over the tents on the bridge by the gare du nord when you’re crossing a six lane road on a little bicycle yelling with delight
in berlin on the u-bahn you can see everything as it glides above big empty expanses where the twentieth century used to be
the tube is very clean now and the buskers are auditioned, but sometimes you chance on a particularly dirty wall, a sinister tunnel lit up by harsh white tubes, an old lawyer hunched over the urinal in baker street station
and sometimes down there with a little camera you get the right mixture of fear and excitement from the filth that is being so quickly cleaned above.”
This is quite cryptic. I didn’t want to be too explanatory, I would rather the work spoke for itself. As a result this statement is more an accompanying piece of writing.