The banks of the canal, greenly twinkling in the humid, 23-degree London sunshine; bobbing houseboats sturdily moored at its banks, compact and painted in impromptu artwork, their low-roofed interiors inviting with books, sandwiches, daiquiris, artwork.
The streets lined with hipsters, trash, vintage clothing, the smoke from barbeques and cigarettes in your squinting eyes. Impromptu and makeshift: street parties, artwork, a swing-carousel created in a tree.
Mingling in the street with authentic eccentrics, dust-covered hippies, drunken couples doing the waltz, drug-seekers and drug-sellers, self-conscious hipsters, artists, musicians, kids, dogs.
Conversations in the gutter, chasing the sun with makeshift stools, conversations on last night’s party, on art school, on Italian food, on photography, on genetics, on text messaging, on life.
People wandering into the gallery, full of oversized slingshots and skulls and beautiful prints, but they mostly come to play on the out-of-tune piano, draw on the blackboard and nosily spy around on the artists’ work/live space and maybe to dream of a different life; where maybe making next month’s rent isn’t a given. Where the neighbours have gramaphones and open invitations to hang on the rooftop garden.
hackneywickedfestival.co.uk
Pic courtesy of Mind-Egg
Writer, editor, coffee drinker.
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