Tony Benn and the five essential questions of democracy to ask when one meets a powerful person: 1. What power have you got? 2. Where did you get it from? 3. In whose interests do you exercise it? 4. To whom are you accountable? 5. How can we get rid of you?
Frances Perraudin writes in the Guardian about the media's negative portrayal of housing estates.
Ann Doherty moved into her three-bedroom flat on Rochdale’s Lower Falinge estate in 1970, when it was built. Then aged 23 with a three-year-old son, she had been forced to leave her two-up two-down house on the other side of the town centre when it was condemned as unsafe.
Doherty is now 72 and she’s still there. “It was heaven coming here,” she says, sitting in her sunny front room. “It felt brilliant because we didn’t have a bath in the old house or an inside toilet. Everything here was perfectly decorated. It was so lovely.”
There are housing estates like the one Doherty has called home for nearly half a century all over the country: the same pebble-dashed walls, paved paths and neat lawns. But somehow, over the years, Lower Falinge has come to represent something much more complicated.
The piece goes on to describe how the media have used photographs of Lower Falinge to portray poverty, unemployment and for making a case for knocking down "sink estates" to rebuild new homes.
But for many residents, these depictions do not fit with the image they have of where they live. “Every estate has its problems, no matter where you go, but they always seem to pick on us,” says Doherty. “We’re just normal people, wanting to get on with each other.”
Andy Littlewood was chair of the Lower Falinge tenants and residents association when the media frenzy hit in 2016. “We’ve had to put in a lot of work to undo the harm that the press has done to us,” he says.
The effect of the estate’s reputation on residents is wide-ranging, he says. Many will not tell potential employers where they live for fear it will put them off.
“They just say they live in Rochdale because they’ve been turned down from jobs that they thought they had a good chance of getting when they’ve written Lower Falinge as their address.”
Littlewood says the impact on younger people growing up on the estate is particularly potent. “The kids are fed up of being told they’re nothing,” he says. “If you tell a vulnerable person enough times that they’re scum, that they live on a sink estate and that they’re thick, eventually it’ll mess with their heads and they’ll start to believe it.”
Littlewood does not dispute that many people on the estate are out of work – he is unable to work because of epilepsy – but is studying part-time for a degree in maths and computing from the Open University.
You can read the whole piece here.
This is a theme that comes up time and time again with the work I am doing in East Brighton. On one hand, I have people who have never set foot in East Brighton talking to me about how scary the area is, on the other hand, I am spending time with residents who talk about community, respect and looking out for each other. I'm not so naive to suggest East Brighton doesn't have its issues, but, it is worth questioning the stories that are prevalent about places like East Brighton.
I've started working with a resident called Lisa. She lives in Whitehawk, just off the main road, Whitehawk Way.
It's early days, but I'm really excited about helping Lisa become a researcher. Our first session was really inspiring. We planned our first joint fieldwork, Lisa will be taking me on a walk around some important places (for her) in Brighton and we will document this together.
It was also the first outing for the newly designed East Brighton Ethnography Manual, designed by Stanley James Press. I'll write more about this soon.
In September I was commissioned to document the lives of people involved at two community businesses in Brighton and Hove. The project arrived just as I started work on this one, and it was good timing because it reminded me of some important lessons.
When someone turns up anywhere with a camera a few things can happen. People sometimes get excited and want their picture taken, more often than not, people are shy, possibly angry at the possible intrusion. Some might think I’m a journalist looking for a juicy story, or, with my recent projects, that I’m a photographer out on a poverty safari, looking for the most extreme angles about a council estate.
So much of this can be handled with good communication, but, no matter how hard you try, that communication can be missed by someone.
One of the things I realised very early on when doing this is that I have to work really hard to quickly put people at ease and possibly even trust me. I don’t have an exact plan for this, because it’s really just about being honest and human. It probably helps that I lived in East Brighton for 20 years, although I’m sure people might get sick of hearing that story, because I don’t live there now, so I am not living in their community. I always prepare what I call an information sheet, which is all about getting informed consent from participants. It explains why the project is happening, what their involvement entails and what the outcome might be.
When I first started doing the work on community businesses I turned up at The Bevy community pub, and one of the first stories I heard was about a photographer that had taken some pictures, and without permission, put large prints of them in a very public space in the centre of Brighton. I only heard one side of this story, but if it’s true, this is the kind of thing that stops good work from happening. It meant my job was doubly hard gaining trust, it probably meant some people didn’t allow me to photograph them.
For me, doing this kind of work is about honouring the people you are working with, putting their needs first, way before mine as an ‘artist’ or ‘storyteller’.
Here’s a talk I gave about the project.