They say that an Englishman’s home is his castle – or perhaps even his sandcastle. This set of Montages was inspired by a day trip to the seaside town of Paignton.
There is something oddly peculiar and fascinating about the English seaside town. You stray intrudingly into a collective community, an unwanted guest that they will endure for a while, but at the same time you are intrinsically part of this custom and this culture; subconsciously British. It’s as though you’ve been away to distant lands and have now returned - Everyone is different, you feel different and you are an unknown. My thoughts always wander to ‘Buck Rogers in the 25th Century’ or Charlton Heston in ‘The Planet of the Apes’ when I’m confronted with this experience.
By tradition we walk the Pier to its far end, turn round and come back; stopping at the amusements to waste some coins, buy a cup of tea, a deep fried ring doughnut, candyfloss or a 99 ice-cream. Every shop sells the same kitsch junk that we feel compelled to buy; every chip shop boasts the ‘best chips in the world’ served in an identical polystyrene dish with 2-pronged wooden fork. Children plead with their parents for flip flops, a kite, flags for their sandcastles, a fishing net on a bamboo cane, (or a triangle shaped shrimping net-slightly better quality), which will inevitably break and be left at the caravan by the end of the holiday.
I took these photographs with the English postcard in mind, juxtaposed with the emblems and metaphors of ‘my lost England’. Churchill stands monumental overlooking the beach or strides along the promenade as have done thousands of others before him. Spitfire becomes sailboard or ornamental sculpture that stands out from the shore as a stark reminder to an England that once was.
Perhaps the most disturbing image is the statue of Churchill, destroyed, buried up to his chest with ‘Victory V’ sign held aloft, a re-creation of Liberty from that prominent final scene from the afore mentioned film; a comment to our failing society.
In a year that has seen a Diamond Jubilee, we have to ask where the bounds of patriotism and belief in our country lay. Would we fight for our Britain, if demanded or just pull our Hoodie up over our heads and slouch off to Poundland.
Has the British Empire been reduced to a one off street party, an extra day off work and a flat beer served up in a union jack paper cup?
The Englishman’s stately home plays a part in these works too. The Royal Pavilion, and the marble hall at Hatfield House hosts the funfair attractions, a donkey grazes on the carpet of Blair Castle, bumper cars collide in the dining room of Syon House, the long gallery at Little Moreton Hall is filled with the sounds of slot machines and laser guns shooting zombies and Penrhyn Castle is built in miniature by a young child on the sand before the tide comes in.
These artworks are serious, controversial, amusing and at times ridiculous. If anything they remain a personal trophy for my day out by the seaside.
From those distant days as a young boy when I would cry ‘I can see the sea’ as we neared our holiday destination, to observer and visual recorder at age 45, what fascinates me the most is this timeless fashion in which generation after generation have walked along ‘the front’ and have done as I have done - and long after I have departed this Mortal Coil, will continue to do so, in an absolute unconscious pursuit and pleasure to find in themselves and remain inherently British.
Mark S. Masters - June 2012