I have an idea for a film.
Castle Dracula stands dark against the inky sky, the sweet cries of the wolves floating like gas across the silence. High up on a window ledge, with his back pressed against the wall, the man, desperate for life makes one last attempt to free himself from certain doom. Deprived of sleep, food and of his blood, his weak and torn body now shakes with so much fear he is almost paralysed.
He must move.
Edging his way along a narrow wall and away from the small window, his foot suddenly slips from beneath him on an ancient time-spent slate. He scrambles for something, anything to cling onto as he slides down to the roof edge, panic now taking over his body and he knows that death is imminent. Too weary to scream, he falls, falls, catching images of rock and tower as his body twists and tumbles, until the splash breaks his fall and, as if in slow motion, his body dances a strange dance - suspended in this watery grave. But it isn’t over. He finds himself rising to the surface; he feels his cold hands gripping branches and twine as he pulls himself from the water, his shaking legs pushing him forwards as he starts to stagger through the dark wood and away from Castle Dracula.
Through the thick bracken, he catches a glimpse of a light away in the distance as the song of the wolves grows ever faint. A church? A chapel? A place of God? Would he reconsider his life’s ambitions, denounce all evil deeds and devote himself to God? Only now does he truly believe? Will he honour this new found religion… if only he is saved?
As he draws closer, the light takes on form, takes on shape. What is this sanctuary? Where is he? Through tired eyes he can not just make out a letter T standing tall and proud against the darkness. Finally, he enters a small clearing. He stops, breathing heavily, starting at this oasis before him. He has survived. He’s alive. He’s safe. He bends down, picks up a basket and calmly walks through the door of the Tesco Superstore…
This set of collages resides in pure fantasy, but continues my investigations into English Heritage. We learn from the film, The Planet of the Apes, that Humans reached a point in civilisation crises and inevitably destroyed themselves, from which arose a new order to conqueror the land; the Apes. This concept is the basis of these works. It is not Apes against Man, but the British against the Germans, staged against the background of War.
In these images we witness the English Knight juxtaposed against the modern day German Soldier, (in this instance toy soldiers), in a landscape set against remnants of ‘my Lost England’.
Buried in the sands of the English Seaside town is a derelict red telephone box, passenger and wartime aircraft litter the beaches, Brighton Pier is in ruin and even a carousel that once brought smiles and families together on golden sands and sunny holidays now lays discarded and forgotten; metaphors and symbols of a distant and decayed civilisation.
As always there is humour in the work as I hold ‘us’ up to ridicule. There has always been a silent, yet amusing and non serious battle between the British and the German people, be it through football, or the relentless hoarding of sun loungers marked by towels at first dawn, or the wellington boots taken back to their rooms during stays at English Country Manor Houses, to prevent other guests from sharing or using them.
We witness two knights having a souvenir picture being taken in front of Brighton Pier, the same group departing the helter-skelter having taken time off from their duties to ‘have a go’. Furthermore we see two knights waiting at the Pay and Collect counter having bought items from the Tesco Direct catalogue and finally, a rather camp knights smiles at the Germans as he whizzes around on the carousel; his fellow knight standing proudly in the foreground giving the thumbs up to the photographer waiting to capture the moment for history.
Churchill’s words sound out across the title; ‘We will fight them on the beaches’, but like Dylan Thomas’ Under Milk Wood and his famous ‘Llareggub’, my, ‘We will fight them in the aisles’ is silently translated as ‘we will f**k them in the a**e’.
In the same year that has seen the excavation and resurrection of King Richard III, conducted surveys indicate that more British people visit the supermarket on a Sunday than attend church; religion and deities at the deli; the supermarket elevated to Institution.
A land is marked by its battles and Brighton seafront stands proud in our English Heritage, having had itself its own fair share of conflicts. Entering my 46th year, I can clearly remember seeing at first-hand and with fond memories, the bands of brothers; Mods and Skinheads and the policemen ‘quietly assisting’ these young soldiers in the removal of their laces from their Dr. Martens. Now, I am happy to sit at home and watch the complete series of Dad’s Army and have it ‘drilled’ into me what it is to be British and let the construction of this set of work be nothing more than a pleasurable pastime – and without the intellection engagement of discourse?
Mark S. Masters - February 2013