Riding the White Elephant through Westfield

Hypha Studios

Artist Dunya Kalantery invites you to take a walk with them through the wild lands of the Olympic Park and Westfield

50 Celebration Ave

Artist Dunya Kalantery invites you to take a walk with them through the wild lands of the Olympic Park and Westfield: gathering sensory and psychic impressions for a collective art work. The walk will start at 50 Celebration Avenue, London E20 1DB, UK. Don't miss out on this unique opportunity to experience Westfield like never before. All ages welcome, children must be accompanied by an adult. Part of the Free Art School E20 exhibition and workshop programme running Thursday - Sunday 12-6 at 50 Celebration Avenue, 1 December - 7 JanThis event is kindly supported by Hypha Studios and GetLiving @hyphastudiosI ride the white elephant throughWestfield kicking up dandelions as IgoDunya KalanteryStratford International Train Station. Running along the road side is ascrub of grass ditch, brambles, breathing chlorophyll into the dank silvergrey that surrounds. A sign jammed onto a pole on the green: “Landowned by SBD Ltd. Pedestrians use at their own risk. The managementwill not accept responsibility for any damage, accidents or losses”. Theair smells of burnt rubber, my toes are numb, I watch my city burn inthe cold fire. Stratford, “International”. The Olympic Legacy, a troughfor Westfield, they’re the pigs, we’re the food. I wonder how often theInternational station of Newham is used, mainline into Tiger, “HereEast”, a lifeless limb of the river with pedalos shaped like swans thatcan’t swim.l google Stratford International and I am told that people also often ask:“Why is it called Stratford International?”“Stratford International is a National Rail station in Stratford and aseparate Docklands Light Railway (DLR) station nearby, located in EastVillage in London. Despite its name, no international services call atthe station; plans for it to be served by Eurostar trains in and beyondthe London Olympics never came to fruition. The original intendedpurpose of Stratford International station was to act as the London stopfor regional Eurostar trains bypassing St Pancras and continuing toother destinations in Britain. However, Eurostar could not stop duringthe 2012 London Olympics ... Critics derided the station as a whiteelephant. The minutes [of some meeting, I’m not sure what] also saidWestfield was disappointed with Eurostar’s decision and believe it willhamper local trade. ” (Wikipedia, 2020)In Athens, the old Olympic airport sits derelict and destroyed -abandoned Olympic planes lazing on an air strip out the back, at thefront, a concrete approach made for screeching doughnuts and drivinglessons. Burnt out clutches of the state. At some point in the desert of2015-2017 after Europe closed its borders to Greece, the arrivalsterminal “sprung” a makeshift refugee camp, thousands of adults andchildren living in tents, little sanitation, no state care. Now cleared,deemed “unfit for human habitation”, boarded up with flimsy Herasfencing &amp; the dark Fuck Off of broken glass, burnt out windows,crumpled metal and sooty ground, romanticised by the beating sun.Those that lived here were moved on to temporary housing, to campsor squats, and then just moved on: out of site, out of mind, living out asocial death elsewhere.Step out of Stratford station and underneath the Welcome to Newhamsign people welcome you into their homes. Blankets, teddies and a rugon the street. The boundaries are dematerialising, what public privatedivide is this. Westfield is a wall of sparkles slamming right in front ofmy face, perpetual Christmas, glittering specks scratching at my eye.Visit Santa’s Secret Grotto! Where you and your whole family will bemagically transported to the North Pole.A few meters away, the train I am still on runs alongside the StratfordCentre, then the flyover lined with tents. Camping in the city; TheManagement will not accept responsibility for any damage, accidents orlosses. Oh Sweet flow of global capital what wonderful legacies youleave.A mother and daughter sit across from me on my driverless train.Russian I think, drinking cans of Desperado concealed in black plasticbags. We remind you that drinking is not allowed on any of our routes.Operators are monitoring this station.I want to feel some sweetness dipped into me. Trust, intimacy andcollaboration.A conversation between two bus drivers. Talking about one bus trappinganother at the depot, a failure in the timetabling, too close to oneanother. Even the busses need space.In Ireland I felt the urge to stick my fingers in the soil and eat it, barkyand peaty like burnt chocolate. It tasted of mud. London tastes of metal,granite, falling on my face and eating gravel as a child. River Terracedeposits apparently, Brick Earth, Alluvium.Im a city baby. I’m a city, baby. Until I was 25 I thought if you peeledback the surface of the city you’d find tarmac, gravel, and its concreteguts until the centre of the earth. So deep was my indoctrination intoman’s domination over nature, stay put, these are your borders. ThenI spent a year working and living on land that had never been built on,never been farmed on, and I learnt the magical realism of foot on landvs foot on tarmac. Another year taught me how flimsy and powerfulpapers are. The borders dematerialise as they occupy - its a paradox.I pierce the thin skin, it bursts. I can feel the weeds breaking throughcracks in the pavement and licking at my finger tips. Tree rootssmashing pavements aside echo like bass in my chest.Put your feet against this fence, lie on your back, arch it, place yourforehead into the ground, breathe in the air behind you. Jump up, twofeet on the floor, break into a walled garden at night, grab the soil pushit into your fingernails, touch yourself touch your lover lick the dirt itsyours to take. Fight the border fight enclosure fight alienation destroyfences let the brambles grow. Sleep.What do you see? I hear sea gulls that shouldn’t be here. Plants bearingthrough concrete pillars, life forming through the cracks. My tongue softon the roof of my mouth, I breath their sunshine in. Feeling like I couldblend softly into my surroundings like these puddles in weird, still, in-dustrial spaces of speculation and poorly graded soil. Thisparticular light piercing through buildings onto the afternoon windowsof the DLR. My fingers meet the individual fibres of the gentle carpetof my seat. Weeds that have not yet been paved over, I see you. I slipthrough the cracks and grow. Rui da silva in my head: You touch mymind in special places... My heart races with you.. Many tonguesspilling out of my one tongue, greeting the yarrow, dandelions,plantain, grasping at each other, entangled in our mutual saliva. The thinfilm of this pierced skin gathering around the edges of my mouth, sweetand milky.What happens that on some days I can feel this magic and allow theincessant otherness and metallic tones to drop away? The puddle’swetness rolls my tongue back, knotting, awakening some stirringwetness in me.These days, I am learning softness. You’re grinding the enamel of yourteeth down, my dentist told me, before gagging me with a mouthful ofpink putty. Do it quickly before your benefits stop, she said, or you’llhave to pay £130 for the pleasure. I choked on my tongue, but only whenI started having sweet dreams again did I realise there had just beennightmares for months.I’ve started to place something soft between my legs for them to hold, toresist the hard grip of my crossed legs as they clench against anypossibility for desire. I stroke myself, unhinging from a vice-tight grip,my roots unfurling, smashing pavements aside. Slipping and sliding onthe muddy verges that remain. Unfortunately, The Management acceptno responsibility for damages, accidents or losses. So most days I haveto keep my roots in, my knickers dry and my self-possession tightlygripped.

Our {communityGuidelinesLink} describe the sort of content we prohibit on Eventbrite. If you suspect an event may be in violation, you can report it to us so we can investigate.

To report other categories of prohibited or illegal content, submit {link}

Riding the White Elephant through Westfield

More events from Hypha Studios

Discover more events from Hypha Studios, from Arts to other experiences you might love.

Riding the White Elephant through Westfield

More events from Hypha Studios

Discover more events from Hypha Studios, from Arts to other experiences you might love.

You might also like...

Browse more events with different dates, prices, and formats to find your next great experience.