Whitechapel

“When arriving in a city, we see streets in perspective.
Sequences of building with no meaning.
Everything is unknown, virgin.
Later we’ll have lived in this city.
We’ll have walked in its streets.
We’ll have been to the end of the perspectives.
We’ll have seen all the buildings.
We’ll have lived stories with people.
When we’ll have lived in this city, we’ll have taken this street a ten, twenty, thousand of time.
times...
After a moment, everything belongs to you because you’ve lived there.
It was to happen but I didn’t know yet.”

L’ Auberge Espagnole, Cédric Klapisch

I arrived at night fall, a Saturday evening. Whitechapel station was closed, so I walked from Aldgate East to Vallance Road. In this totally unknown place, I dragged my big suitcase behind me, my move. The first thing that stood out to me was the immensity of the space around me and then its activity. The height of the buildings, the mixed populations, a charity shop, a gas station, Holland & Barrett, these little Italian rolls — I now know that they are called cannoli but I still haven’t tried them—, English taxis, the deafening sound of the ambulance siren, the smell of unknown spices, the large poster walls, the white tunnel filled with tags and then my street. Vallance Road. A small park, very small. Much smaller than I imagined, but that’s okay, I would run further away. A black trash can, a violet, a large window, and other details that I have probably since forgotten. Fresh start.

Wednesday 6 p.m.
Coming home after a run in the neighborhood. I think I just heard the muezzin.

Thurday 11.25 a.m.
I just come home after two hours, wandering through the main street in my neighborhood. The one I arrived with last Saturday. I have a funny feeling, as if my brain was exhausted from all the things I have just asked it to store. Too much information at the same time. All my senses were on alert. I felt quite drowned: where should I start, what should I write down, what to focus on? I only did a part of this street in two hours and I don’t know what to take away from it. The street is permanently inhabited by people of all origins, from all social backgrounds. We hear many different languages, sell all kinds of things from the vegetable market to all kinds of sweets, including spices, things necessary for the maintenance of a house etc. I noticed a lot of classified ads too. Smelled spices I’m not used to, heard phrases I didn’t understand. There is no doubt about it, here, I am a foreigner. Like most of them though. Several have noticed my presence. I’m not quick like everyone else, I take my time, I observe, I note, I draw. It makes me different. Some of them did not seem happy about it (or at least that’s what I felt). Here, we must hurry, everyone is working and we don’t have all day.
The neighborhood in which I live now has a very present and particular cultural identity. People from all over come to mingle in the heart of Whitechapel road. Simply crossing this place to go to work, to come to grocery stores, sell their vegetables in the market, or even taste some local sweets.

Friday 23th October 4 p.m.
Just came home after a walk through Whitechapel road. I’ve taken a few notes again and I talked to the cooker of the restaurant I go see everyday theses days. Nice people. The foods seems nice also. I can feel that my point of view is changing. I’m getting use to the codes of the people living my neighborhood.
In the street I heard Spanish, English, Arabic and some Indian dialect (I guess). Various singing languages, only two of them were familiar to me. Again this woman of the street who seems lost. I’ve made some notes about the restaurant next door. Brief exchange with the chef who was kind to me. I think I should try to familiarize myself with the dishes offered. I unfortunately do not have the ease to speak their language so why not try to understand this mixture of culture differently? Food is a more direct, more obvious way. I will try to find “traditional” recipes for these dishes.
Streets that smell a thousand odours that I do not know. That I also have to tame.

Samosa £ 1

Chana £ 2

Moulai £ 4

Samosa cat £ 2

Shahi biriny £ 3

Aloo tikki chaat £ 2

Pani puri £ 2

Parata £ 1

Jilapi junction 1kg 7 £ “Fresh & Cresspy jilapy”

Saturday 24th October 5 p.m.
Can you buy me food please. Can you buy me food please.
A man in his 30s waits outside a grocery store.
Howling wind.
I met a small hunchbacked gentleman, coming the other way. It reminded me of Granny’s great friend.

Sunday 25th October 4:48 p.m.
I got out quickly for a bit of shopping. Sunday afternoon, the streets are emptying. Whitechapel appears strangely calm; the shops close, night falls, everyone goes home. As for me, I feel more and more at home.

Monday 26th October 3:40 p.m.
First historical research on the places that I have been exploring for almost a week. I am very interested in the fact that the places around us, in which we live, are sometimes —most of the time— steeped in history. I remembered that last Monday the Working Lads Institute listing caught my attention so I wanted to know more. I’ve looked for archives, to question the time, the evolution of the buildings, of the neighborhood.
 Founded in 1876, the Institute offered a home to young men who had been involved in petty criminal activity, rehabilitating them through working at the Mission which tended to the poor and needy in Whitechapel. Once a lad had proved himself, he was able to seek independent employment with the support and recommendation of the Institute.

Tuesday 27th October 4:12 p.m.
Tuesday market day. Under the rain we sell everything. Shawls, phones, clothes, quilts, vegetables. I went back to my classifieds. A man was waiting outside the door, under the blue awning. I asked him if he understood them, he answered me yes and that they were in Bengali. Another man came to chat with him. I didn’t catch a word of their exchange, but hearing them pleased me. Off they go now. Suddenly it started to rain heavily. The bravest continued on their way, the others took shelter under the shops’flap. As I passed a shop, I saw two men wearing traditional turbans. They were beautiful.

Whitechapel: my new neighborhood. The first thing I did when I’ve decided to investigate my neighborhood was to start a journal. I’ve also taken a lot of pictures, few notes, talked to many different people. I was trying to collect as many things as I could to develop a data base. Days passed and I accumulated things; too many informations. How could a make something that describes Whitechapel? I came home and looked at what I’ve got and that how I realized that I was starting to make a collection of things, things that for me represented in a way Whitechapel.

Its multicultural identity through the classified adds…

… packaging or papers collected in the streets.

I knew that most of them were in Bengali, but what was this other dialect that I’ve found? I decided to translate it. I tried different website before using google traduction. Apparently it’s Somali Language. What does it says?

I typed few sentences I had found on this paper in google translate to see what it will get of it. I captured the simultaneous interpretation in a video, adding my voice reading the sentences at the end of each of them, as I wasn’t able to listen to somebody else doing it for me.

Then I came back to the photo. Look what is in the photo. Why did I take this picture?

More than likely, because of the colors.

But also for some interesting details.

I am very interested in the fact that the places around us, in which we live, are sometimes —most of the time— steeped in history. Gymnasium. Where does this inscription on the wall comes from? The working Lads Institute.
What you can see below is my collection archive images, witnesses of another time.

How your perspective, as a designer, can produce a new way of understanding Whitechapel?
Go back to the streets and try to map the space through different categories.

Thank you !