A woman in her early thirties, maybe late twenties.
Strappy heels, jeans, a mustard cardigan.
Her eyes keep clipping the room. Not looking for a particular person, rather, for certain persons. She scans an area, tracking back and forth, noting where people are, moving her gaze on.
She nods while she listens. Her mouth moves but her lips don’t; she’s making noises but she doesn’t really seem present.
When it’s clear she hasn’t noticed the waitress offering her a top-up, her companion squeezes her elbow gently.
Male, early twenties.
Brilliant new Converse, black jeans, black sweater (sleeves rucked), thick black glasses.
He’s pacing back and forth on the walkway, glancing to one door, then to the other door, then back to the first door. He makes to move for one - hesitates - makes to move for the other. Stops. Paces. Pauses again.
He leans against a railing. Fishes his phone out of his pocket and thumbs it a few times. He swipes down. waits. Looks at each entrance again. Swipes down. Slips his phone away. Begins pacing again.
Two women, late twenties.
One wears a black top, cut low on the shoulders, straps of a charcoal vest swooping up and under a blue lanyard. Hair a confusion of blonde and brunette. She brushes her fringe out of her eyes every few seconds, but delicately so as to avoid smudging her blusher.
One is very blonde. A silver dual-tone coat hangs over a white sweater. Her movements are slower, more comfortable. Her lanyard is wrapped around her hand, which is wrapped around a blackberry. She taps at it as her colleague checks the lists on top of the table in front of them.
A woman, mid-twenties.
She wears a professional smile and the washed-out all-black shirt and trousers of a uniform. It’s covered by a heavy cotton apron. Her hair tumbles out of a hasty tie, strands falling over her cheeks.
With a short silver wand she taps into the screen above the till, pursing her lips as she decodes her notes. Her eyes flick up and down as she finds the right white wine, the right sharing plate.
A man, late thirties.
Grey suit with dark patches above his ankles where the fabric has sipped up puddles. His shirt, pastel blue, is unbuttoned to this breast, left collar pinning one strap of his lanyard down while the other bounces on each step; shirt, jacket, shirt, jacket, shirt, jacket, etc.
He’s pacing hard towards the stairs and disappears for a moment.
He reappears looping down the next flight, making a bee-line for the toilets under the function.
A woman, early twenties.
She’s wearing a grey wool coat and an aubergine scarf. Hair hoisted back into a ponytail, fringe sever and recently cut.
On her back she carries a cello in a chunky red flight case. A totebag hangs on her left arm, stretched sharp by binders and sheet music.
She leans against a railing, listening with intent to a phone. It’s held at a right angle to her ear, with the speaker on her lobe and the receiver a handspan distant.
A girl or a boy, maybe as old as three.
Jeans and ruby trainers kick against the pushchair leg-rest. The child is wrapped in a deep green raincoat that doubles it in size.
Its mother speeds the pushchair across the walkway, and the pace seems to amaze the child. Every surface catches its eye; all the sharp edges and reflections are fascinating.
Every so often the blue balloon clutched in the child’s hand is tugged by the air-flow so it takes a tighter hold, mashing the tiny fist that holds the string into its mouth.
A man, late twenties.
Blue wool suit, cut slim, hair flat – like he’s been caught in the rain or couldn’t find product this morning.
His words are clipped and precise, and he’s staring down his colleague as they violently agree over frothy coffee. His right hand alternates between poking the table and patting the table.
His wedding band seems too big for his finger, and he keeps slipping it back to his knuckle. This unconscious motion make his other movements seem trained or scripted.
A man, late twenties.
West Coast accent leaking between his knuckles, he purses his lips and nods along at his English companion poking and patting the table.
He doesn’t say much, but his eyes are locked. Listening closely. He ’hmmmms’ and nods vigorously and ’hmmmmms’ again, a loop of assent that prompts his companion to talk harder and faster.
The suit is charcoal and doesn’t fit so well; the trousers fall high above boxy black shoes.
A woman, mid-thirties.
Pale blue jeans, brown jacket, khaki scarf.
She chews a croissant absently, eyes fixed on a distance or time clearly not in front of her.
Slowly gulping hot chocolate from a green cup, she occasionally glances at the exposed pipework in the ceiling and tracks a route or two before coming-too and staring off again.
She touches her top lop, pinching and tugging at it.
Charcoal skinny jeans and deck shoes. A black t-shirt that hangs on too-broad shoulders to drape a skinny frame.
He reads The Economist intently, poring over tiny bulletins from around the world. He rubs at his arms, pinches his nose and stifles coughs, late or early on a cold that he’s trying to ignore.
He swipes his arm over the flakes of his pastry as he turns the page, and doesn’t notice. It looks for all the world as if he’s moulting croissant.
Dreads tied back into a ponytail. Grey t-shirt, purple pullover.
She smiles but it’s fleeting and heartfelt.
She moves steadily, filling a kettle, letting it stand, grinding beans into a filter paper, stirring it with a stick. Gets the kettle. She pours a little and lets the paper soak and the grounds steep. It drips a little into a paper cup. A few moments later and she starts pouring more freely. She watches and waits, topping up slowly and letting the cup fill in its own time.
October 2014 | November 2014 | December 2014
Temple Studios | January 2015 | February 2015
March 2015 | April 2015 | May 2015
June 2016 | July 2016 | August 2016