If there was going to be a memorial statue for David Bowie then Aylesbury might seem an odd, out-of-the-way place for it. Why not Brixton, where he was born, or Bromley, where he was formed, or Soho, where he was transformed? The connection goes back to the early 1970s when, despite its traditional-market-town identity, Aylesbury had a thriving music scene.
Carters Steam Fair was in town and I went to have a look, impelled by a faint nostalgia. And what nostalgia remained was more for the experience of fair-going than the attractions themselves.
More enduring than bronze now is this monument I have made, one to reach over the Pyramids’ regal heaps, one that no greedy devouring rain, that no blustering north wind nor the run of long years unnumbered nor ages’ flight can ruin. I’ll not die entirely, some principal part of me yet evading the great Goddess of Burials. (Ode III.30 – Horace, trans. John Hollander)
Call me Fishpail. Some years ago – never mind how long precisely – having tired of the comforts of domesticity, and with nothing particular to bind me to my human home, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world.
Architecture is the art of how to waste space (attributed to Philip Johnson)