The sixth of january, 2017, three years ago, the Minesweeper boat set in fire on deptford creek, London.
She was utterly in wood. To not be caught and blommed up by a mine.
No electricity, no running water, but oil engine & raintank with filters.
And woodburners to warm us up.
One month later the blaze, when I met the chalk guy who was too high to not forgot burning wood in a wood boat, he told me with his italian accent : « Basically [Italians people always begin with « praticamente »], it’s a good thing for them : now they have to move & to do things. » He was talking about the crew.
We were in a squatted bank on Deptford street, on the corner with the square where was settled the Public Library, very close to the swimmingpool where I used to take my daily bath, not far from the Albany center where I used to spend my wintertimes, warmly, writting and working on the layers of the next screenprinting book… We were high. Him much more than me. Acide. Cocaine. Heroin. Everything. Between the former strong room and the hall where hard speed punk electronic music wailed like it has to be at the doomday, few hours before – in the morning bells – police will besiege the happy-go-lucky people inside.
Ten years of creation & freelife gone down in ashes.
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