A meeting on Berners Street finished early. Thirty-three degrees outside, a camera in my bag and an hour to kill that wasn't supposed to exist. I gave it to whatever stood within ten minutes' walk.
The street is named for the Berners family, who laid the estate out in the eighteenth century, and their grid still holds everything I photographed. Fitzrovia is dense in that way that London manages - with a chapel, a masterpiece and a murder scene from the movies inside a quarter mile, all wedged between offices and the last of the rag trade. I had a list. The sun redrew it. August top light kills any façade and burns anything pale, so I kept to the shade and let the temperature do the curating.
Fitzrovia Chapel first, which inverts something I keep photographing elsewhere. My usual subject is the overlooked thing beside the famous thing - the parallel street, the forgotten venue. Here it ran the other way round. The old Middlesex Hospital was significant, an entire institution filling the block and it was demolished. The chapel is the fragment that's left standing and all the glass built around it since has the air of a development pretending the survivor was always part of the plan. The overlooked thing outlived the important one.
Then Newman Passage, because it's covered and dark and the daylight gives up at the arch. In 1960 Michael Powell put the opening of Peeping Tom here, a murderer with a camera stalking the length of it. The passage has one entry in the history books and it is a camera pointed down it. I stood roughly where his tripod must have been and pointed my camera.
I left by Charlotte Street, heading to Euston. The façades came last, taken square-on when the shade allowed, verticals are true, the Georgian brick doing its thing regardless of the century.
Most of my projects are made at the borders of my working life. This one is probably the purest case of it. A set of photographs that exists only because a meeting ended forty minutes ahead of schedule. Then half the hastily drafted list went unvisited. Two Georgian lanes and the layered brass doorplates of the rag trade streets are still waiting, unphotographed, there for the next overrun to end early. The hour ran out.