Weston Bate’s book (1994) treats the inner intricate grids of Melbourne’s grid as bygone. Edwardian ghosts inhabit the photographs: dashers, haberdashers, balderdashers, mustdashers. Milk came in bottles, with cream at the top. Wall-to-wall bluestone was block-set for commerce’s hundred blind alleys. Essential, and kind-of planned, necessity was the mother of lanes.1994 is now itself an artefact. Only since has lane meant latte, with froth at the top, an arty fact. Lanes are the mother of invention. Lit-up clubs line up. There’s lunch in shafts of May sunlight, coffee tables populated by shoppers, hiphoppers, laptoppers, rightandpropers, coppers. Graffiti transmogrifies into murals.
Sunday 10 May 2015
Lane (May)
Weston Bate’s book (1994) treats the inner intricate grids of Melbourne’s grid as bygone. Edwardian ghosts inhabit the photographs: dashers, haberdashers, balderdashers, mustdashers. Milk came in bottles, with cream at the top. Wall-to-wall bluestone was block-set for commerce’s hundred blind alleys. Essential, and kind-of planned, necessity was the mother of lanes.1994 is now itself an artefact. Only since has lane meant latte, with froth at the top, an arty fact. Lanes are the mother of invention. Lit-up clubs line up. There’s lunch in shafts of May sunlight, coffee tables populated by shoppers, hiphoppers, laptoppers, rightandpropers, coppers. Graffiti transmogrifies into murals.
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