Sophie Rogers

sophiejollyrogers@gmail.com | diary | fancy a portrait

It is June 2009. I’ve had my studio since October and confess I hardly go in it. Here is a photo I took inside. It’s day time, the shutters are shut, there is a roll of toilet paper lying all about my studio, on the floor wall to wall, over the desk and chair, up and looped through the drying wrack, draped over the now completed towel rack of sacristy.

I painted it, in drips and dabs of snotty looking ingredients, paint glue and cleaning fluids, then left it out to dry. It was a completely pointless endeavour which is only fair as I wasn’t getting paid for it or the time doing it. It was really quite fun and relaxing. I recommend it as a good stress reliever, painting bog roll.

I did it once before when I lived briefly in Berlin. I drew on a loo roll with felt tips and biros. I decided half way through that it would make a good present, and so I wrote on it messages to. I rolled the whole thing back up and posted it, to the happy recipients.

This brings me in no way of a link to, apart from Berlin, to the tarmac; A picture of a tarmac job in Scarborough (can you guess where?). Well imagine! I wish I was there when the road workers came to this job. I can just visualise the tar heating up over flames, the steam roller at the ready, the temporary traffic lights or GO STOP sign person, most likely a man, as lets face it, when do you see ‘women at work’ in this country?

India yes, dressed in pink sari’s throwing their pick axes into the road side, no need for florescent day glow there. Heck they could have been convicts. And it was nicely pointed out to me in New Zealand, what a good job it must be there, as women were quite dolled up in their designer tight jeans, gold earrings and sun safety base ball caps working the GO STOP signs.

Well I’m just strangely fascinated by roadwork’s, that I’ve started a film… which I’m hoping you’ll get to see later this year.

I’d like to say though how happily amazed I was that again in Berlin, (what an enlightening place!) I observed, whilst I was observing… on a street August StaBe pronounced ‘Owgust strarsser’ by the ways. It’s in Mitte, which means middle, if you didn’t know or guess.

The street could boast thirteen independent commercial galleries, if it wanted to, though I wouldn’t, cos most were very depressing in content. But the Kunstwerker, which is a fantastic multi floored gallery, sort of like the Baltic, but not. It has a café outside in the court yard and a brilliant video art lending library. And I lived there over looking the yard café and straight into the gallery and them into me, in my kitchen, and me on to Owgust Strarsser.

Anyway on my way back from collecting my messages (Scottish for shopping) I found three men at work laying a small patch of tarmac on our quiet street. Nearby a sad empty gallery (of visitors) it was open. I strolled over to watch the way one lays new road surface in Germany, and was pleasantly surprised to find there was a group of us nosey people gathered, an old man, a mother and her push chair, some children, and another woman holding her shopping bags. We all stood, mesmerised by this operation, this open air free theatre.

Yes, I like watching road works. Once I watched three men on Victoria road in Scarborough laying new tarmac, a small couple of square metres. One raked and shovelled the tar mixture over the couple of square metre area, it was very smooth, and then another work man cast big stone chips over this, like casting seeds or throwing bread for ducks, well sort of. Then the third man rolled a mini steam roller over it, and that was it job done. Clear away the orange fence and flashing yellow cones.

Of course for reasons unbeknown to me, the effects of this show seemed exclusive just to me. I was the only passer by drawn in. I stayed till the end, and so I got talking to the team. I’d wanted to film this sort of thing, and said so in a round about way, and they were all too friendly and said I was welcome to come and film them. The boss, the oldest guy gave me his mobile number, which I chickened out of calling.

The next image is of a puddle in which you can see the reflection of the evening sun glowing golden red on the Grand Hotel in Scarborough. I love puddles like I love tarmac laying, or more a bit. Their shapes, their shows of reflections, the oily rainbow residue, their secret depths, deeper than a TV, as one tries to peer round the corner almost falling in to the mirror world.

They control where we put our feet, over round or in. leaves, feathers and crisp packets sail them. Mothers scream at their tots, some more obscenely than others… to stay clear of them, as the innocent little adventurer is tempted, understandably in.

The drops of rain create perfect cascading rippling circles and plops of quiet noise. Oh back to Berlin, there I bought a post card I loved, a photo of a dented half deflated football with a puddle in it, by the artist Gabriel Orozco.

Seeing the golden reflections in the puddles, I felt like I’d found fools gold, as I snapped a few photos, and thought of the storey of the golden windows at the other end of the street.