Chris Ghinda

The noise! Sounds like drilling. Two people are laughing about some tickets; they might be parking officers. It is hard to focus on the atmosphere; there is a continuous stream of sounds from everywhere… cars, cutlery, people talking. Interestingly, I do not hear them walking, as if the footstep noise is cancelled–unless they wear classic shoes, whose sound fades in and out.

There is an occasional quiet moment but it’s never complete silence, as I can still hear building ventilation and traffic on the other side. This must be the city’s atmosphere… a constant noise. It’s like a living organism, and the quiet background noise is its bloodstream. A momentary breeze of fresh air, or is it? Voices of children far away, there must be a school or nursery nearby, but it is disrupted by a sudden flow of cars. Then I hear something else… as if I am in a completely different space once again.

Kathryin McGeary

I’m leaning against a poster of a shimmering blue lake surrounded by fresh snow-capped mountains.

Ahead of me I can see some parked cars on either side of the street and, across the road, a modern nondescript building which might once have been cream but which has been dirtied by the city atmosphere over the years. To my left, I can see a fraction of a street; I know the food market is further down there but I can see a cafe with red writing, a leopard print fascia for a hair studio & a partial shalwar kameez shop. There are orange bin bags on the floor.

Four workmen are chatting outside the cafe, wearing dark paint-splattered trousers. To my right I can see the gherkin peeking above the older brick buildings, nestled in among other shiny towers of capitalism. Ahead to my right are yellow roadworks barriers, possibly zoning the area to where the cafe workmen will return once they’ve enjoyed a break. I can hear the occasional motorbike, cars, snatches of conversation as people pass by me. No idea what they think I might be doing. Footsteps approach, pass, fade away.

The building on the corner of Cobb Street isn’t aging well. Below is the House of Hair. I imagine there’s a flat up above maybe. From where I stand I can see that the roof is falling apart, with bricks missing and a large weed sprouting towards the sky. A TV aerial suggests someone is living beneath this tenuous shelter. The side wall has a curtained window. The paint is peeling off in large chunks, like sunburnt skin.

The original (I guess) Cobb Street sign is still there, weathered, with a smarter new version beneath. Similarly, the original – now weathered – buildings are being quietly overshadowed by more modern counterparts – or intruders, depending on your point of view. There are lots of chewing gum stains on the mottled grey slabs of the pavement.

Jessica Rowe

Three people on the phone. A man with a suitcase. Two people chatting over hot drinks. Brightly coloured shopfronts. People unloading vans. Walking with purpose. Food trolley dragging along the floor. Construction sounds. Metal rhythm. Electric cars. Cockney accent. Suitcase wheels. The gherkin. Tall, clean, glass, rounded. Dark brick flat block. Slabs of concrete. Metal shutters. Comfortable breeze, uncomfortable noise, unnatural, regular, loud. Cigarette smoke. Cold polluted air. High heels. Cute fluffy dog. Scaffolding. Street art. White sky. Clouds. Trees.

Thomas Brewin

Except if something totally out of the ordinary happens like a crash or if someone calls my name, something to pull my attention away from observing the state of stillness that resides in the early minutes of 10am. Rush hour has paused for now, a sense of serenity allows me to stare and think. The first thing I notice is the overlap of this building over that one behind. Then perhaps where the lamp post ends and intersects with the window behind it. If I move my head an inch or two to the left, the lamp post seems to support the window like a stick would a sign.

The physical elements’ invisible relationship, and influence on each other. Seemingly curated materials on the ground make other arrows to follow and read into. Glass, stone, tarmac, chewing gum point at the street’s story of construction, birth, reconstruction, life and re-reconstruction, somehow avoiding death, in a continuously ending loop of development.

Letting the arrows guide my sight, I follow them until I cross another person’s line of sight, which bounces my attention to what they are looking at. As they cross the perpendicular street, walking towards me, I cannot see the car around the corner but I know it’s coming. You can tell by looking at their facial expressions. They pass, off to work perhaps.

The repeating shop format bores my eyes for a short moment before getting distracted by the flashy exclaiming advertisements. After all it is an easier task to change an ad to suit the trend over fixing up the shop itself. I decide to ignore the capitalistic lens that so often gets in the way of appreciation. There’s a time for that, now isn’t that time.

I do have time though, for enjoying the distinct colourful character of this area, it has had many lives, artifacts remain to inform us of the many usages it may have had, the communities it may have served. All get intermingled and superimposed into one. Something most definitely not unique to this area of London. Finally, Public Gallery opens, a woman, fashionably dressed in black stands still.

The way she carries her own head is telling of her tiredness, her weight converges into her finger as she presses down onto the shutter button. She waits for it to open completely, and then she’s gone. I will probably see this scene again somewhere else another time.

Zoe Coldwell

There’s an uncomfortable buzz of the large fridge behind the bar, bellowing out across the empty pub floor. A sound that is surely downed out when the patrons pour in. The buzz is then smothered in throwback “feel good” anthems, making me feel not so good, as I was rather revelling in the emptiness. The happy beats somehow emphasised the lack of atmosphere in the place. We, like three teenage girls, a sore thumb in the corner, sat scribbling our assignment.

Jharylin Quiceno-Cardona 

In the urban life, the symphony of sensations. The air is alive with the aroma of diverse restaurants and food stalls, each inviting me on a culinary journey. Conversations create a rhythmic background, blending with the movements of people passing by. The hum of engines and the shuffle of shoes on the pavements compose the city’s dynamic soundtrack. During it all, my stomach rumbles, the hunger provoked by the tempting scents on the streets.

The melody of the birds above adds a natural layer to the urban composition. As I sit still, I noticed the subtle sound of my hand gliding across the paper, the ink creating letters with each deliberate stroke. The architecture around me mirrors progress, with builders constructing a new building nearby, the sound of the machinery and the clatter of constructions. In silence I absorb every detail around me, savouring this present moment without haste.

Zara Louise Lenon

I sit quietly in the corner, taking notice of my surroundings. “Urban Barista’s Coffee”, boasts the logo, whilst high lighting the location: 95 Middlesex Street. The inside is nothing too fancy: a small, self-contained area with limited seating and furniture. Its plan, bland white walls are brought to life by detailed, verbose diagrams boasting about the secrets behind its coffee and produce.

Warm paintings of summer weather, almost enough to distract me from the dreary autumn drizzle outside. Across from where I’m sitting, two pairs are deep in conversation on their own, individual topics. However, their discussions are drowned out by the loud ring of the coffee machine behind the counter. The relaxing murmur of music hums in the background, doing its own thing.