Eliot Siegel Photography: http://eliotsiegel.com/
Eliot Siegel, the photographer who happens to be my landlord, agrees to meet me on a very busy Saturday to guide me through his exhibit at the Theatre Royal Plymouth. We meet in the first-floor café, its doors open to the unseasonably warm air (17Celsius). He greets me with his usual light hug and kiss on the right cheek, a kindly gesture I’m accustomed to, albeit struggle to contextualize. Eliot was born in New York but has called Plymouth home for over 11 years, making him a member of the expat-local population annually dominant in this blue-collar port town. While we wait for the pastel-clad timefull* ladies in front of us to order brie-and vegetable soup (read: light-orange liquid cheese with green dots and transparent chunks), we ruminate on important things, like desiring American-style cake frosting. Eliot orders chocolate cake, symbolic of a true expat-local (the English love cake. But, a good English boy orders fruit cake whenever available). We carried our tray of cake, Cappuccino, pre-packed ham sandwich, and sparkling water to a table in the sun, past the ladies sipping soupy brie so slowly I check my watch. Eight hours until close, they should have enough time…
Over lunch, I ask Eliot about his life as an artist in Plymouth and the city’s prospectus. Knowing that I was a fellow art-loving expat-local, he provided candid responses. Eliot moved to Plymouth as a divorcee; his wife had the kids in nearby Cornwall. In fact, he only visited Plymouth for the first time on a lunch date, when he happened to notice an advertisement for “New-York style living” in scaffolding-clad building. Today, he spends the majority of time in that same Plymouth flat and the rest at a flat in London. My bum barely warms the café seat before Eliot states, “Plymouth is limited culturally.”
Me: “I always hear that, but when I walk home from the Royal Parade on weeknights, I don’t feel like a minority because everyone is a minority. All the people around me are talking in different accents and languages.”
Eliot: “I don’t mean that there aren’t many cultures here. There’s just not much to do culturally in the city. There are plenty of cultures.”
Me: “What’s a cultural thing to do?”
Eliot: “Art galleries. Currently, there’s only three art galleries in the city that I know of. Culture is access to art, film, and theatre. We do have SOME OF those things here. There’s the Drum Theatre, which is a fringe theatre that’s internationally recognized. I’ve seen one group from Belgium there probably four times; they’re just wonderful. Outside the theatre [Royal] there is the Plymouth Arts Centre for foreign film.”
Eliot begins speaking animatedly faster. He gestures toward the bored, brown, boxy 1970’s-era office building across the pedestrian walkway.
Eliot: “In fact, they recently renovated the Plymouth Arts Centre and it looks great. Except they’re talking about moving it to that hideous piece of Communist shit. Apparently Hilton bought the building and are going to give a floor to the Centre. We’ll see if that ever actually happens, though.”
Me: “Eliot, I am surprised to see you get so upset about something in Plymouth. I thought you were living here because you ‘have a reason to,’ but it seems like you’re dedicated to the city. Why?”
Eliot: “I feel like I’m part of the community at this point. I’m going to continue to live here. I care about the city and it getting better. Eleven years ago, I couldn’t say the P-word.”
Me: “Plymouth? Why not?”
Eliot: “It has a terrible national reputation. Plymouth is a Navy town. It used to be a beautiful city before World War II. Now, it’s not a beautiful place to be. It’s improving visually; it’s become more palatable.”
Me: “So if the city is becoming more beautiful and there are so many cultures here, why isn’t there a cultural community? It seems to me like it’s not the people’s fault. It’s just like, they’re not incited to imagine or engage. Do you think so?”
Eliot rolls his eyes and allows a low, rolling chuckle. He repeats himself for emphasis.
Eliot: “Well, it’s a Navy town. There’s a lot of apathy around cultural ideas. There’s a huge unseen art community with nowhere to go. I mean, there are 1,000’s of graduate art students in Plymouth who have nowhere to exhibit and have to try their luck in London. There are no photography galleries in Plymouth. They can’t stay in the beautiful Southwest. They have to try their hand in London, and there’s only 10 galleries there.”
Me: “How can we bridge the gap between culture and being culturally active?”
Eliot: “People are coming in from other parts of the country and the world. They want to live somewhere they enjoy. They want their Plymouth to be more special.”
As Eliot has three photo shoots this afternoon, we decide to dart out of the café, up the stairs, and to his exhibit. Our ambient music is the lightly clinking glassware from the second-floor Theatre Royal Restaurant. I view the photos and listen to his explanations, noticing something that surprises me. Me: “Why don’t you take any pictures of Plymouth?”
Eliot: “Plymouth isn’t an interesting place visually.”
Me: “I completely disagree! I see things here all the time that I think would make great pictures, especially along your grunge style. Have you seen the graffiti below the motorway by Sainsbury’s on the way to Plympton?” Eliot: “I guess I just never feel inspired to walk around Plymouth and explore.”
It’s as if someone drops a Discman in my brain. Here we are, listening to a great track about the merits of Plymouth, lamenting the apathy and lack of engagement, then the track skips a beat. Me: “Eliot! Are you serious? You’ve already written off Plymouth, just like everyone else! You won’t even give it a try.”
Ever the English stoic, Eliot laughs and changes topic. We finish his exhibit in good spirits and walk together down the Royal Parade. We elevate our volume to accommodate honking buses and screaming seagulls. Eliot hugs and kisses me; I thank him profusely for his willingness. As we turn to go, he shouts not to get sunburned. I shout back, “Go explore!” We both laugh.
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