The London Underground Escalator

It’s like a fine dance - embarking on the Underground escalator. The steady whir and click of the metallic steps slipping under the solid floor provides musical accompaniment, inviting me to embody its beat; whir, click, step. Whir, click…STEP.

I am on my way to someplace else, transported by a vortex of fake, sticky aired, non-place. Metal structures reflecting modern functionism, with subtle touches of fantastical science fiction, encircle above and beneath.

Signs commanding me to ‘stand on the right’ and ‘no smoking’ sit a top the central reservation like the poking of a crocodile’s head from its watery home. I hold myself ‘to the right’ in this Goffman paradise where all travellers do the same, save for the burning thighs of the busy few. But don’t stop on the left, break the rules; you’ll be ‘insane’. Rush by; careful not to touch, to blend, to affect.

A red square invites me tantalisingly to press in an emergency to ‘stop’ this process. Its rules, which in breaking have a tumultuous effect, bring out the rebellious, the teenagers who dare. Playing, joking, kissing.

I am lost in a function, another product on the conveyer belt to be moved to a destination. There’s a place for each part of my body; hands and feet catered for. At my feet I feel a play of bristling hairs. Jamming my right-hand shoe into them I wonder whether they’ll polish and shine or eject the dirt of the atmosphere. I imagine the experience of trapped shoelaces and move my foot away.

Mind wandering, engagement unnecessary, I suddenly realise I’m tilting forwards, my hand rising on it’s holding conveyor at a faster pace than my feet. Shuffling my hand downwards, I’m drawn out of my dream back into the function, the vortex, the science.

At regular intervals to my left, screens demand my vision to shift from front facing. Bright bold colours juxtapose the consistent silver Underground standard, moving and dancing in a dizzy like fashion. Angled perfectly for maximum viewing, yet what is that? Are they upright or leaning? A confusion of space, proxemics, degrees.

The adverts roll through on a loop slower than my bodily motion up the tunnel. My eyes flick from screen to screen; catching the end of one, the beginning of another; there’s no possibility to stop and stare. An accumulation of images requires my imagination to rustle through; picking, choosing, making sense.

Increasing advertising space opens up possibilities, addresses the consumer, confuses the consumer. Makes the consumer feel giddy.

This ritual, the ‘on’ and the ‘off’, becomes an urgent situation at the top. Have I embodied the rhythm effectively or will I prove myself impermeable to such a dance, resulting in my shame? Catch the beat, concentrate, hold it; whir, click, step. Whir, click….STEP.