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p6
 In 1993-4, Keith Ashley and Chris Barnes had a dream.
Well, more of a nightmare, really. They'd found a derelict chocolate factory in deepest
Stoke Newington (part of which collapsed when the builders pulled the buddleia out ofthe
roof), and they had the possibly certifiable notion that it could somehow be turned into
an art and craft collective - a haven offiree-thinking and inspired ideas. Down a
cul-de-sac off Farleigh Road. Yeah, sure.
Remarkably, six years later the Chocolate Factory (well, why change it?) is a flourishing
collection of 13 studios housing more than 20 artists, craftspeople and designers -
ceramicists, straight-up potters, sculptors, glassblowers, artists, a token fashion
designer - and a waiting list, as the building acquires an enviable reputation as a
congenial, supportive and inspirational place to work. Twice a year, if you don't blink,
you can browse and buy, when the Chocolate Factory opens its doors to the likes of us. The
next opportunity comes as part of the Hidden Art of Hackney programme of opendays, in the
run-up to Christmas, with open days on the last weekend of November and the first weekend
in December (hours from 10 - 5.30, Saturday and Sunday).
Make the most of it and take the Chocolate plunge. The soft-centred tenants will be
showing their wares and talking about their work - to allcorners. The opportunity to
acquire that special Christmas gift - or even to indulge in a spot of Medici style
comissioning, if the impulse overwhelms you - is irresistible.
Hidden the art of Hackney may be, but make an effort to visit the Factory, talk to the
artists, find out what they do and why - and you'll be the richer for it. Plus you'll be
getting stuff that goes for tons more up-west ....
The Chocolate Factory, Farleigh Place, N16 (0207 503 69611 www.chocolatefactory.org.uk )
Hidden Art of Hackney website: www.hiddenart.co.uk
Straight to the Point
by Sue Heal
I was on Italy's A malft Coast in the summer yes, another white
middle class contribution to N16, protests on a post card please - and jolly nice it was
too thank you very much. For what it's worth I worked my arse off to pay for it.
 Anyway I
digress. I bought a coat in Sorrento. A wonderful coat in which I look a million dollars
or a passable impression of Coco The Clown depending on how you feel about turquoise fox
collar and cuffs I was dead chuffed when I hauled it home until one or two Stokey friends
said 'You can't wear that in N16 !' Not, I hasten to add, because Zippo's was in town and
people would stop me for discounted tickets but, whisper it soft, this is real fox fur
we're talking and I have the terrifying unpaid credit card bill to prove it.
Look, I don't really want animals to die so I can drape them round my neck, but I'm a poor
weak human being who fell in love with a coat in a country where the locals don't give a
monkey's about such things. Or as my best friend said sardonically at the time, 'In fact
monkeys would look rather fetching round the hem.'
But in Stokey, Land of Political Correctness Par Excellence, I shall be stoned in the
streets. Unless you're wearing a uniform of such unsexy unremitting drabness preferably
woven by impoverished Patagonian collective dwellers trying to avoid visits from Anita
Roddick, then you are Satan's sister in law. The fact that I choose (me, myself, own
decision, choose) not to look like a dog's breakfast and like to wear some slap must mean
I'm a sure fire no-brainer without a feminist bone in my body.
There's a strong imperative in N16 for certain folks to sit in high moral judgement on
others, i.e. the likes of me, who incidentally has done her apprenticeship in the
political trenches, which only serves to bring out the bloodyminded one-fingered salute.
It doesn't matter what you actually believe, nobody ever properly asks you. It's oh so
easy in Stokey to adopt a wholesale political viewpoint, no dead animals, no mention of
race, feminism, sexism, triumphalism, superiorism, we all vote for Ken, we all read the
soddin' Guardian during the week and the ruddy Observer on a Sunday.
Deviate even slightly, fail to fit the pigeon hole, mention that the Emperor might be
minus his Ecuadorian car muffs or believe that individual personal struggle might be
considerably less cosy and require more considerably courage and people start holding
crucifixes aloft and waving garlic in your face.
Stokey's riddled with people who wrap themselves in a safe rulebook and look down their
nose at those who've not chosen that clubby little option. If you really want to feel some
heat try sending your daughter to a single sex private prep school out of the area. 'You
should be supporting the local schools ... if everyone like you leaves... etc etc.' Send
her to a school run by Hackney Education Authority ? Where you're not even allowed to have
a poor old Nativity Play ? Sorry no can sacrifice.
There might be no ideal - half the time these days I feel like she's in an Angela Brazil
novel but that sound you hear is the stampede of Earth Shoes to private tutors on the old
Q.T. Hypocrisy - Stokey's riddled with it. And a singular lack of compassion for those who
don't fit the identikit. But there's oodles of crocodile compassion for a dead turquoise
fox. |
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