Martin Eberlen

This is not a story. A crisis is engulfing the world we live in, felt by communities across the globe. Whilst our days, especially here, where I live in London, do not begin quite so dramatically fires continue to burn, ferociously, across the land that we once so delicately tended. With our world in the midst of environmental catastrophe, I often wonder what it might take for people to become more attuned to the scale of such devastation.

For many urban communities a direct relationship with nature has almost vanished; for others it has become severely disjointed. Pockets of land that appear wild and untouched have become battlegrounds that, without sufficient protection, are rapidly captured, crushing vital ecosystems barely visible to the naked eye. Instead of allowing these spaces to flourish naturally, we weave and craft a designed vision of outdoor spaces, cramming them in as an afterthought between high-rise, unaffordable apartment blocks. Under the wrath of consumerism, forgotten corners of residential streets have gradually built up a collection of unwanted impulse buys, fast-food wrappers, and unsightly furniture. Weeds engulf this mess, attempting to force a process of decomposition over manufactured materials and, failing to do so, end up preserving these items for future generations.

Glance left, then right. It is safe. There are no polar bears where I live. They’re hungry though. I know this because I’ve seen the pictures on the news. It was bin day today. My neighbour’s trash has been dragged across the street, torn open, and abandoned: foxes. They’re OK. They’ve got food.

Light, floating rain. Drizzle.

Been out for one minute. Soaked. Thinking about turning back; I turn back. I stop. Turn around again. Then again; and again. I just walked in a circle, on the spot. Twice. Nutter. A discarded can in the bush catches my eye. That’s why I’m walking today. Because I don’t understand. I carry on.

Marvels Lane. Sounds like a place where superheroes live. It’s not. Drizzle. Drizzle. Drizzle. The outskirts of South East London. Hardly a tourist destination. Saying that, I’m the one who bought a book to guide me along this ‘hidden corridor of green space.’

There’s a sign for a missing dog.

I want to see where the people live. Where the rhythm of life is just one beat slower than the city six miles north. Drizzle. Drizzle is along for the ride.

A few miles in, I haven’t seen another person. I’ve seen ten posters for missing dogs though. Perhaps the dogs aren’t missing. Perhaps it’s like that film, Isle of Dogs, but instead of humans sending them away they’re just leaving of their own accord. Because they know what’s coming.

It’s weird, I don’t see anyone else. Nobody going in the opposite direction. There’s signs of human life: the warm orange glow from windows as I pass. People around, but they’re not walking with me. They’re inside. Too right. It’s cold out here. There’s nothing but rain and concrete and broken dreams – sorry, broken chairs. Why is there a couch in a bush? Legs are a little tired actually. I could do with a sit down. But not there. I’d get a wet arse.

Gardens. Plastic bins. Plastic bags full of plastic things. Prams and scooters, children’s swings. All broken.

The drizzle stops.

A fox. I try and get its attention. ‘Here boy. Heyyyyy hey heyyyy hey hey hey. Stop!’ I’m a mad man again. The fox doesn’t understand. Why am I telling it to stop? Am I expecting it to turn and say ‘Yeah? What’s up? I’m just off to the bins, you want anything?’

It stops. Looks at me. Carries on.

Trees. I’m surrounded. I’m impressed. Ignore the dog shit on the floor.

Sparrow. Squirrel. Blue tit. Robin. Wren. Blackbird. Squirrel. Wood pigeon. Squirrel. Wood pecker. Squirrel. Green Finch. Squirrel. Lots of squirrels.

Shit. I’m hungry. Café. Inside. What have you got that’s gluten free?
Errr…nothing.
What about the soup?
It’s got chickpeas in it. Chickpeas don’t have gluten in them, you idiot, I want to say; but don’t.

I nod politely. Never mind.

I’ve got a banana in my bag. Peel it. Eat it. Chuck the skin in a bush… I’m the problem.

Ohhhhh. Nice houses here. Even the alleyways are clean.

Neat park. A dog chases a ball. There’s a bee. A bee? In January? Forget the bee. It’s probably fine. This park is… Plastic bag caught in a branch.

Drizzle? Nope. Rain.

Palm trees. Shivering. I want to wrap them in electric blankets.

Voices. At last. I’m not alone. Kids though. Ugh. She’s drinking Coke from a can. He’s throwing stones at a swan. He runs out of stones.

‘Throw this,’ she says, gesturing with her can. He doesn’t.
She does.
They turn around and see me.

‘Did you just throw that can in the river?’ He frowns, aggressively.
Something inside me tells me to walk away. She says, ‘It slipped out my hand.’

I lower my head; feel the gentle trickle of drizzle landing on the back of my neck. I close my eyes.

Martin Eberlen is a London based documentary photographer, writer, and teacher. He graduated with distinction from the MA Photojournalism and Documentary Photography, London College of Communication, in 2018. Every body of work he creates forms part of his long term study of the Anthropocene. With an interest in environmental science, climate change and conservation, Martin’s work deals directly with the effects these subjects have on the world we live in. Martin was awarded an Honourable Mention for his entry into the documentary category in the 2017 International Photographer of the Year, as well as an Honourable Mention in the Prix De La Photographie, Paris. His writing and photography has been published by the BBC, and more recently by Hinterland Creative Non-fiction Magazine.