ill Architecture was born from a desire to shine a light through the ‘conspiracy of blindness’ (Thompson, 2017) to the rubbish problem in Greater Manchester. Fly-tipping, the act of dumping waste items and materials in public space, is a problem in the city – as it is wherever the UK government's policy of austerity has decimated local services. Piles of wood, prone mattresses, spilt bags of rubbish, and more can be found everywhere from dead ends, to ginnels, and residential areas. In poorer neighbourhoods, it has simply become part of the street furniture.

ill Architecture recycles this detritus into temporary interventions, making the neglected spaces where dumping occurs impossible to ignore, thus forming new memories in each transient audience, both during the process of making the work, and for the lifetime of each piece thereafter.

The process of each work is an essential part of the piece, as they are executed in daylight and often in places with very high foot and vehicle traffic. Painting rubbish on public land is not illegal, but it is transgressive enough to elicit varied responses. This impulsive methodology engages publics in ways that sanctioned art cannot. I am often engaged in conversation by passers-by and stakeholders in the spaces in which I work. These chance encounters more readily reveal things about the spirit of place (genius loci). The genius loci uncovered whilst on site for many hours, across multiple visits, is one part of a multi-dimensional conversation with residents and the city, creating memories in forgotten places.

The project has grown into three distinct threads; works that illuminate the problem, those that imitate the immediate architecture the material was found in, and works that leave spaces immaculate. This third version, ‘bin bag works’, uses yellow bin bags with a thick black line to illustrate the amount of time given over to cleaning a given area. If any design is completed without the material being taken away, I contact the local council to inform them of the rubbish on site. The life of each piece is then from that phone call or email until the material is disposed of.

Placemaking may well provide an ornamental gathering point in areas of gentrification, but the ephemerality of these temporary and sudden interventions – whilst disrupting the perceived lifespan of public art – can generate conversations around neglected space not otherwise heard, especially when executed in areas yet to be gentrified.
ill Architecture is a viable and responsive alternative to the artwashing practices of placemaking.

Each bag roughly twenty minutes

Of litter picking in mazy

Runs under Mancunian Way

Combing grass verges of this proud

Town that will tell anyone still.

Paying attention that ‘we do

Things different here’. All these sacks

O'shite beg to differ, sunshine

We do doorstep dumping as well

As the rest. Civic pride my arse.

First thing on a Sunday morning.

Armed with bags warning ‘offensive

Material’, I start clearing

A former homeless camp having

Arrived a day late to be of

Any real use to the former

Residents, whose temporary

Camp I had hoped to tidy. Light

Green squares now dot one corner

Of the park where tired bodies.

Lay the night before. With me in

This urban plot, two young drunks and

One quiet man. He’ll drop to the floor

A kitchen knife from his trench coat

And apologise as he wraps

It back in newspaper. One of

The other lads will scope me out

As Feds by bowling up to me

And back to his butt strewn perch, where

I'm confirmed as ‘safe’ to his pal.

Small cars thumb their snotty nose at

The puny speed humps. A scroat in

Training holds a wheelie above

The women's headscarf. I'm followed

By a surveillance van. We nod.

The sound of stuttering shuttle

Runs on loose stone and glass. Fitful

Legs between emptying cans and

The job at hand. Vacant thresholds

Persistently prone, they’re not fussed.

Arcade sky from Hulme to Moss Side

Covers, in sight, myself (clearly)

And the odd walker using lines

Warn down through small gaps in fences.

Going church, college or Asda.

As heavy doors pirouette on

Corners before crashing down on

Uneven ground, flipping their brass

Handles to the young architect's

Desire to have them stand just so,

The man hopes this clumsy attempt

At spatial agency will at

Least tempt the students to bite and

Ask of his design on dormant

Place. But he's left to fuss alone.

Losing panes as planes to fill with

Each meet and great with floor and door,

The glass to grass ratio does

Naught for paws nor claims to turn

Ignored space to dynamic place.

More and more like clowns as doors made

Up for shows for naught but those that

Knows short cuts and time. Time to spare

For dawdle and pace, getting to

Place one foot in front of t’other.

The guard doing laps of college

Grounds measures his gait so that each

Fly by abides by the same count

Of steps, give or take. He cares not

For what he's up to with them doors.

With fists of bags, black save for where

They’ve split and warned to spill colours

Running the gamut from Fisher-

Price pink to pilau white, the tank

Topped woman dumps them in plain sight.

Shelves, I think. The audit’ll wait

Though as I'm blindsided by the

Matriarch who dumped this shit, armed

With tea and biscuits plus pasta

And potatoes. I'm welcomed home.

The merry mother of three (that

I can see) stifles my questions

As to why she's littered with Rich

Tea. Six biscuits to one brew. A

Treat to graft ratio askew.

At school runs I'm blessed by a crowd

Easily impressed. Saddled up,

They circle, at a distance mind.

Daylight transgression allows a

handsome studio and soapbox.

When I return each morning my

Past inquisitors have left their

Own marks on their new public art

As tyre treads and skids now top

The paint and scrape it from the wood.

From my lectern on the grass I

Can lecture lithe young men in the

Outfield as Pakistan take on

More Pakistan. Deep square leg gets

An earful mid stuttering starts.

The Match of the Day theme plays (like

(a birthday card speaker system)

Across the streets of Old Trafford

As Mr Whippy, or a Sikh

Sibling, parks by my feeder's house.

After accepting double pay

For a cider lolly so he’ll

Reverse four feet so me photo's,

Just so, my audience figures

Rise ninety-nine with a flake times.

John street should be prefixed with an

‘Off’ or a ‘Back’ and take its name

From a surrounding road, as to

Bestow full-on road worthiness

On this moody stretch of cobbles

And a beauty of a blind wall,

Is, well, spot on, on reflection.

The buddleia, the red brick, grey

Flags are all very everyday.

Ordinary. Perfect. They’re ‘John’.

Between the first trip and the next

A stack of twenty-plus white bowls

Is left on the ersatz table.

Dictating the day's design, they

Find a new home before I'm back

For a third, on which I find a

Key ring with the portrait of a

kid, propped up in room in Hulme,

I assume. The vivid frigid

Box amplifying its return.

Trying my best to wait till that

School bus rolls past again, so this

Thing works. Painting on the school run

But no joy. On frozen finger

Petting terms with local fingers though.

Toiletries and bags of bras, socks

And pants. Things we know where to find

At home and dry, lay here, piss wet

Through. Abandoned when told to do

One from this mint city of ours.

The sound of a busy timber

Yard. Let's assume a Polish tongue

Before our prejudice is kicked

To the kerb by Balkan banter

Labouring Man U's loss last night.

‘You-Nigh-Teed’, peppered with childish

Jeers, starts keeping metronomic

Time with reversing signals from

Lorries backing in to pick up

Or drop off all the wood you’d need.

Broken English across the yard

May be why our ‘Anyone but

United’ friend is taking this

Slight and running with it. Leaning

Half out his cab, grin breaching ‘tache.