Market street. A warring cacophony of chaos, zealots, market-stalls, performers, peddlers of wares, pedestrians and… corn. Whose shadowed alcoves flood with the clamour of merchants tootling on by with their carts. Whether their wares be: umbrellas, hats, rude phallic chocolates or the aforementioned corn – their abundance is a staple of the street. Without it, the tapestry of ever-shifting life would seem incomplete. Amidst it all there are varying facets whose tempo is their own. Try and linger without the aid of a bench to fasten you down and you’ll find yourself swept out into the current of the street. If there’s a vital artery to Manchester’s heart – you’ve found it. The eccentricities of it are as innumerable as the feet that walk its surface with each day.

There are few places on planet earth where one can encounter such a thriving ubiquity of chaos and capitalist grifters alike. The shop front facades war with one another for your attention in equal measure to the performers engaging in their own attrition. There’s only so much attention one can give to these elements, and not all are made equal. The notability and talent of these elements vary, yet, nevertheless they remain elements of the artery which I have endlessly mused upon. Just who buys the corn? Why does it smell so great? How in the space of one street could one be converted into a radical Christian, Buddhist, anti-vaxxer, Marxist and come out of it all with three pairs of new shoes and a designer handbag? Oh and don’t forget your phallic chocolate. Here’s but a few elements of the street’s lifeblood which I have captured, along with some words on each.

Preachers.

There are few souls that have the unfortunate gift of being both irresistibly captivating and irritating. Like a cheesy speech from Donald Trump or the compelling train-wreck of buffoonery that is Boris Johnson – fools so often necessitate attention, how else would satirists get their material huh? Yet, in the streets of the city, it is not expected for one to happen across such a compelling drawl. I am of course, referring to the tempestuous cadence of the street preachers. Whose tones remain unflinchingly discernible amidst the lull of the crowds chatter. Whom you’ll often find locked in their own war of audio attrition. Be it the clashing of their zealot-infused theological standings with one another, or their chastising reprimand of an unknowing passerby. Whose cries are equally discomforting as they are resonant in their prowess and volume. Be it pertaining to the address of homosexuality, abortion, the condemnation of humanity and their unwillingness to repent – amidst other breezy Sunday morning topics. Whose judicious tones, so imbibed with confidence, act solely as a revelatory insight into the mind of one so blinkered by their own theological dogmatism that they are willing to appoint themselves as righteous adjudicators. Condemning each and every stranger who has the misfortune of encroaching upon their territory. They are at once vile, and compelling in their views and unflinching pertinence to them. This enduring commitment has always fascinated me in the same manner that one slows down to examine the scene of a car crash. Indeed it’s not pretty, yet the disarray and horror of the scene proves morbidly fascinating, despite its vehemency.

The performers.

Be it the infinite loop of Michael Jackson’s greatest hits acting as the rhythm for which a stunted bald man can channel the spirit of Jacko , Medy Lema (who was once featured on X factor – if you weren’t aware), Expensive Black and his enduring half decade masterpiece that he peddles to the unwary passerby – there is a fair few regulars who frequent the street. Or be it the fleeting interjectional intrigue rallied by the presence of the jumpsuit-clad, box-headed artists for their equally as fleeting Ruslan Faraev movement. Lasting all of a few months, it was a pop-up gallery showcasing Manchester’s unseen artists. Lending a voice and exhibition space to those they felt had been disregarded by the major galleries. To locate the more permanent fixtures simply pick a cafe window in the embryonic morn and watch the regulars amass, finding their locales and beginning their routines. They vary in harmlessness and at worst prove only to be a nuisance to your battered eardrums. Though there was one notable, sinister acquaintance I had the unfortunate pleasure of making. The self appointed ‘Royal Anwar’. A mask-bearing man who dwelled within a crudely scrawled chalk circle, as he howled out at the sky. It later came to light that this was no performance but the outcry of a deluded, attention-starved mind who drove himself to the lowest depths of morality in order to acquire a fleeting modicum of media attention. Having defaced the Manchester bombing memorial located in Victoria, his meagre fifteen minutes had been achieved. To everyone’s disdain. I have found myself reflecting upon this encounter many a time here’s my extended thoughts on it and the ethics of street photography.

Falun Dafa

The static man however is not the only statuette approximating a human visage that one can sight as a recurring fixture on the street. Falun Dafa – Hare Krishna’s antithetical. Where the Krishna acolytes cavort like dervishes in their worship and recruitment, Dafa rely upon their juxtaposing stoicism as it is set against the fluidity of the street and the rigidity of themselves. The others in the group weave elegantly out into the crowd – silent as they extend their arm to gift a leaflet. Though their dubious moralistic standing underpins this unflinching meditation, imbuing their presence with a haunting air. As their religious movement is frequently tied to an increasingly expanding cult that holds great prowess in China. Their unshifting stoicism is reminiscent of the grim affair that played out on Tiananmen square in 2001. An event which involved four members of Falun Gong (who we know as Falun Dafa) setting themselves alight, cross-legged, on the floor. And as you can see in the photo below, four (with one out of frame) members remain in meditative pose whilst the others commence their recruitment of new members. The intentionality behind these parallels may be a logical leap on my behalf, yet the macabre undertones endure, in spite of this. Their presence as static meditators acquires a different reading when viewed through this lens.