The Barbican and a pub called The Dolphin.

Dolphin Loos - Photo by Emily Webber

 

This was supposed to be about the Barbican, a building turned complex. Now it is also about The Dolphin, a place sometimes spoken about by people on buses in Hackney; I finally managed to go inside after wanting to for months, knowing it should only happen by accident. Having never asked for a description of it, of why it was so great, all I knew about it was second hand. But can a building ever be condensed to pure description of its elements? I could write about the use of concrete at the Barbican, of its adjacencies and flows, and leave it incomplete. I could also describe the general roughness of the Barbican, not only in the way its mass embosses your eyes, but the opacity of how it works. What happens in each room? And why is that rocky, chapped finish on every wall? It could be compared with a sponge, which would capture its texture and visual impression, along with its acoustic porosity and ability to retain your attention.

 

Absorption and intrigue are planted about its different levels, brittle CD’s flicked in metal racks can be heard above, and the open door to the auditorium during a rehearsal are sonic distractions, heard while walking on sloping floor plates past Gordon Matta-Clark holes. It’s the perfect place for people with short attention spans.Being there on my lunch breaks for a couple of years now, has also linked my experiences of the Barbican to impulses of hunger; to imagine setting my teeth into its walls, and biting into baked gritty resistance, so maybe eating there has lead to an ingesting of it. Now and again my lunch at the Barbican becomes part of the graduation ceremony taking place; and a free jubilant wave is there for the surfing, another opportunity for absorption but also for theft.

 

This kind of theft of experience is like an infection, and happens also at The Dolphin, Both of these buildings are familiar to me in similar terms but in differing textures - of dry and wet.

 

The Barbican is close and warm in its ruggedness and The Dolphin flimsy in a soggy haze, the kind that is germinated. Entrance to The Dolphin is at the wrong door and requires £3, a bag search and the surrendering of fluids. Final passport to entry is gained with a temporary tattoo. Once inside the small lean-to corridor has one dim light bulb and a giant fridge holding seized liquids. It leads to an outside covered deck decorated with Christmas Trees. With the start of rain above the plastic ceiling people push under its shelter in surges, and faces come closer. “I never knew places like this still existed, its like Carnaby Street in the 60’s” says one man close to me, which I like the sound of, but also means nothing to me.  When inside the main room, it is large and sweaty in a comforting way, and the interior is full of gaudy, mouldy hues. High on the back wall are two posters; ‘Irish Pubs’ and ‘Irish Doors’, and all of the inherited pub furniture is cleared, save some tables at the rooms perimeter that the few people not dancing are sitting on. At this time of night the frosted windows to the street barely conceal the mess.

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Review of The Dolphin from www.beerintheevening.com              

By dameoisdone - 1 Jan 2009 23:52

 

Possibly had the best shot down ever delivered to me by the barmaid who never smiles...
me; So where you from?
Her; North.
me; so you having a good night?
Her; (Shrugs).
me; what time do you finish?
Her; Look are we done here? Good.

Was in the Dolphin last night, again...and will be in there Sunday, until 5am, again.

This pub is ruining my career, my wallet, my dignity, and my life.

Only visit the Dolphin if you are willing to sacrifice all of the above.

Perfect mix of sluts, junkies, hackneyites, builders, students, locals and thieves.