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Shunt Vaults

Thomas Beales

Sound design by Charlotte Simkins

Damp, dark, and smelly, I cannot help but love the Shunt Vaults. For the past five years, the underground labyrinthine structure that the Shunt vaults are comprised of has acted as a space for experimentation in art and performance, in a way that is distinct and unique. When you enter the catacombs underneath London Bridge, you enter with all the weight of their history, both personal and abstract, bearing down upon your senses. Indeed this kind of ambient dilapidation has been gobbled up by the cultural industry in recent times; an artistic corrective to modern life, what you might call the shock of the old. Of course, the catacombs have not always acted as an underground hub of artistry. For most of their life they were used for rail storage. The voices of those who frequent the Shunt Vaults are simply a drop in an ocean of gabble. Where then, does an experimental performance space fit within the buzz of activity?

As I exit London Bridge station, be it from the train or the tube, invariably I find it is raining, it is windy, it is cold or it is dry, though the sun shines on the odd occasion. The station has been standing here for over a century, since the 1830s, and I think of the infinite variety of reasons why people have passed through here. I look around. Some people are plodding by on their daily commute. Meanwhile, others have come to visit the station and surrounding area. Some have worked here for decades, shifting steel for the ever expanding cobweb of rail systems. Their predecessors still haunt these walkways. Their labour, their toil, casts a shadow across the smooth floor. I see tourists clogging the streets outside. I see fights erupting between drunken men. I see the sausage stand on the corner.

I pass beneath the station. I am reminded of the struggle to first find the Shunt Vaults. The crumpled map print-out that roughly outlines the front and back entrances. Where is Joiner Street? Am I on a street or in the station? Which passageway do I head down, and why is this all so complicated? On reflection, the door that lets entry into the vaults could not have been more brilliantly understated.

I approach a black door that is framed by a brick arch. It is a door that I know will eventually fill this passageway with eager people, but for the moment I let it be discreet, for now it is my secret. The fact I am there now, strikes my place in history. The voices of those who worked here day by day are silent. I approach the door. This is not a door that one opens. One does not knock on this door. There is no door handle, and, god forbid there is no number. Whole assortments of people have gathered by now and the doorway is partially blocked. In dribs and drabs the line I find myself in neatly shuffles forward. I smile at the doorman, I show him my details, I nod at the disinterested girl, I apologise for only having a twenty to the new volunteer. I greet my friend, I blag my way in, I pay the full amount, I am shocked that the price has gone up, I only had a fiver, I am turned away, I am given details, I am allowed in, I enter.

This entering is to be cherished. The vaults themselves are as much part of the performance as the shows to be seen inside. You are transported from life into an underground world, bursting with performance and art. They mark a welcome change from garish velvet lining, and mock neoclassical stalls. I look ahead of me down a giant dark corridor and my heart beats, my pupils dilate. Where on earth am I? I am not in what you might call a theatre. I sense excitement and I feel the unknown. It is black and the walls smell damp. Intermittent blue lights crop up every ten yards or so. One time, this time, sprinklers overhead flick water softly down my neck. I am tempted by reflex to cover myself, but I pause, decide to let the soft rain caress me, and carry on down the poorly lit corridor. The bricks around me shift, and my perspective is thrown into disarray. Overwhelmed by a multitude of memories, I squint and try to focus. There are archways to my left and right. They are empty and tempting. I pass a chalked board announcing a performance. I turn into the alcove and sign my name for a slot. I will return. When I do, the ushers will provide me with peppermint tea and play whale music. Underneath the broken brick archway, I will make my way towards a red-lined curtain shabbily coveting a performance space. I will brush the curtain aside and step into an academic’s room. I will make a move on a game of chess, one that will outlast my experience here. A mildly mannered but hyperactive gent will greet me, and inquire about my move. He will let me choose a vinyl to musically accompany my performance. I will then pick a scientific topic. He will explain to me the second law of thermo-dynamics using a toy car. He will tell me a fact. It will be about ice cream. It will not be a fact, it will be a lie. An assistant will then usher me out, and leave me in a dank corridor behind the room, where I will watch someone else undergo my experience. The sod will change my chess piece. I turn away from the chalkboard and see that in the opposite archway there is a large empty room. I have missed this performance, I am told, but I could sign up for an email about the next one. I never find out what it was. Moving slowly further and further down, I pass people in tight green costumes, with fur scarves and whiskered face paint. One of them licks my hand. I pet her. I receive sincerest apologies from a Victorian explorer who explains that these animals have been let loose. Later on he will guide an enthusiastic, if not slightly bemused, group of us on a tour round the vaults in search of these animals. Further ahead still there is a young man. His only prop is a microphone. A crowd gathers as he pours his soul out in a beat box sequence. He touches my friend, and each touch stimulates a sonic response. This sort of thing never went on here before.

I imagine a conversation about this French beat boxer between myself and the railway workers from years ago, who used to trudge up and down these storage corridors. They tell me about their lives, and I try to explain the performance memories that linger here now. It is sad how fleeting this moment is. I turn around and meet a group of friends. We head back beyond the empty space, and turn into another room. It is tall and utterly black. We are seated against the wall in this tiny nook. A singular cell-like window gasps for light and air on the ceiling. I watch Beckett’s Company. All I see for forty minutes are a pair of feet moving slowly, the window and the exit. It ends. I am shook. A visceral sense of mortality overwhelms me. I am back where I was, but all there is now is an empty alcove. I see a rat run by. I wonder if anyone has had sex in one of these dark corners, it strikes me as the sort of thing that might happen. I squint. No one is there. I approach the end of the corridor. This wide thoroughfare opens out and stretches. Already I have bore witness to performances both past, present and future. These memories form a polyphonic chorus that echoes throughout the space. Some of these voices are not performing, but are intractably wrapped up within the walls. They are silent, but still I hear them. The wealth of experience can be overwhelming at times. I have only just entered the vaults proper.

At the end of the corridor, there is a make-shift auditorium and cropped stage, with large-scale mirrors lining the back wall. At first there is a band playing, but they are dull and only a couple of people are enjoying themselves. Instead I sit down to watch Edgar Allen Poe’s King Pest performed by a paper cinema. As I do this I have a large glass of red wine in my hand, which, at this point will not have been my first, and the music lulls me into a transient state somewhere between inebriation and fascination. The hand-drawn paper figures drift in and out of camera shot, and the story silently progresses, accompanied by a deeply moving musical backdrop. This is a moment and a memory I long for.

As the cinema fades, I meander forwards, brushing past an ever thickening horde of people. I reach the long awaited, and much lauded bar. I order a whisky. There are others around here that cannot drink. The bar does not exist for them and they are not here for leisure. The bar acts as a focal point for the entire space as it is now. It is here that people gather on mass. For many the bar signifies what the vaults have become; merely a club or a night out. For some, the bar is a necessary addition to the performance space that is the vaults. For others, the very idea is unfathomable, a future that seems utterly implausible. A group of people gather to watch a performance that is about to take place. A girl stands on a wooden chair. She gently attaches clothes pegs to her face. String trails off from each peg. She hands the end of each string to a passerby and asks them to stay put. After some time, there is string dangling in every which direction and people mixed up in the cotton web. The web expands beyond the centre, into the caged section and surrounding alcoves. Behind this commotion, just beyond the bar, two giant silk ropes are tied to the ceiling up above, and a man in a bowler hat is scaling them. He dances acrobatically, with the grace of physical prowess, and piano music chimes throughout the catacombs. The sheer height of the ceiling grants him an excess of space and freedom to move. He is framed by the bricked underbelly of the vaults. He holds himself poised, and begins to throw fake dollars out in all directions. They float above us, and land neatly at our feet. I turn to my left and see a double doorway into another section. I clamour through the tables and chairs that are in my way, and walk into the cavern now on my right. Inside there is a miniature metropolis, complete with postman and radio station. I put together a model house and spend hours decorating it. This is a condensed landscape that has been created by everyone here. It feels like an impromptu community. Benches line the walls, and figures huddle together on them. They watch us. The light here is sharper than in the rest of the catacombs. It is a warmer florescence. Satisfied with my creation and place in the community, I make my way out of the cavern and turn left into a wide seating section. Creaky old chairs are scattered around this chamber, and it is enveloped by distant darkness. The lack of definite borders creates an uneasy sense of continuum. Time shudders forwards. The impermanence and constant flux of performances keep the vaults active and alive. The walls are restless. There is always something new and interesting to get lost in.

I squeeze my way through the chairs and the dense crowd, and head towards the back of the central room. There is a small cabin there. On its front lies a circular screen, which is playing a video. The memory alternates between a submarine crew exploring the Atlantic Ocean, and a woman in a black dress, sat on a rusted bed, being nervously read to. I stand and watch these scenarios unfurl. Though the cabin is in the central section, it is shut off from the rest of the vaults. Hidden against the back wall, it is lonely to watch. Eventually the moment breaks and the sailors rush out beyond me and into the crowd. I decide to move.

As I exit the central section of the vaults, I turn round a corner and approach fenced iron gating. It is opened for me and I pass through into the performers-only section. It is a strange contrast to the rest of the vaults, an oasis of bright light, cleanliness and carpets. Here there are all kinds of people preparing themselves to perform. Some are rehearsing segments, and some are congratulating themselves after their show, while others are brooding, contemplating how they might develop their piece. I pour myself a cup of tea, and idly chat. Once finished, I say my goodbyes. Some of these people I will not speak to again, some I will see only in some far off hypothetical meeting, and some I will see the next day. I make my way out of the back exit, an exit as discreet as the entrance, and wander off down the yellow lamp lit street.

Now that I am outside again, my experience being over, I am forced to contemplate what might become of this place. It closed momentarily, the heart skipped a beat, but it will continue for another year still. The multivocality of the vaults only works to emphasise their transitory nature. Like all performance, inevitably the end is always present. There are all sorts of rumours. They will become a storage space for the station above. They will once again become neglected and utilised; a home for steel and metal. A shopping complex will be made, a gigantic multi-layered complex of Starbucks and Costa Coffee. Some might call that progress. Others might call it bland repetition. Myself I pluck for the latter, as much as I do love a good coffee. But in spite of an uncertain future, the thought of all that took place, both real and imagined, at least brings a smile to my face. The venue may change, the artists take up and leave, but the vaults will continue, and these moments, no matter how fleeting, have become tied up within the history of the catacombs.

The Shunt Vaults may come and go, but they were never just a performance space. These catacombs are part of the history of the city, its burgeoning rail and transportation, its constant flux. They will remain there for another year, and thankfully so. More voices will be added, more players will play, and their underground eccentricity will continue. Though it seems to be such a short amount of time in which this neglected dungeon has been transformed into an active place of imagination, in reality the end has always been coming. The effervescence of the past five years there has everything to do with the instability of theatre and performance. The best of which indeed, is passed on to be remembered.