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Croydon is
a Super Suburb. A C20th idea-city
transposed onto a medieval market
town, in the middle of semi-detached
suburbia. A rudely beautiful product
of civic ambition, popular aspiration,
geographical accident and imperfect
political and economic speculations.
The views from the 19th floor of Taberner
House, Croydon Council’s Pirelli-like
offices, are revealing.
From the north side the view is epically
urban. A motorway cuts through collages
of post-war tower-blocks. Seiffert’s
NLA wedding-cake and Lunar House’s
space-age rooftop wing compete for
attention, whilst the Millennium Dome
and Wembley Arch are pathetic miniatures
on the horizon. Down below, the Fairfield
Halls’ ‘Bootleg Beatles’
posters provide melancholy 1960s feedback.
But from Taberner House’s south
side, the view is of green-belt Surrey.
In the southern half of London’s
biggest Borough, the last of Croydon’s
tower-blocks tip-toe their way into
a landscape of clay-tile roofs, playing
fields and church spires.
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Croydon
is a place where the mildly provincial
coexists with, and often generates,
the boldly radical. Central Croydon,
with its towers and flyovers, is not
the result of wartime bombing, but the
speculative ambitions of provincial
town fathers.
Croydon’s self-confidence sets
it apart.
Many find the resulting urban bricolage
uncomfortable, but closer examination
finds an ideal landscape for exercising
the imagination and honestly generating
culture. Ikea’s inhabitation of
Croydon B power station was a proto-Tate
Modern, Croydon College inspired Punks,
whilst Birds Portchmouth Russums’s
1993 fantasy to place alien culture-dromes
atop Croydon’s multi-storey car
parks couldn’t have been more
consistent with the place’s unique
spirit. |
