Nicholas Jolly - Going West

There is a wicked falsity currently being bandied about by art journals and the media in general that the mutant love-child of a coke bottle and a glider designed by sculptor Antony Gormley and situated on an unpleasant tract of waste ground somewhere close to Gateshead, is the largest, free-standing public sculpture ever to have been erected in the United Kingdom. At a height of 20 meters and weighing a not inconsiderable 208 tonnes the Angel of the North is undoubtedly an impressive achievement and despite the carpings of its many detractors, artistically a resounding success. But when a man makes bold claims about size he had better be cocksure of his dimensions or otherwise be prepared for shame. The truth of the matter is that the Angel looks a pretty puny interloper when compared to one particular artistic triumph of yesteryear and was beaten to the accolade of largest by an astonishing twenty eight years.

July 1970 saw the inauguration of a structure unprecedented in modern Britain in its scope and audacity. It was heralded at the time as 'the largest continuous concrete structure in Europe' and at a length of 2.5 miles and covering an area of some 50 acres it is not surprising as is the case with all innovative artistic endeavour that its advent was met by howls of protest and derision from the assembled forces of local philistinism. Sleek, uncompromising, challenging, majestic, interactive - in short the Westway.

The Westway, or A24(M) as it is more prosaically known, is in one of its guises a raised piece of motorway which straddles the West London borough of North Kensington on a series of giant concrete stilts. No one who has travelled it end to end can be in any doubt as to its slick, modernist beauty but there are those of a more literalist frame of mind who might point out that being a practical part of the metropolitan infrastructure hardly accords the Westway the status of an artwork. This is to miss the point. Ever since Marcel Duchamp started playing around with bottle racks and scrawling R.Mutt on his bathroom furnishings art by nomination was up and running. Admittedly nomination is usually offset by a nice sprinkling of context such as a gallery or improvised art space but surely it's time to cut out the middlemen (and the moneymen). This is art at source.

To gain a clearer perspective of the intricate semiotics of concrete, asphalt and steel I enlisted the support of man-about-town and charity shop aesthete Gavin Clark and together we decided to 'do' the Westway. This is our odyssey.

After some debate it was concluded that neither of the conventional methods of experiencing the Westway - that is, by car along its bituminous spine nor by train travelling alongside from Paddington could possibly give us the insight we craved. To walk beneath and beside this noble behemoth suggested itself as the only natural process and to follow the sun from east to west more natural still. Clark and I are above all natural men.

After a shaky start diving in and out of on-coming traffic in an effort to photograph the introductory ramp only to discover that we were in fact taking pictures of the Marylebone flyover we finally discovered the real beginning of the Westway a further 400 yards on. Art lovers wishing to follow in our footsteps should not be put off by the deceptively bland aspect of the road at this point. It is a moment for quiet reflection. Before us lies the Westway it its entirety and these modest beginnings belie its symbolism as a shining path, a giant's causeway, a golden gate towards the concrete Mecca of White City elevated roundabout and the exquisite inscrutability of the Hanger Lane gyratory system and on, to Acton, to Berkshire and beyond.

A couple of hundred yards on and we find ourselves for the first time enveloped in the crepuscular world of the road's underbelly and here just off the Harrow Road our perseverance is rewarded by one of the best viewing points the Westway can afford. On the banks of an offshoot of the Grand Union Canal we glimpse a dramatically perspectival view of the south face of the structure at a point where it enters its double-decker, two-backed-beast stage. It is reflected in the calm waters of the canal to create a quadruplicat orgy of line and form.

Moving on we eschew the twee touristic twitterings of Little Venice and pretty soon arrive at Royal Oak underground station. It takes a dedicated adherent of the modernist dream to find merit in the roadway at this point and I could tell from Clark's heavily furrowed brow that he was already beginning to have serious doubts as to the authenticity of our mission. However this particularly dark and sombre patch of raw concrete and traffic noise is not without interest as efforts have been made to 'brighten up' and camouflage one of the colossal support structures with an ambitious mural project. Painted in a style derivative of the Mexican muralists it aspires to depict the nobility of toil, the heroism of the worker and the empowerment of community but in reality only acts as a testament to a late eighties neurotic denial of sixties formal idealism. Sadly we have to confess ourselves neither convinced nor impressed by such abject sentimentality and are merely irritated that the brutal purity of the structure should have been defaced by such daubs.

Progressing further Clark and I start to become alarmed by a flowering profusion of graffiti and the bleak aspect of the continuing thoroughfare. Shortly afterwards our fears are exacerbated by the raised voice of'youth' issuing from around the next corner and we wonder whether we might find ourselves unlucky enough to happen upon a ruffian element. Art can be dangerous, but thankfully the truth reveals itself and we realise that it is merely young men letting off their vile energies in the harmless pursuit of sport. In fact so relieved is Clark by this revelation that he poses nonchalantly for the camera in an uncharacteristically sporty attitude.

Clark then suggests that we get out of that particular vicinity as fast as is humanly possible and after skirting round an adventure playground and climbing over some railings we find ourselves on the towpath of the Grand Union Canal. Here we are treated to Westway Prime Viewing Point No.2 where the voluptuous arcing form of the structure seems to billow out like a taut sail, rendered slate-blue against an azure sky and once again mirrored in the still waters. Part of the poignancy of this spot seems to lie in the contrast between the tireless drone of the internal combustion engine up above and the halcyon idyll that exists below.

This contrast is something that has not been lost on the writer Will Self. In his novella 'Bull' this pleasingly pert section of the motorway is referred to as its rump and he goes on to stretch anthropomorphism to the point of absurdity by interpreting the entire motorway as a gargantuan female stick figure. In his fevered imagination Self sees the White City roundabout as the girl's head, her various limbs being formed by the sections and off-shoots of the Westway that end at Acton, Shepherd's Bush, Marylebone and Paddington and the description is concluded as a passenger in a car charges 'like a runaway vibrator, towards the very crotch of the flyover.' Clark and I, always up for a challenge, can now reveal exclusively to readers of this magazine that we have pin- pointed the precise location of the Westway's sexual apparatus and it turns out to be none other than the Great Western Road Bus Depot. The Freudian spectacle of red double-deckers penetrating cavernous hangars suddenly becomes sickeningly apparent and Clark through waves of nausea is led to conclude that Self is a sad gobshite who should probably consider seeking professional help. Everything considered, who am I to disagree?

After a desultory lunch at the Carlton Bridge pub grudgingly served to us by an insipid barmaid the afternoon is spent in quiet contemplation passing down the less than beautiful byways of Westbourne Park and Ladbroke Grove. Here the housing clings and clusters around the flyover depriving it of appropriate viewing points and from the Portabello Road onwards we realise that not until the ultimate goal of White City roundabout has been gained will we see anything of much interest. To sustain us we stock up on Dragon Stout, Twiglets and Nigerian Guinness and march boldly forward.

Our efforts are amply rewarded. An aerial photograph of the roundabout shows it resembling a giant's wristwatch or the London Underground logo reinterpreted as a Ben Nicholson relief but here on the ground it is difficult to appreciate the structure as a whole and Clark and I gaze heavenward trying to absorb the spectacle. Shaded by the undulating tendrils of side road and feed ramp the late afternoon light takes on a greenish, subaquatic hue .The motorway now, both in form and in function, assumes the role of a concrete Coliseum where those who find themselves so inclined can indulge in the dubious pleasures of competitive sport. After waiting for a match to finish we gain access to the football pitch which occupies the central portion of the roundabout from where we anticipate finding Prime Viewing Point No.3. Squeaking sheepishly across the astro-turf we make for the far end to a position which from which a number of Utopian artists' impressions were drafted in the early seventies. These show the structure as being a geometrically pure, hard edged henge and the sports ground beneath is populated by happy, shiney, idealised young men. In reality the building of an indoor sports facility and the planting of shrubs and trees have diffused its formal power and obscures a continuous view of its elegantly curving circumference.

After loitering bottle in hand for another five or ten minutes I detect that Clark is beginning to grow restless. Who could blame him? How much art can one man be reasonably be expected to consume in a single day? Perhaps tomorrow we will make an effort to go to the Tate and poke sticks at creativity made timid and weak by incarceration. At least today, for a brief few hours, we have been privileged to travel alongside art, red in tooth and claw, untamed and victorious.