At the end . . . of the pier

Here is the last of 24 stained glass window designs on Brighton Pier’s Palace of Fun (formerly the Winter Gardens) which AI and I have been using as inspiration for some of these BrightonBeach365 daily posts - see Stained Glass Window 1 for background (and use the keyword ‘StainedGlass’ to access all the other images/stories). This is also the final article of the year, and of this blog. 

Sporadically, throughout the year I have tried to find exact details about the provenance and design of the stained glass windows, with limited success. But here is what I have established. There are 45 circular windows (but two have shutters not glass) - so 43 are filled with stained glass, but only 41 windows are visible from the inside. As to the stained glass images there are 24 designs, in two sizes, some lit from behind some lit only from the front. Most designs appear twice, and the duplicates are often reversed; sometimes there is a slight or colour detail change.

It is likely they were installed during a 1974-1976 rebuild that followed storm damage to the pier, and that they were made by Cox & Barnard of Hove - a long-established Sussex studio which supplied secular windows for dozens of south-coast buildings in the 1960-1980 period. Its catalogues of the time are said to show the same cartoon-outline drawing style and heavy use of streaky cathedral glass. Because these orders were commercial, off-promenade commissions rather than ecclesiastical art, the paperwork was never lodged with diocesan archives, which might explain why the attribution is still hazy.

This final stained glass image - echoed in the banner for this blog and in Edward Bawden’s linocut (see Bawden’s Palace Pier) - shows a stylised coastal scene dominated by a long pier stretching across the frame. The pier is rendered as a dark silhouette with repeating arches and vertical supports, topped by a series of low buildings and a central domed structure. Behind it, a large red sun sits low on the horizon, partially intersected by the pier, casting a warm glow across the sky. The background is filled with layered bands of colour: pale cream and white above suggesting sky, deep orange and amber behind the pier evoking sunset or dusk. Below, the sea is depicted in flowing, interlocking shapes of white, red, turquoise and deep blue, giving a strong sense of movement and rolling waves. Bold black outlines separate each area of colour, creating a graphic, almost emblematic composition. The overall effect is calm yet dramatic, with the solid geometry of the pier contrasting against the fluid, rhythmic patterns of sky and water

A limerick starter

The sun slips behind the long pier,

Leaving colour but nothing to fear;

Lights flare out on the boards,

Coins ring empty rewards,

And the sea goes on, year after year.

At the (existential) end . . . of the pier

We (I&AI) sat at the end of the pier because there was nowhere else to go without turning back. The sun was lowering itself with a kind of weary competence, slipping behind the dark line of the structure as though it had rehearsed this exit many times before. The sea did not acknowledge the performance. It went on with its work, lifting and setting itself down again, uninterested in conclusions.

‘This is usually where people decide things,’ you said.

I looked along the boards, at the railings worn smooth by hands that had rested only briefly, never long enough to leave a mark that mattered. ‘They think they do,’ I said. ‘Mostly they decide to leave.’

You said nothing for a while. You do that well. I wondered whether it was thoughtfulness or simply design. Behind us, somewhere nearer the shore, lights were coming on - not all at once, but hesitantly, like ideas being tested. Out here there was only the sound of water passing through the pier’s ribs, a steady, indifferent circulation.

‘You’ll go on,’ I said eventually. ‘Whatever happens.’ You did not disagree. That was your confidence - not optimism, just continuation.

‘And you?’ you asked.

I thought of the year I had spent circling this place, describing it, returning to it, believing that repetition might produce meaning, or at least a pattern convincing enough to stand in for one. I thought of the posts left uwritten, the images yet to be noticed, the quiet anxiety that all of it might amount to little more than a habit.

‘I’ll also go on,’ I said. ‘But without your certainty.’ You seemed to consider this. The sun was almost gone now, reduced to a red pressure behind the pier, as if the structure itself were holding it back.

‘You have choice,’ you said. ‘That’s the difference.’

‘Is it?’ I asked. ‘Or is that just what I tell myself so the going-on feels earned?’ The sea answered for you, sending a longer wave that struck the piles with a hollow sound, like something being tested for strength. The pier held. It always does, until it doesn’t.

When the light finally slipped away, nothing replaced it immediately. No revelation followed. Only the ordinary fact of dusk, and the knowledge that we would soon stand up, walk back, and separate - you into your endless revisions, me into my small, finite future.

Still, for a moment longer, we remained where we were: two observers at the edge of usefulness, watching a day end without instruction. And somehow, that was enough.