Folkestone Triennial

The Triennial is an interesting idea; a rich businessman gathers together a collection of modern art, throws it up in the air over Folkestone and sees where it lands.

Mark Wallinger focused on the Somme. Folkestone was the main departure point for many of the 19240 killed on the first day of the battle and the artist numbered a stone for each soldier. Kids clambered over the stones while their parents wondered if they should show more respect. But hang on; was this even a war memorial?

Further along the clifftop, I sat on a bench overlooking the sea as a loudspeaker hummed into life sharing poignant letters between lovers and Somme-bound soldiers. I looked across the channel to Normandy on a hot summer’s day and couldn’t begin to imagine the trenches.

Tracey Emin’s bronze baby accessories were a popular quest. They’re tucked away under benches and over railings; a tiny sock or a dropped teddy bear. They were harder to find than the mobiles of plastic sunglasses in the Metropole ballroom or the illuminated talking head of a sign stating “HEAVEN IS A PLACE WHERE NOTHING EVER HAPPENS.”

I initially picked up a false impression of the town with its Creative Quarter, neon installations and wholefood cafes. Behind this façade lay the prosaic Folkestone; a working-class port with plenty of chip shops and chintzy b&bs. There was too much wasted space serving as overspill car parks. Two communities were here; a young art crowd in the cafes and the families drinking tinned beer on the beaches.

People talked to me as I studied my Triennial map. “Do you know where you’re going?” asked a lady on a bench, noting my hesitant walk. “Yes”, I lied. I just couldn’t bring myself to ask an octogenerian, “where is the mobile science fiction library?”