The Orphans

SHUTTERS, DUST, AND LOST DREAMS.

Above the doors, on the walled surfaces of buildings, lie many faces, histories and futures - often overlooked or taken for granted in passing. They play out their own unique existence differently, but never independent of the anonymous human faces I pass on a lengthy city stroll.

Each one possesses its own identity, and with that, personality. As I walk, I can feel the presence of them, changing every five paces or so. I can sense the shifting dialogue, from welcome to threat, apathy to sanctuary, fun to serious, or mono to colour.

These are, of course, retail and recreational units. Shops, pubs, restaurants.

Each one is grappling for attention with its façade uniquely tuned to its purpose and functionality; screaming that here you will find what you are looking for. There’s no need to look any further.

Some surfaces are trying to claim that if only you stop, if only you read, smell, or listen to what is on offer, that you may be granted a temporary respite from the stresses of life. Perhaps an addition to carry out in a bag.

They cater to all senses, deliberately or not, and while some attract a sense of mystery and an urge to explore, others create a feeling of familiarity and comfort. A curious curation of noise, aroma, spirit and presence.

Others try to tantalise you with the hopes of a new future altogether. With the jackpot only a few steps past the lights and colourful adverts. Failing that, there are glaring advertisements for cheap alcohol stickered to the steamed windows of a chain pub a few meters down the street.

There are of course the shyer, more modest units – the purposefully stern styled outfits that service serious and formal affairs only such as a funeral director or Citizens Advice.

As I walk, I try to absorb the mood of each unit. The rapid shifts between the different parts of a person’s life that they each try to cater for quickly become overwhelming. I’m soon very aware that on a stroll right through the heart of a big city in whatever mood, these subliminal shouts are telling me that whatever issue, want or desire I may have, there’s a solution through a door. It becomes tiresome and repetitive.

It seems as though over time, we have analysed and peeked into every human need and desire and created a retail or hospitality outlet for it, all neatly packed into decorated rows with each colour and font pored over in a hope it matches what need you wish to be met that particular day.

Step, step, step, new clothes for a new you.

Step, step, step, utterly unique homeware you can’t be comfortable without.

Step, step, step, sports equipment. You know you need a new hobby.

Step, step, step, hold on.

An interruption. A shutter over the door, an empty window through which is blank, dark space partially littered with trinkets of partially lost identity. I pause and look properly. The site of a former party supply shop. At the time I couldn’t quite explain why I was so enraptured by the sight of the sun-bleached birthday banner limply hanging across the dirty window, the lines of fingers from the past still traced in the dust on the glass.

As I peered further in, past the banner, I could see shelving on the right-hand wall, on which were plastic packets and decaying cardboard boxes. One box had a crumpled image of a clown’s face, now distorted and sad as it flowed with the flaking creases on the surface.

At the rear was the counter, now empty, but one plastic card holder still sat atop, no longer at right angles with the desktop as it once proudly would have been. Now it serves no purpose, it only sits hoping that one day it might display cards again.

These deserted artifacts were designed to complement a happy occasion. This shop was once filled with sunshine and wonder and yet had been abandoned so neglectfully and with haste. I stared for a while before moving on, jarred, but reflecting on the sensation that filled me at window’s edge of that party shop.

This was my first introduction to the Orphans and the unique emotional impact they possess.

Every element of the city has its stereotype, which I explore a lot, and the one that surrounds the Orphan is that of decline. The more Orphans an area has, the more people perceive the location as dangerous, impoverished, neglected and to be avoided.

An area can rapidly gain this reputation due to the speed at which the cosmetics of a shop declines – with the dust gathering on the interiors, the masonry occasionally beginning to crumble, the signage breaking and falling, and weeds emerging from the brickwork.

And just as sure as weeds grow through dirt, graffiti will appear on shutters. That is a universal urban truth.

These Orphans, these units that have been left behind and are desperately seeking new ownership, love and purpose, to me, seem misunderstood.

Of course there are more Orphans in low-income areas, of course graffiti is associated with crime, and of course the sight of a neglected shop is depressing to some – I am not dismissing these realities.

What I feel, however, is that through context, a deeper and more rewarding beauty can be unveiled in every abandoned unit.

The past has a crucial part to play in every Orphan. None of them began their life neglected. They were designed by an architect with a hope for a promising life for them. A promising life for their owner, and pleasant experience for the customer.

Once complete, each will have been viewed by someone full of dreams and a vision for the space.

The Orphan is now abandoned, but what happened within those walls? How many small memories still cling to the space?

Commercial units hold a different kind of past than homes do. Homes contain private, routine‑based memories. Shops, by contrast, hold the histories of people who arrived with a public intention - to browse, to choose, to discover, to buy an item that nudged their future forward, however slightly. For a moment, that exchange offered a spark of happiness to both customer and shopkeeper. A brief, mutual bettering.

These, of course, are all past events now cast in the stone walls, empty shelves and unemptied bins.

I wonder, how many times has this Orphan been caught in the cycle of ownership and abandonment? How many small memories were made behind the stained window?Behind those now‑vandalised shutters, happiness once lived — but so did heartache.

Every ending brought the collapse of the initial dreams, the optimism that once filled the space. A slow decline in business, a death, a loss of interest: each one replacing the bright conversations, the curiosity of customers handling the items within, the pride of offering a pleasant experience to strangers.

Like the clown and the banner in the party shop, Orphans carry visible scars. Old signage bleeding through the new. Layers of purpose showing through the paint. The tried and failed. The dream followed by the disappointment.

And yet, despite all of this, the Orphans feel as alive to me as any active commercial space. They radiate promise. They hold a future not yet written. Behind the shutter, through the door, across the dust‑thick floor — there is nothing but possibility.

Until they are next adopted, they wait. Empty of identity except for the one they once held, and the one still waiting to be imagined.

In a town of Orphans, I don’t see poverty or danger. I see potential — and the need for care, attention, belief.

What I’ve found in these brick Orphans is a beauty shared by humans - their hopes, their failures, and the futures still waiting.