A new exhibition captures the feel of the Black Country in the 1970s perfectly, says Lorne Jackson.

The past is a foreign country,” wrote L.P. Hartley in his novel, The Go Between.

“They do things differently there.”

John Myers makes the same point with far less words – none, to be precise – in a series of disturbing, yet somehow achingly normal photographs, taken in the far off land of the 1970s.

The images are on display at the Ikon Gallery from the end of this month, and are exactly the kind of pictures you would expect from a decade beset by all kinds of industrial unrest.

They’re striking, in other words. Very.

Yet they come from a place that isn’t far away. In geographical terms, at least.

In Middle England, Myers produced portraits of individuals and families close to him, all living in and around Stourbridge.

The artist has been based in the Black Country town since graduating from art school in Newcastle in 1969.

Originally from Bradford, his initial impression of his new Midland home was that it was very different from where he grew up.

“Stourbridge isn’t like Bradford, at all,” he says. “Until moving here, I’d never really lived in a small town, which has a dynamic very much its own.”

A sense of otherness comes through in the series of black and white photographs.

Myers takes everyday people in unremarkable locations, poses them in a formal, awkward manner. Then something weird happens. Suddenly we are in an alien landscape, as exotic as any faraway continent.

Which makes Myers more than an artist.

He is a David Livingstone of the unblinking lens, trudging through the dark continent of the Black Country, tracing natives to their natural habitat, then freezing them in all their Seventies finery.

There’s a dry sense of humour at work, too.

Whether accidental or the crafty composition of the artist, I’m not sure. But Myers’ images are often subtly undermined by almost insignificant signs or messages, lurking in the corners.

There’s a picture of a young salesgirl, in flowery minidress, saucily posing next to a shoe rack. Above the rack is the sign “look here”. The viewer appears to be receiving an order to tear his gaze from the female, and look at the shoes instead.

It’s a photograph of a more innocent, less glamorous age, as are most of the photos.

A time has been captured when the hard sell was softer and squishier. When beauty fell short and the magical was limited to make do.

The salesgirl’s grasping little attempt at razzle dazzle is undermined by the drab spiral carpet beneath her feet, and the sad-sack shoe display looming over her in baleful bad taste.