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Jack Hanlon gives a rare insight into the fascinating lost world of the Smithfield Meat Trades Institute…

The correct way to sharpen a knife

From the twenties until the eighties, Britain’s foremost technical college for butchers operated in an unassuming building on the corner of Saffron Hill just round the corner from Smithfield Market.

Opening in 1924 and becoming part of the London County Council’s broader technical education project, the Smithfield Meat Trades Institute provided a range of courses ‘for persons engaged in the various branches of the meat trades, and also youths desiring to enter these trades’. The Institute offered a three-year course for over-sixteens resulting in a diploma from the National Federation of Meat Traders, alongside a range of short courses for younger students, and evening classes – on topics such as the theory and practice of refrigeration – for meat industry professionals looking to enhance their skills after-hours.

In its early years, the Institute was at the forefront of formalising education in butchery at a time when the fading out of apprenticeships left a vacuum in the trade’s intergenerational transfer of knowledge and skill. Meanwhile technological developments including the rapid rise of the chilled and frozen meat industry, and a growing field of scientific knowledge about perishable foods, were altering the ways butchery and the meat trade operated.

As one industry commentator reflected in 1928, the previous decade had seen a significant shift in the industry’s means of recording and sharing knowledge: ‘The question of textbooks is a serious difficulty. Hitherto knowledge of the trade has been rather handed down by word of mouth rather than set down in black-and-white. The exigencies of organised teaching require that various practices be made clear on paper. This means that a collection of notes, which will subsequently be elaborated into text-books, is now being prepared and augmented daily [at the Smithfield Institute], together with a number of excellent diagrams.’

In the accompanying photographs of the Institute’s classroom these diagrams of carcasses in various stages of disassembly line the walls, accompanied by three dimensional models of skeletons. At the Smithfield Institute students enjoyed a range of teaching spaces: there were practical butchery classes in the cutting room, everyday business arithmetic and shop etiquette in a model butcher’s shop, and scientific demonstrations in a well-equipped laboratory.

In the interwar years the Institute’s students cut up the meat that would be used for catering in the LCC’s schools and colleges, providing a constant supply of carcasses for practice. Students might spend the morning doing a class in sausage-making before sitting down in the afternoon to study history, biology or accounting. The school’s laboratory was particularly prised, ‘equipped with microscopes and all the appliances necessary for bacteriology and the allied sciences’.

Although not formerly related, the Institute was intimately tied to the neighbouring Market from which it took its name. Many of its lecturers were retired meat traders. Ken Clements, a ‘commodity lecturer’ at the college in the seventies, recalls taking groups of his most committed students on extra-curricular early morning trips to the Market. After testing their knowledge, he would take them to the Cock Tavern for a ‘wozzer’ – a cup of tea with the addition of a shot of whisky (it was-a tea, now it’s a wozzer).

In the fifties, the Institute briefly became the National College of Food Technology, a name that appeared to signify an ambitious future. Yet its decline mirrored that of the Market. In the seventies, the Institute became increasingly reliant on day-release students from supermarkets, including Sainsburys and the Co-operative. But over the coming years these companies, alongside the chain butchers like Dewhurst, took their meat education in-house. Meanwhile, the rise of pre-packed meat led to a rapid decline of the high street butcher and the need for lengthy technical training in meat industry jobs, and the Institute closed in the eighties.

These photographs capture the Smithfield Institute in its heyday, from the twenties to the fifties. While early prospectuses specify male students only, this policy evidently shifted over the decades because there are several images of women taking classes at the college. There are also a few photographs which have been lightly etched and edited with ink and white paint, most likely as part of the process of creating ‘photogravure’ style prints, perhaps for newspapers, textbooks or promotional material.

Diagrams and skeletons were used as teaching aids in the art of butchery

Boys sharpening their blades in the cutting room

Female students study New Zealand lamb in the cutting room

A lone female student amongst a class of male butchers

Boys practice their knife sharpening skills

Female students study the anatomy of a carcass

Boys study the range of products to be derived from beef

Instruction in butchery skills

A retouched photograph of boys studying bones for photogravure reproduction

A retouched photograph of boys studying a carcass for photogravure reproduction

Images courtesy of London College of Communication Archive with permission from University of the Arts Archives & Special Collections Centre

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St Mary Rotherhithe Free School founded 1613

To be candid, there is not a lot left of old Rotherhithe – yet what remains is still powerfully evocative of the centuries of thriving maritime industry that once defined the identity of this place. Most visitors today arrive by train – as I did – through the Brunel tunnel built between 1825 and 1843, constructed when the growth of the docks brought thousands of tall ships to the Thames and the traffic made river crossing by water almost impossible.

Just fifty yards from Rotherhithe Station is a narrow door through which you can descend into the 1825 shaft via a makeshift staircase. You find yourself inside a huge round cavern, smoke-blackened as if the former lair of a fiery dragon. Incredibly, Marc Brunel built this cylinder of brick at ground level – fifty feet high and twenty-five feet in diameter – and waited while it sank into the damp earth, digging out the mud from the core as it descended, to create the shaft which then became the access point for excavating the tunnel beneath the river.

It was the world’s first underwater tunnel. At a moment of optimism in 1826, a banquet for a thousand investors was held at the bottom of the shaft and then, at a moment of cataclysm in 1828, the Thames surged up from beneath filling it with water – and Marc’s twenty-two-year-old son Isambard was fished out, unconscious, from the swirling torrent. Envisaging this diabolic calamity, I was happy to leave the subterranean depths of the Brunels’ fierce imaginative ambition – still murky with soot from the steam trains that once ran through – and return to the sunlight of the riverside.

Leaning out precariously upon the Thames’ bank is an ancient tavern known as The Spread Eagle until 1957, when it was rechristened The Mayflower – in reference to the Pilgrims who sailed from Rotherhithe to Southampton in 1620, on the first leg of their journey to New England. Facing it across the other side of Rotherhithe St towers John James’ St Mary’s Rotherhithe of 1716 where an attractive monument of 1625 to Captain Anthony Wood, retrieved from the previous church, sports a fine galleon in full sail that some would like to believe is The Mayflower itself – whose skipper, Captain Christopher Jones, is buried in the churchyard.

Also in the churchyard, sits the handsome tomb of Prince Lee Boo. A native of the Pacific Islands, he befriended Captain Wilson of Rotherhithe and his two sons who were shipwrecked upon the shores of Ulong in 1783. Abba Thule, the ruler of the Islands, was so delighted when the Europeans used their firearms to subdue his enemies and impressed with their joinery skills in constructing a new vessel, that he asked them to take his second son, Lee Boo, with them to London to become an Englishman.

Arriving in Portsmouth in July 1784, Lee Boo travelled with Captain Wilson to Rotherhithe where he lived as one of the family, until December when it was discovered he had smallpox – the disease which claimed the lives of more Londoners than any other at that time. At just twenty years old, Lee Boo was buried inside the Wilson family vault in Rotherhithe churchyard, but – before he died – he sent a plaintive message home to tell his father “that the Captain and Mother very kind.”

Across the churchyard from The Mayflower is Rotherhithe Free School, founded by two Peter Hills and Robert Bell in 1613 to educate the sons of seafarers. Still displaying a pair of weathered figures of schoolchildren, the attractive schoolhouse of 1797 was vacated in 1939 yet the school may still be found close by in Salter Rd. Thus, the pub, the church and the schoolhouse define the centre of the former village of Rotherhithe with a line of converted old warehouses extending upon the river frontage for a just couple of hundred yards in either direction beyond this enclave.

Take a short walk to the west and you will discover The Angel overlooking the ruins of King Edward III’s manor house but – if you are a hardy walker and choose to set out eastward along the river – you will need to exercise the full extent of your imagination to envisage the vast vanished complex of wharfs, quays and stores that once filled this entire peninsular.

At the entrance to the Rotherhithe road tunnel stands the Norwegian Church with its ship weather vane

Chimney of the Brunel Engine House seen from the garden on top of the tunnel’s access shaft

Isambard Kingdom Brunel presides upon his audacious work

Visitors gawp in the diabolic cavern of Brunel’s smoke-blackened shaft descending to the Thames tunnel

John James’ St Mary’s Rotherhithe of 1716

The tomb of Prince Lee Boo, a native of the Pelew or Pallas Islands ( the Republic of Belau), who died in Rotherhithe of smallpox in  1784 aged twenty

Graffiti upon the church tower

Monument in St Mary’s, retrieved from the earlier church

Charles Hay & Sons Ltd, Barge Builders since 1789

Peeking through the window into the costume store of Sands Films

Inside The Mayflower

A lone survivor of the warehouses that once lined the river bank

Looking east towards Rotherhithe from The Angel

The Angel

The ruins of King Edward III’s manor house

Bascule bridge

Nelson House

Metropolitan Asylum Board china from the Smallpox Hospital Ships once moored here

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Horace Warner’s Spitalfields Nippers at the opening of the Whitechapel Gallery

I am delighted to announce The Gentle Author’s Tour of Whitechapel commissioned by the Whitechapel Gallery as part of the Gallery’s Backyard Biennial.

Join me for a two-hour walking tour of sightseeing and storytelling along the Whitechapel Road, culminating in tea and freshly baked cakes at the Whitechapel Gallery.

Click here to book tickets for The Gentle Author’s Tour of Whitechapel  on 23rd August, 6th September & 20th September

Once regarded as the ‘back entrance to London’, Whitechapel has always been a place of transience. But in recent centuries it has become enriched by multiple waves of immigration, delivering the vital cultural life of Whitechapel today.

Visit the site of London’s first purpose built theatre from 1567, learn about the White Raven which served as a refuge for ‘black poor’ in the 18th century, wonder at the Whitechapel Bell Foundry founded in 1570, explore the Pavilion Theatre and the Whitechapel Mount, and discover where Joseph Merrick known as the ‘Elephant Man’ was displayed before he was rescued by surgeon Frederick Treves of the London Hospital.

Burne-Jones’ works in the East End by Horace Warner, 1901

Art and Life by Horace Warner, 1901

Tired of Art by Horace Warner, 1901

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On the semiquincentennial, as we contemplate the disturbing irony of the signing of the Declaration of Independence in which the American colonies set out to rid themselves of the tyranny of monarchs, readers may be curious to know that the Declaration in it’s first printed form (known as the Dunlap Broadside) was set in type imported from the Caslon letter foundry in Chiswell St in the City of London.

Caslon’s four lines pica of 1766 was used for the word ‘DECLARATION’

Caslon’s English Roman was used for the body type

The Caslon letter foundry in Chiswell St

Let us also remember the words of John Adams, writing against the injustice of punitive taxes imposed by the British government upon the American colonies. Such was the reputation of Spitalfields for Radicalism at that time.

“I won’t buy one shilling worth of anything that comes from Old England, till the Stamp Act is appealed, nor shall my sons and daughters; I’d rather the Spittlefield weavers should pull down all the houses in Old England, and knock the brains out of all the wicked great men there, than this country should lose their liberty.”

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Ron uses a power press to form trays

Contributing Photographer Rachel Ferriman and I ventured a rare trip south of the river recently to visit the wondrous Kaymet factory in Bermondsey where snazzy trays and trolleys are hand made in aluminium.

We were delighted to be shown round by proprietor Mark Brearley who, as co-author of Made In London, knows a thing or two about the challenges and importance of manufacturing in the capital. Proving that he puts his money where his mouth is, thirteen years ago Mark came along to buy a tray for his wife’s birthday, discovered that the business was going into liquidation and agreed to take it on, without hesitation.

I had no idea how an aluminium tray could be hand made until I came here. Yet the processes of forming, punching, polishing, graining, anodising and assembly require significant human skill and painstaking craft at every stage. As well as preventing oxidisation, anodising introduces colour, while graining imparts an organic texture and, finally, polishing delivers the shine.

There are two kinds of trays made here. Pressed trays formed out of a single sheet of aluminium possess an elegant simplicity, while assembled trays offer an infinite variety of colour, texture and pattern contained within neatly ridged metal edges and handles. What could be more civilised for breakfast in bed or lunch in the garden than a stylish tray from Kaymet? The discreet royal warrant tells you all you need to know.

When Rachel & I sat down with Mark after our factory tour, he beguiled us with his lyrical tale of the origin of London’s top trays.

‘It all goes back to the nineteenth century, to the Schreiber family, who were immigrants of German origin with a history of metalwork and retail, and they were connected with another family, the Kahns. In fact, Sydney Schreiber who started Kaymet changed his surname to Kahn. By the early twentieth century, they had a few shops near the Elephant & Castle, one of which was a toy shop that carried on until the seventies. They had a radio shop when radios first became popular, also in Elephant & Castle, making the cases from sheet metal in the basement of the shop. And that’s the origin of what became the sheet metal and engineering business which moved to Kennington Lane and did very well during the Second World War making radio casings in aluminium. After the war, they had to decide what to do next, so in 1947 they decided to produce homewares in anodised aluminium. And that’s when Kaymet was founded – the ‘K’ of Kahn and ‘met’ from metal – making trays and trolleys.

No-one knows where the designs come from, they have emerged from production with no named designer. We just have a few old drawings and books with dimensions and instructions, and we know of some interventions by industrial designers. It was a process of huge inventiveness because they rapidly came up with a big product range. Somebody invented all those products and worked them out. 

They’re very practical objects. If you take the ribbed tray – as we call it – with the ribbed pattern on the extruded handles and edges, that ribbed-ness makes it look very fifties and it just so happens that design originates from then. Yet the story behind it is a practical one. The trays we were making before that were expensive because they were edged with a flat strip of aluminium which required a lot of polishing to remove imperfections. But once we made them ribbed they needed less polishing and less volume of aluminium so they were lighter. It wasn’t primarily a stylistic choice although maybe they were influenced by the moment they were in.

Who came up the idea of making trolleys that, instead of having legs to support the tiers and a separate handle, had a frame which combined the legs and the handle? It appeared in the late fifties or early sixties across lots of manufacturers and it’s drastically better. It looks better, it’s sturdier and it’s easier to make.

After 1947, Kaymet expanded dramatically with up to 200 employees. They took on a lot of contract work, casting handles and anodising for other companies, which magnified the scale of the company. They built an impressive factory for themselves off the Old Kent Rd. But then fashions changed, with competitors making pressed plastic trays and manufacturing them cheaply in other parts of the world.

The aspirational trend for drinks trolleys fell away and the business shrunk and shrunk and shrunk, losing their factory in the nineties and ending up in a series of smaller and smaller premises. I took it on in 2013 when it went into liquidation and agreed to give it a go in collaboration with the proprietor, taking on the staff of four, re-renting the building and rescuing what we could of the tools, reinvesting and pushing sales with a new business strategy.

I had no idea. I was in the right place at the right time because I had been researching manufacturing in London. I simply went along to the factory one day to buy a tray for my wife for her birthday but unfortunately they were liquidating the company and asked if I had any ideas, which turned into ‘Let’s do it together!’ I had to decide over the weekend and I knew everyone is enthusiastic about provenance, where things are made. And it’s a design classic, they are brilliant designs. ‘Surely I can make it work?’ I thought. My business strategy is if we don’t sell more trays, we’re dead, it will eat all my money, so I’d better sell more.

We focussed on refreshing the presentation and getting a decent website. We started doing trade shows. We re-approached old customers and we rebuilt the sales by giving it more energy. We have regrown it again and moved to significantly bigger premises to flourish.’

Ron places a blank into the press to make a tray

Ron takes the tray from the press

Ron examines the tray

Matt punches the holes in the trays

Matt uses the punch to make the holes

Matt examines a finished tray

James polishes tray edges

Junior trims the edge strips to size

Junior using the chop saw to cut the edges to size

Ken supervises orders on the factory floor

The factory

Mark Brearley

Photographs copyright © Rachel Ferriman

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Richard Ardagh, author of Type Archived, A visual journey through typographic history introduces the typefounders of East London

The Caslon tomb at St Luke’s, Old St

Typography can be thought of as the vehicle of words, giving them both form and voice. It is easy to take for granted how quickly we can compose and spread words today when, for centuries, type was manufactured as countless millions of individual physical components, a prerequisite for making the printed word possible.

East London played a huge part in the development of the typefounding industry, acting as a crucible (to use a relevant term) from which came many firsts: styles such as Sans-serif, Slab-serif (or Antique) and Clarendon were all the innovations of London typefounders. Even the screen typeface that you are reading (Georgia by Matthew Carter, 1993) was heavily inspired by the work of punchcutter Richard Austin, born in Finsbury, 1756.

England’s earliest typographer was Wynkyn de Worde, a German immigrant, who came to London around 1480 at the request of William Caxton to help improve his venture running the country’s first printing press. De Worde subsequently established his own press at Fleet St, which has forever after been synonymous with the print trade, and was buried there at St Bride’s Church. (The neighbouring St Bride Foundation is the custodian of much of the area’s rich printing heritage to this day.) But it was another 240 years before the skills necessary to produce original type designs were seen in London.

To create a new fount (font) required several significant stages: A punchcutter would painstakingly engrave master letters in steel, a craft demanding both an outstanding level of skill and artistic scrutiny. Every letter, numeral and symbol had to be cut individually, and replicated again for each size of type produced. Punches were used to strike a block of copper or brass, forming a matrix from which type could be cast. The matrix was fitted to a mould which was adjusted to match the width of the character. Casting could then begin by pouring molten typemetal (an alloy of lead, tin and antimony) into the cavity, which solidified on contact, then breaking the mould apart to release the sort (a single piece of type). In this way, repeated many times over, slowly an endless supply of type could be amassed.

Early English printers had relied on type imported from the Low Countries until, in 1722, an enterprising engraver transitioned into typefounding. A blue plaque at 22-23 Chiswell St marks the site of William Caslon’s pioneering foundry, run from this address for nearly 200 years. Caslon’s masterfully cut Roman and italic types established a uniquely English style for the first time and remain highly regarded – hence the adage, ‘when in doubt, use Caslon’. In the decade prior to Chiswell St, Caslon’s premises were at Ironmonger Row (now Helmet Row) opposite St Luke’s Church, where the family tomb can be seen, its raised stone chest clearly visible from Old St.

As the print trade flourished in the courts and alleys around Fleet St and spread beyond, typefounders situated their businesses nearby. The ward of Cripplegate had been home to early foundries such as Grover and Mitchell before Caslon. Later, the Bristol firm of Edmund Fry relocated there, giving the name Type St to an undeveloped lane, proudly listed on the title page of their specimen books (the street now forms part of Moor Lane).

A short walk away, the Fann St Foundry, established by Robert Thorne and later passing to William Thoroughgood and Robert Besley, occupied the premises at numbers 2, 4 and 6. This street name prevails and the site is now occupied by the Blake Tower. A plaque above the shopfronts opposite, where Aldersgate becomes Goswell Rd, records a now-absent drinking fountain erected in Besley’s memory but has no mention of the foundry.

As typefounding firms grew into more substantial enterprises their proprietors began to hold prominent positions within the City of London. Besley was an Alderman and went on to serve as Lord Mayor (1869-70). Typefounder Vincent Figgins, ‘an amiable and worthy character, and generally respected’, was a Common Councilman for the ward of Farringdon Without and his son James became an Alderman and MP. The ‘VJF’ monogram of their foundry is still visible on the iron railings in front of the Grade II listed building at Ray St in Clerkenwell.

Talbot Baines Reed, known as a writer of school stories for boys, is a figure that looms large in the world of typefounding. Reed inherited the Fann St Foundry in 1881 and went on to write a monumental account of the trade’s history. Whether or not he acquired the practical skills of casting type himself, we can certainly be grateful for his work cataloguing the foundry’s materials and identifying items of special historical interest in his ‘cabinet of curios’. Reed’s premature death at the age of forty-one is commemorated on the family tomb with a large Celtic cross close to the Church St entrance to Abney Park Cemetery, Stoke Newington.

The completion of Regent’s Canal in 1820 meant an easily accessible supply of heavy materials and lumber. Furniture-makers and wood trades flourished in Hoxton, including ‘printer’s joiners’ such as Gould & Reeves. The firm operated from Wenlock St where, as well as producing large wooden type for posters, they made the cabinets to house it and other furniture required by printing offices. And by 1900, as light industry spread further eastwards, the heirs of the Caslon foundry would open a factory at Rothbury Rd in Hackney Wick that employed over a hundred workers.

By the turn of the twentieth century, typesetting was undergoing a revolution. Automated solutions were introduced that enabled printers to break their reliance on a huge workforce of compositors (who set the type cast by traditional foundries by hand) and replace them with new typecasting machinery.

The Monotype Corporation, pioneers of this technology, still chose to locate their headquarters in the time-honoured district (Monotype’s building was at 43 Fetter Lane, just off Fleet St, until it was destroyed by a bomb in 1941 during the Blitz). But the coming of this new way of servicing the print industry brought dramatic changes and rendered the practices of the traditional foundries archaic,  even though a small number continued trading for a few more decades. London’s last active typefoundry was Stevens, Shanks & Sons Ltd at 89 Southwark St, who were still casting type into the seventies.

Thankfully, unlike in many other countries, the materials of Britain’s preeminent typefounding industry were not lost forever when later technologies began to take hold. Having eventually all been absorbed by Stephenson Blake & Co of Sheffield, the artefacts of the traditional foundries mentioned here, along with the working hot-metal plant of the Monotype Corporation and Robert DeLittle’s York wood letter factory, were rescued in the nineties and held at the Type Archive in Stockwell. Unfortunately, although a hub of activity for over thirty years, it closed in 2023, following the death of its driving force, Sue Shaw (1932-2020).

The majority of the National Typefounding Collection is now in the care of the Science Museum. But before materials were removed from the Type Archive, where I was a volunteer, I managed to document some highlights which are presented in my book Type Archived.

M sort (piece of type) cast from a hand-mould

Stages of typefounding: punch, matrix

Stages of typefounding: mould, type

Caslon’s brass patterns for casting large type from sand, c.1770 (photograph copyright Andra Nelki)

Helmet Row, off Old St, where William Caslon established his first type foundry in 1727

Title page of Edmund Fry’s 1816 type specimen book showing the firm’s Type St address

Thorowgood’s Four-line Pica Ornamented matrices, 1821

Figgins’ Five Lines Pica, German Text, from the foundry’s 1815 type specimen

Figgins’ Letter Foundry in Ray St, Clerkenwell

Vincent Figgins’ initials are still to be seen upon the iron work on the front of the letter foundry

Monotype Gill Sans matrices (photograph copyright Andra Nelki)

Click here to buy a copy of Type Archived by Richard Ardagh

The definitive account of the legendary Type Archive provides a stunning visual tour of traditional typefounding, tracing the origins of typography and the printed word.

Founded in London in 1992, the Type Archive brought together some eight million artefacts that tell the story of typography and printing. Now, for the first time, a new book by long-serving Type Archive volunteer Richard Ardagh sheds light on the organisation’s extraordinary materials, celebrating their significance and importance to both the history of art and engineering.

Type Archived presents the typographic treasures that made this possible, from the engraved punches (master letters) and matrices (dies for casting), to the letterpress type and printing presses that put ink to paper. Inside the book, these items have been arranged into chapters by material: iron, steel, copper, brass, bronze, lead, wood, and paper.

Alongside specially commissioned photography, the book features a detailed summary of the trials and achievements of the Archive, an essay on the techniques of typefounding, a glossary of terms and detailed image captions describing the objects, their designers and uses.

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William Caslon, Letter Founder

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On the eve of the opening of her new exhibition at Townhouse, Fournier St, E1 6QE, here is my interview with Doreen Fletcher. Doreen will be at the gallery tomorrow to meet visitors. Her exhibition, CORNERS, runs from Saturday 13th June until Sunday 5th July.

Portrait of Doreen Fletcher in her studio by Stuart Freedman

Doreen Fletcher – Looking back, I think I was attracted to painting even from the age of four or five. I loved colour and my dad used to take me to the local toy shop where I always insisted on the best quality paints. I was an only child, born into a working class family, and my parents were – as you might say these days – semi-literate. Consequently, from the age of about eight years old, I took responsibility for helping them out in dealing with officialdom, not unlike  – I suppose – immigrant children in the East End today whose parents have limited English.

My mum and dad were very loving, and keen for me to have the opportunities they had missed. When I was five, I was bought a set of encyclopaedias from a salesman selling door-to-door on the never-never. It had colour reproductions of famous paintings such as Constable’s  ‘The Hay Wain’ by Constable and Turner’s ‘The Fighting Téméraire’ and I thought they were wonderful.

I passed my eleven-plus exam but I had a very difficult time at grammar school because – although I was clever and always in the top six of the top stream – I came from the wrong side of the tracks. I felt I had to pretend I was from somewhere else, because most of the pupils came from professional middle-class families. Consequently, I could not invite school friends to our tiny terraced home. I did not speak with the right accent, have the social ease of the other children or possess their cultural knowledge.

The art room was a refuge for me because there I could express myself fluently under the expert tutelage of the art teacher Mr Hanford. He had trained at the Royal Academy School and was probably the only teacher of any influence I ever listened to. I loved Fridays when there was a two hour after-school art club. It was at one of these sessions that Mr Hanford advised against using black paint straight from the tube. To this day, I mix ultramarine and burnt umber for a warm black and raw umber and indigo for a cool black.

The Gentle Author – What work did your parents do?

Doreen Fletcher – Alice, my mother, worked in a munitions factory during the war and then became a domestic servant afterwards. It gave her ideas about not putting the newspaper or ketchup bottle on the table and she adopted ‘healthy eating,’ much to my irritation. She was also particular about keeping the front step, windows and net curtains clean. Colin, my dad, started off as a farm worker. He wanted to be a vet but due to illness he missed a year’s education at seven years old which meant that he left school hardly able to read or write.

After I was born, we moved from the village of Barlaston to Newcastle-Under-Lyme because my dad could earn more money in the town. In the late fifties, when the government erected pylons across the nation, he worked on the construction of these and later he found employment laying pipes for North Sea Gas. When my dad was fifty-seven, he had a brain haemorrhage at work, probably due at least in part to the vibrations of the pneumatic drill. He did not work again after that.

The Gentle Author – What was the first landscape that you knew?

Doreen Fletcher – It was composed of greys and browns – soot-streaked streets with sparrows and pigeons. I used to long for colour, for tinsel, for fairy lights and fairgrounds. Yet although I grew up in a two-up-two-down terrace in Stoke-on-Trent, every Sunday my parents took me on excursions by bus into the country, a different destination each time. This was rare at the time and I think it revealed their great sensitivity and care.

These trips were always accompanied by the purchase of a quarter pound of sweets and latterly, a brownie box camera that took tiny black and white photos. I liked going for long walks alone too. I was always looking and observing the variety of houses lining the streets I wandered through. Sometimes I roamed the countryside as well, walking along busy trunk roads. These days eyebrows might be raised, but there was nothing unusual in seeing unaccompanied children exploring back then. I loved my solitary walks.

The Gentle Author – What took you away from the Potteries?

Doreen Fletcher – I did not like living in a small town, it lacked cosmopolitanism. I hated the social constrictions and the pettiness I encountered. After A Levels, I decided I to study a subject that would earn me a living, so I enrolled on Bsc Sociology Course at North Staffordshire Polytechnic in Stoke. I have always been fascinated by other people’s lives, attitudes and behaviour.

However it proved a disastrous choice for me because the course dealt mostly with statistics and their interpretation. I did not even last two terms. So I went to work in a local tile factory – of which there were plenty in those days – where my job was sorting broken tiles. After six months I left, realising there was no future in it for me.

I knew my vocation was to be an artist. I spent a very happy year doing a foundation course in Newcastle-Under-Lyme. I felt at home there. I was comfortable and totally at ease in the chaotic atmosphere of the leaky portacabins that served as our studios. For the only time in my life, I did very little work. Instead I enjoyed making friends and formed a close relationship with a fellow student. Together we moved to London in 1972 where he attended Wimbledon School of Art and I worked as an art school model.

The Gentle Author – Did you apply to art school?

Doreen Fletcher – Yes, I applied to study at Croydon College. Even then, I was very independently minded and did not want a structured degree course where I might be expected to conform to a ‘house style’. At this point, I was painting quite a lot of self-portraits and still lifes.

One day in late 1973 I saw an exhibition of paintings of Mow Cop by Jack Simcock in Cork Street. Mow Cop was a hilltop village not far from my home. In Newcastle-under-Lyme, if I leaned out of my bedroom window at a dangerous angle, I could just see the Victorian folly on the summit of Mow Cop in the distance.

The houses were built out of Peak District sandstone and local millstone grit. The place was bleak and dour. I was captivated, deciding then that I wanted to be an urban landscape painter, recording my own environment.

The Gentle Author – Where did you live when you first came to London?

Doreen Fletcher – To begin with, I stayed around Wimbledon, then I spent seven years living in Paddington where my fascination with urban scenes escalated. Coming from a small town in the North, it was an exciting place to be. I was close to the Serpentine Gallery, Kensington Gardens, Notting Hill Gate and Portobello Road. I started painting local landmarks, the Electric cinema and the Serpentine boathouse. Then I became interested in Underground stations at night, Bayswater and Paddington. This project continued when I moved to the East End.

The Gentle Author – What brought you to the East End?

Doreen Fletcher – At that time artists were attracted to live and work in the East End because of the cheap studio space that was available. It was easy to rent because the local population were moving out and and artists were happy to live in dilapidated accommodation if it gave them room to work. Before long, a mutually supportive community of artists developed around Bow, Stepney and Mile End.

The Gentle Author – How do you remember the East End then?

Doreen Fletcher – I noticed the skies first, open and dramatic as they advanced into Essex. There were corrugated fences everywhere, still bombsites where buddleia proliferated and a few prefabs inhabited by artists. There was an openness in the streets which has since gone, now every corner has been built up and every vacant space filled.

Yet the distinctive quality of light remains particular to this part of London, a luminescence generated by the proximity of the river. I loved it here because I had had enough of the West End. It felt to me as if I were returning home. Like Stoke, the East End was predominantly working class and also had once been an important centre for industry. Corner shops and tiny pubs proliferated among street markets.

The Gentle Author – Why did you start painting the East End?

Doreen Fletcher – I was excited visually by being somewhere new to me yet that also reminded me of where I grew up. In the Potteries, the town planners’ ethos was ‘If it’s old, let’s sweep it away’ – regardless of its cultural and historical significance. I saw the same fate awaiting the East End. The first painting I did here was the bus stop in Mile End in 1983 and then Rene’s Café next.

The Gentle Author – Was this your full time occupation?

Doreen Fletcher – I was working as an artists’ model in an art school. It was the most boring job you could imagine, but I stuck at it during term-time so I could have periods of full-time painting. I was able to keep myself by working three days a week as a model.

The Gentle Author – How central to your life were your paintings at that time?

Doreen Fletcher – Painting was the focal point of my life. My studio was a small room at the top of a run-down three-storey house in Clemence Street. It faced north so the light was good for painting.

I walked around the East End at different times of day and in different weathers. Eventually a particular scene imprinted itself on my mind that could have potential as a painting. I did thumbnail sketches and took a photograph. Once I had gathered this information, I made a detailed drawing as a basis for the painting. This might evolve over a period of months or even years, as the tension built up between my need to represent reality and the demands made by the painting itself. I always struggle to resolve a picture in an abstract way as well as portraying a subject. To this day,I follow this methodical process to make a painting.

I worked a minimum of twenty-eight hours a week, a target I still adhere to. I was determined not to become a Sunday painter.

The Gentle Author – Did you have ambition for this work?

Doreen Fletcher – Yes and I did have some limited success in the eighties showing within the borough, receiving a few grants and being accepted in open exhibitions such as the Whitechapel and the London Group. Companies bought work from time to time and local people appreciated my paintings, but there was little interest from any critics or commercial galleries.

The Gentle Author – Did you pursue other avenues to get recognition for your work?

Doreen Fletcher – Once a month, I used to send off slides in response to competitions and requests for submissions in Artists’ Newsletter. It was time-consuming and costly without reward.

The Gentle Author – How did you maintain morale through those twenty years?

Doreen Fletcher – I am an optimist and I remained optimistic up until the late nineties, when my work grew increasingly unfashionable due to the rise of conceptual art. It became more difficult to find any places where I could exhibit my work that would even accept representational painting. My work was simply out of fashion  My interest in the East End was waning too, as Canary Wharf transformed into a financial metropolis. I found I did not know what to paint any more. It felt as though a period of my life was coming to an end.

The Gentle Author – What made you feel that?

Doreen Fletcher – The East End was changing in a way that I could not understand or portray.  The new buildings were densely packed, destroying the distinctive sense of place and community. At first, I was interested in the construction – on the Isle of Dogs for instance – but once it was finished there were just too many people and too much architectural uniformity.

The Gentle Author – Were there changes in your life too?

Doreen Fletcher – I grew more involved in teaching art to youngsters with special needs, taking a part-time job in further education. I became more interested because I found I was good at it and my teaching work was appreciated. Gradually, I worked more in the administrative side of education, supporting other lecturers.

The Gentle Author – Did you find that satisfying?

Doreen Fletcher – Yes, I was earning a salary and contributing to the community. It was rewarding to be working with other people after my years of isolation. I enjoyed participating in the local community rather than being an observer.

The Gentle Author – Once you had completed nearly twenty years of painting the East End, what were your feelings about that series of work?

Doreen Fletcher – I did not realise that I was creating any kind of social document at the time because I was so absorbed with each painting, each one constituting such a lot of work. I had tried very hard to get my pictures out there and get them seen. I had hoped for some kind of recognition. I was never ambitious in terms of international recognition but I did feel that the work was good enough to be recognised more than it was.

The Gentle Author – Were you disappointed?

Doreen Fletcher – Yes. I remember the day I made a conscious decision to pack away my paints. It was November 16th 2004. I said, ‘That’s it! I am not going to paint again.’ I had no knowledge that I was undertaking a journey and enduring a struggle that other artists in the East End had already experienced. If I had been aware of the East London Group and their example, I might have had the heart to continue.

The Gentle Author – Do you think your project reached its culmination?

Doreen Fletcher – At the time I did not think so, I believed I had done all that work for nothing. But looking at the work again, I am very glad I did it. I think it was important that I recorded something which has now vanished.

The Gentle Author – Do you think you evolved as a painter by doing this work?

Doreen Fletcher – If I had I been taken on by a gallery, I might have developed more as a painter. Instead, I think I found a method of working that suited what I was doing and I stuck with it. Maybe with a bit more encouragement I would have done what I am doing now, since I have come back to painting.

The Gentle Author – How do you judge if one of your paintings is successful?

Doreen Fletcher – A painting is successful for me when I believe I have captured an essence of a place in a moment. A picture must sit comfortably and solidly on the canvas. My concern as an artist is with the pockets of life that we ignore.

Now I have started painting again and the series of pictures I have been working in the last two years are the result of having lived in East London for thirty-five years. I have been reflecting on how much remains from the early years and come to appreciate how those people who still live here have adapted to the changes.

In the early eighties, this part of London was run down and very few people chose to be here. Some streets and buildings remain as reminders of that era, left to compete with new concepts of London that have emerged since the closing of local industries and the rise of corporate culture. In representing their utilitarian quality, I envisage my subjects not only as reminders of the past but also as active survivors struggling positively to find a place in a world changing beyond recognition.

I am a painter concerned with environments that are or have been inhabited. I try to resolve the struggle between how I see things and with abstraction, where the pictorial demands of structure, organisation and balance hold sway. My work is carried out slowly and methodically using a range of techniques to communicate a place of quietude and serenity. The difference between the work I am making today and the work I was doing before is that now I am a participant, no longer only an observer of East End life.

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Behold, the dusk is glimmering in this old house in Princelet St built in the seventeen-twenties for Benjamin Truman. A hundred years later, a huge factory was added on the back which more than doubled the size. In the twentieth century, this became the home of the extended Gernstein family from whom the last owners bought the house in the eighties. Notable as Lionel Bart’s childhood home, who once returned to have his portrait taken by Lord Snowden on the doorstep, in recent years it has served as the location for innumerable film and photo shoots. And now, as if to complete the circle, the house belongs the proprietors of the Old Truman Brewery.

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It is my delight to publish Doreen Fletcher‘s new paintings to be seen in her forthcoming exhibition CORNERS at Townhouse Fournier St, E1 6QE, from next Saturday 13th June until Sunday 5th July. Below Doreen introduces her paintings in her own words.

House on the Corner

‘This north-facing house is directly opposite Wanstead Flats, on the front line of the densely populated streets of Forest Gate. Built in the 1870s, it has seen horses and carriages trotting down the road, cows wandering past, then anti-aircraft gun emplacements on the Flats during World War Two, shaking the foundations of houses when they fired at the enemy planes. My painting captures the moment when the street lights come on and illuminated windows offer a tantalising glimpse of interiors, as inhabitants return and retreat into their homes.’

Look At Me!

‘A mother raises her hands encouragingly at her small child bravely tackling a ride for the first time. Three times a year, I am drawn to the bright lights of the fair on Wanstead Flats, unable to resist the temptation to bring order and permanence to the chaos and transience. Painting any fairground scene involves uniting a plethora of colours, light sources and interlocking shapes and forms that appear indistinguishable at first glance. For me, if the painting is to work, all these elements must hang together.’

Capel Moon

‘Snow is rare in London with a few exceptional years, 1979 being the most notable in my memory. I have not done many paintings depicting snow, although I have always been fascinated by the transformation and magic wrought by its fall. December 2024 was exceptionally cold and Wanstead Flats were transformed briefly into a wonderland, particularly at night – most magical just before darkness fell when the snow illuminating the Flats was balanced by the glow in the sky and the lights of surrounding houses.’

Maryland

‘My task here was to create a satisfying composition, encompassing the expanse of white-painted brickwork work on the right, and I sought to resolve this by placing a man seated on the wall. The warm blue and orange tones of the shop emphasise the contrast with the cool whites above and greys in the foreground.’

Nana Yaa

‘When I moved to London in 1972, I encountered fruit and vegetable stalls outside tube stations for the first time. On a wet January morning in Leytonstone, I saw this shop across the road where the produce glowed through the gloom like a beacon, a scene enhanced by the young man sitting in front, oblivious of the cold, concerned only with his phone.’

Shop on the Corner

‘I have been painting my immediate environment for decades now. For the majority of this time I have lived in East London, always with a small general grocery shop round the corner. On extended stays in the country, I find I forget to buy essential items on my weekly shopping trip, since in the city it really does not matter. This painting is of my corner shop in Forest Gate but it could be almost anywhere.’

Short Cut

‘I discovered this view of the petrol station on Aldersbrook Road in Wanstead by accident when my dog Charlie ran into the bushes chasing a squirrel. It made me think of my childhood when I loved looking at familiar sights from unusual angles. I remember once drawing our living room sitting from the top of a step ladder and the space was transformed into a place of mystery for me. So this is my new perspective on the petrol station, which I had passed on the main road hundreds of times without really looking.’

Stanley at the Duke

‘The neon sign of the Duke of Wellington in Spitalfields draws the eye as you cross Commercial Street. Yet even though the pub is situated on the corner of a busy road, it is a peaceful backwater, a station of calm.’

St Gabriel on the Flats

‘This is a well-known local landmark on Wanstead Flats. I have built the composition in horizontal bands to frame the silhouette of the church, just hinting at the lights of the garage on Alderbrook Road that appears in another painting in my exhibition. Set during the brief lull of twilight, the pale violet sky and a visible moon conjure a quiet moment of transition.’

Sunday Morning, Maryland

‘Maryland is usually clogged with cars, people hurrying to and from the nearby station, and noisy with the clamour of buses stopping and starting. Yet on an unusually sunny morning in winter, I found it deserted and was struck by the shapes made by this cluster of shops, and the shadows cast on the walls. My composition celebrates a rare moment of quiet in the midst of the busy metropolis.’

Venus Ascent

‘I chose an unusual perspective for this painting, focusing on the wall of steps leading to the bridge with yellow graffiti, rather than the barge moored alongside or the bridge itself, either of which would have been more obvious choices. This decision challenged me to unite the elements of the picture through use of light and colour. Though absent of figures, the scene records evidence of human activity, my aim was to capture a pause.’

Walk On By

‘This is Woodgrange Road, Forest Gate, on a freezing February night. I was impressed by the contrast between the cold glare of the seafood market and the deep tones of the winter sky. I employed the wet pavement, reflecting the competing blue neon and LED lights, to evoke the mood of an East London street in winter.’

Yellow House

‘Opposite these houses lies the beginning of Epping Forest in the form of Wanstead Flats. This yellow house and its companion caught my attention, while out walking one cold November evening, as a mecca of warmth and comfort just the other side of the road from the Flats.’

Donovans (Coloured pencil drawing)

Donovan Bros is the only evidence in Spitalfields of the thousands of Irish immigrants who came here in the nineteenth century. The two O’Donovan brothers, Jeremiah and Dennis, came to Liverpool from Dublin in the eighteen-thirties at the time of the potato famine. Dennis took a passage from Liverpool to seek his fortune with the Hudson Bay Trading Company, while Jeremiah came to the East End and founded Donovan Bros, still run by the family today.

Images copyright © Doreen Fletcher

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Phyllis Bray, Myth & Nature, a retrospective exhibition, runs until 21st June at Batsford Gallery, 266 Hackney Rd, E2 7SJ.

Detail of mural ‘The Drama’ by Phyllis Bray at the People’s Palace

Many artists enter a twilight period after death while their work is reassessed. Some recover and others do not, yet one enjoying a positive reassessment at present is the artist Phyllis Bray, with two events spotlighting her work.

The first is the refurbishment of the People’s Palace in Mile End, where part of her large mural The Drama has been restored and is on permanent display. The other is her current retrospective exhibition, at Batsford Gallery in Hackney Rd, where many of her finest paintings are on display.

Phyllis Bray was born in 1911 and, after studying at Queenwood, Eastbourne, attended the Slade School of Fine Art between 1927-31, where she was fortunate to catch the end of Henry Tonks’ distinguished professorship.  He had a reputation for acerbic comments upon the work of female students, occasionally reducing them to tears, but Bray was a gifted favourite. She won a string of awards and, at the strawberry tea honouring Tonks on the day of his departure in 1930, she was one of those chosen to wait on him.

Bray gained her fine art diploma in 1931 and that summer married John Cooper, who had been a teacher of evening classes since he left the Slade in 1922. It was his second marriage, after an unsuccessful one to another Slade student, Helen Taylor. By 1931, Cooper had established the East London Group through classes he taught at the Bow & Bromley Evening Institute in Coborn Rd from the mid-twenties onwards. The debut exhibition of work by the East London Art Club at the Whitechapel Art Gallery in December 1928, part of which was shown at what is now the Tate Britain in early 1929, led in November of that year to the first of eight annual East London Group exhibitions at Alex. Reid & Lefevre patronised by wealthy collectors.

The show was an astonishing success and had to be extended for several weeks, described by the Manchester Guardian as “one of the most interesting and significant things in the London art season.” It was there that Cooper and other East London Group stalwarts, including as William Coldstream, Murroe FitzGerald, Archibald Hattemore, Elwin Hawthorne, Harold and Walter Steggles, and Albert Turpin established their careers.

Phyllis Bray began her participation by showing two paintings at the second exhibition in December 1930, among a total of ninety catalogued works, and each year after that her paintings and drawings became important features of these shows.  She was also a valuable additional teacher at Bow, as Cooper struggled to cope with his commitment of three nights a week while also holding classes in Lambeth and Shoreditch and, eventually, at the Central School of Art too. By the 1937-38 academic season, Cooper was no longer at Bow and Bray took responsibility for overseeing the students with the support of another teacher.

But by then her marriage to the volatile Cooper had collapsed. The crisis came in 1936, the year of the last East London Group winter show at Alex Reid & Lefevre and Bray’s commission to paint murals for the New People’s Palace. It was during this work in Mile End that she formed an emotional attachment to the architect George Coles.

The old People’s Palace had long been a centre of East End cultural life. Its creation was due to the beneficence of painter, property owner and philanthropist John Barber Beaumont who donated money to found a Philosophical Institution in Mile End that would provide educational and recreational facilities for working men. In 1887, Queen Victoria opened the Queen’s Hall as part of her Golden Jubilee celebrations but a fire had destroyed the building in 1931. Construction of a New People’s Palace proceeded in 1936, with the front of the building enhanced by five sculpted reliefs by Eric Gill of Drama, Music, Fellowship, Dancing, Sport and Recreation.

Architect George Coles oversaw the interior and fellow architect Victor Kerr advocated the inclusion of Phyllis Bray’s murals. Coles was a master of the Art Deco style, and his works included the Gaumont State Cinema in Kilburn, the Carlton Cinema in Islington, the Troxy in Stepney and several Odeons.  At the Queen’s Hall, it was decided that instead of painting direct onto plaster as she originally proposed, Bray would undertake three panels on canvas, each twelve feet by ten feet, and the subjects would be The Dance, The Drama and The Music.

A contemporary photograph shows Bray, elegantly balanced upon a precarious stepladder, busy painting The Dance. She was always athletic, and later in life famously strode early in the morning to plunge at dawn into the ladies’ pool near her home in Hampstead and turned a cartwheel on the Heath in celebration of her sixtieth birthday.

King George VI and Queen Elizabeth performed the opening ceremony at the New Queen’s Hall on 13th February 1937. Previously, in November of 1936, Queen Mary had seen Bray at work and been impressed by her painting and, several months after the opening, the Queen returned again, requesting to view the completed murals. Yet, although the New People’s Palace enjoyed some success before the war, by 1953 it was put up for sale and Queen Mary University acquired it.

The fate of the murals was unknown until restoration began on the building and the mystery was uncovered by Eoin O’Maolalai, Senior Estates Project Manager at Queen Mary, after a researcher at Tate Britain inquired whether the paintings had survived. Although the lower half of the murals had been destroyed when the hall was converted to a lecture theatre, O’Maolalai realised that the top half still existed in a storeroom above the theatre.  “I found the wall and ran my fingers over the painted surface.  What I felt wasn’t plaster, it was more like fabric. I looked more closely, found a tear in the fabric, peeled off some of the paint and below it I could see the vague outlines of what could be one of the murals.” O’Maolalai told me,”I peeled off some more of the paint and realised that I had found the top half of the murals. It was clear that the bottom half had been removed, possibly in the 1950s when a suspended ceiling was installed in the Small Hall.”

Restoration concentrated on the central panel, The Drama. Paint specialist Catherine Hassall scraped flecks of the covering paint off with scalpel, millimetre by millimetre, to reveal Bray’s work underneath. Hassall also carried out paint analysis during restoration work in the Great Hall, to match the redecoration to its original colour scheme. Once the overpaint was scraped off, the Bray canvas was carefully removed from the wall, lined and stretched – and a decision was made not to touch up the picture, to avoid losing original paint. The fragment was put on display at the official reopening of the People’s Palace, after a £6.3 million renovation. Alongside it, are displayed photographs of the building and murals from the venue’s thirties heyday.

After her failed marriage to John Cooper, Bray married Eric Phillips, a top civil servant. She died in 1991 after a successful career as an artist, with multiple mixed and solo exhibitions. As well as commercial work, including a string of book illustrations, she employed her talents as a muralist in assisting Hans Feibusch, a collaboration lasting over forty years – creating paintings in Chichester Cathedral, Dudley Town Hall in Worcestershire, the Civic Centre in Monmouth and many parish churches. London examples are St Crispin’s in Bermondsey, with a fine ceiling by Bray, and St Alban the Martyr in Holborn.

Phyllis Bray, c. 1936

At work on the People’s Palace murals, 1936

The completed murals – The Dance, The Drama and The Music

The Dance, watercolour study

Elwin Hawthorne, Phyllis Bray, John Cooper and Brynhild Parker at the Lefevre Galleries, c. 1932

Temple of Juno Agrigento, gouache (courtesy of Louise Kosman, Edinburgh)

Selinunte, Sicily, gouache (courtesy of Louise Kosman, Edinburgh)

Landscape, gouache (courtesy of Louise Kosman, Edinburgh)

French Harbour, gouache (courtesy of Louise Kosman, Edinburgh)

Landscape near Brockweir, gouache (courtesy of Louise Kosman, Edinburgh)

The Mill, oil on canvas, 1933

The Lobster & The Lighthouse, oil on canvas

Phyllis Bray sketching in Bow by Hannah Cohen, c. 1932, crayon drawing