At The Barbican
Polly Powell, whose father Geoffry was one of the architects of the Barbican, sent me this short memoir of growing up in the shadow of the design and construction of a Brutalist masterpiece. Inspired by Polly, I took a walk around the Barbican recently with my camera, trying to look with fresh eyes and seek photographs that are not the familiar images.
“The Barbican was never far away in our household. Beneath our feet were those distinctive maroon floor tiles so redolent of the place which my father, Geoffry Powell, had chosen for the entire seamless ground floor of our house, Glen Cottage in Petersham. Presumably he had got a rather good deal on them. But they absolutely epitomised what he liked. They were well-made, robust, richly coloured, with a nod to ancient Roman heritage, but mostly they responded well to polishing, a means by which light could be brought into the house.
But the tiles were not the only reason for the Barbican to loom large in our lives. The entire development, thirty-five years in the making, coincided with the formative years of the family. We were sheltered from most of the ups and downs of the development’s protracted gestation because my father was by nature a cheerful person and preferred to leave work at the door. I remember an occasion, however, towards the end of the building of the development, when he was required to make an inspection from the top of one of the towers. He described how he had had to do a little jump in order to get into the window-cleaner’s cradle. I was both admiring and terrified by this feat of bravery. In fact, I learned later that the purpose for his inspection had been prompted by the threat of litigation which was perhaps more frightening.
The main office of Chamberlin, Powell and Bon was in Lamont Rd Passage, situated behind the kink in the King’s Rd, Chelsea. The building was a late-Victorian print works which the partners chose because of its large north-facing windows that let in maximum light. The building was divided into two floors: the top floor had one enormous space with cubby-hole offices for each of the partners and a meeting room. It was accessed via a shaky double-height spiral staircase which was always exciting to climb. On the ground floor, where everyone else sat, there was an old parquet floor covered with huge ink splodges from its previous tenants. According to one of the architects who worked there, you could tell if the practice was busy by looking at the angle of the drawing boards. If the boards were flattish (with fewer people in the office), then it was quieter, but if the boards were at a jaunty angle (more people necessitating more squeeze) then business was good. Needless to say, the firm was largely busy throughout its life and was, reportedly, the largest architectural practice in Europe at one point. In due course, the practice opened a second Barbican site office in one of the early flats overlooking the lake.
The three partners – Jo, Geoffry and Christoph – maintained a life-long respect and admiration for each other, enjoying holidays and Sunday lunches together outside the office. An important ingredient in this was the role of Jean Chamberlin who was married to Jo. Jean was a warm but determined woman who ran the Lamont Rd Passage with a rod of iron and bustled around the place, more often than not with a dash of lipstick on her whiskery face. Christoph Bon lived with Jo and Jean for most of his adult life, the three of them sharing a triumvirate of beautiful homes – South Edwardes Sq in Kensington (including a self-contained flat for Christoph), Mas Gouge in Provence, and The Mill House, Sonning. Mas Gouge was a fortified farm, simple and solid with a large terrace overlooking the valley below. The main structure was an old farmhouse, the guts of which had been removed to create a soaring three-storey open atrium sitting area with bedrooms and studies overlooking the main space from the floors above. Walls were decorated with contemporary craft pieces, some created by their friends. Here at Mas Gouge, they went to relax and enjoy the local French food – the vast fully-equipped kitchen was Christoph’s domain and was designed with white square tiles and a large tiled island, long before such things became popular. Despite the grandiose nature of the house, it still required a small hand-pump to bring water into the building. Everyone who stayed there was required to spend ten minutes at the pump.
The Mill House in Sonning was set on an island in the Thames, and allowed them to keep an Edwardian launch which was chugged out on special occasions. In the garden, there was a concrete structure surrounding a fire pit, comprising two high-backed semi-circular concrete benches. The idea was that there would be a blazing fire which, once calmed, would comfortably heat the concrete seats. The Mill House was also the setting for the Practice’s retirement party, an occasion at which the partners insisted on serving everyone who had ever worked at the firm. The Mill House is better known now as the home of George and Amil Clooney. When Jo died, Christoph and Jean spent much time travelling with the Sri Lankan architect Geoffrey Bawa. Christoph personally financed a monograph on Bawa’s home Lunaganga.
My father and Christoph lived long enough to witness a new-found affection for Brutalism in general and the work of the practice in particular. The partners were from a generation that regarded architecture as a profession and as such were not self-promoters – indeed there are very few photographs of them other than holiday snaps. Arguably, their ambivalence towards PR was perhaps a factor behind the Barbican’s negative reception in the early years. So it is particularly gratifying to see the Barbican and other buildings by the firm being appreciated once more by people voting with their feet.” – Polly Powell
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How To Make Prashad
To celebrate publication day for the very first London Sikh biography, A MODEST LIVING, MEMOIRS OF A COCKNEY SIKH by Suresh Singh, we are making prashad – the Sikh holy sweet – and two other delicious Punjabi recipes.
In the book, Suresh Singh’s chapters of biography are alternated with Jagir Kaur’s traditional recipes from the Punjab, as cooked in Spitalfields over the last seventy years at 38 Princelet St.
Prashad is made using butter, semolina, sugar, and water – four simple ingredients. Dad used to make this ‘gracious gift’ and we still make it today. It is always given out at gurdwaras whenever Sikhs gather, served to everyone irrespective of rank or caste. The offering must be served with and accepted with hands only. At 38 Princelet St, Dad said we could use plates. Before anyone eats, five portions of prashad representing each of the five beloved gurus, are taken out of the bowl and laid aside. Dad used to make us put these into the fire.
Traditionally, the person receiving prashad must be seated or low on the ground to humbly accept the offering with two hands. Both the person giving and the one receiving the offering should try to cover their heads. (At home, we used to have to run off to find something to cover ours.)
Makes about twenty portions
1 cup ghee or unsalted butter
1 cup coarse semolina
1 cup sugar
3 cups water
Add the sugar to the water in a pot and bring to the boil.
In another pan, melt the ghee or unsalted butter.
When the butter is melted, add the semolina to the melted butter and stir the mixture continuously to lightly toast the flour.
Continue stirring the flour and butter mixture while the sugar and water mixture boils to make a light syrup. The butter will separate from the toasted flour, turning a deep golden colour and emanating a godly aroma.
Pour the boiling sugar syrup into the toasted flour and butter, mixing it with a wooden spoon. Stir rapidly until the water is absorbed. Keep stirring the prashad as it thickens into a firm mix.
The prashad is ready when it slides easily from the pan into a bowl. We like serving each portion with a few raisins and then the blessing is complete.
Sarson Da Saag is served in gurdwaras. Dad and all the family loved it because it is a distinctively Punjabi recipe and a glorious green colour. Yellow rotis are traditionally eaten with this dish.
Makes about twenty generous portions
FOR THE VEGETABLE BASE
4 bunches of saag (mustard leaves) 2 bunches of spinach
1 bunch of bathua (pigweed)
2 bunches of methi ( fenugreek)
1 leek
1 bunch of large spring onions, cleaned and chopped 1 bulb of garlic, (about 6–8 cloves) peeled, not chopped
FOR THE CARAMELISED ONION MIXTURE
mustard oil
butter/ghee
1 small onion, finely chopped
1 bulb of garlic (about 6–8 cloves), finely chopped 8–10 green chillies, finely chopped
salt
3 inch piece of ginger
1 teaspoon cumin seeds
1 cup makki atta (corn flour)
Wash and finely chop the mustard and spinach leaves, piling them into a large pot. Add the chopped onions and the whole garlic cloves. Add one litre of hot water to the greens and bring to a boil. Simmer for about half an hour until tender.
Meanwhile, in a smaller pan, add the onions, then the mustard oil, butter/ghee, garlic, ginger, green chilli and cumin seeds. Cook until the onions are caramelised and the mixture turns a golden brown (when I was young, the National Front used to beat me up for smelling of caramelised onion).
Add the onion mixture to the large pot with the greens and mix well together. Add the makki atta gradually, mixing thoroughly.
When everything is combined, blend the whole mixture in a blender, being careful not to make it too mushy and leaving some of the texture intact. Once the mixture is blended, simmer for another fifteen minutes, stirring occasionally.
Serve with yellow rotis.
Kahdi – this Punjabi gurdwara yogurt fills you up. Turmeric gives it a beautiful yellow colour. When asked, I always say that this is our curry. The lovely thing about our yogurt is that you can add as many vegetables as you please to it.
Makes about twenty generous portions
FOR THE BASE
400g full fat yogurt
3–3.5 litres of hot water
1 cup besan flour (gram/chickpea flour) 1 teaspoon of turmeric powder
75g butter
FOR THE CARAMELISED ONION MIXTURE
butter/ghee or mustard oil
1 large onion, finely chopped
1 tomato, diced
1 can of tomatoes
1 whole bulb of garlic, finely chopped
7 green chillies, finely chopped
1 teaspoon of salt
1 pinch Hing-Asafoetida
1 teaspoon of cumin seeds
3 inch piece of ginger, finely chopped
5 curry leaves, rinse them under water if you use dried ones
1 teaspoon of turmeric powder
First make the base. In a large bowl, mix the yogurt, turmeric, besan flour and butter. Gradually add the water – do this slowly and mix well to make sure there are no lumps.
Pour this mixture into a large pot on a medium heat and bring to a boil. You need to stir the mixture all the time (I used to love doing this job for my mum). If you do not stir the mixture continuously, it will become lumpy and stick to the bottom of the pot. Once the mixture has come to the boil, reduce the heat. The base mixture must simmer for about two hours, and you need keep stirring it regularly.
To make the caramelised onion mixture, cook all the ingredients in the butter/ghee or mustard oil until golden brown.
Once the base mixture has been simmering for about two hours, add the caramelised onion mixture and simmer, stirring occasionally, for another fifteen minutes.
For added flavour, you can sprinkle some Garam Masala on top. Jagir uses a teaspoon each of jeera (cumin), coriander seeds, cardamom seeds, green cardamon, sunth (dried ginger powder), and two whole cloves of garlic, one cinnamon stick and three black peppercorns. She mixes and grinds this all together.
Suresh Singh & Jagir Kaur at 38 Princelet St this summer
Photographs copyright © Patricia Niven
Click here to order a signed copy of A MODEST LIVING for £20
Suresh Singh will be in conversation with Stefan Dickers at the Write Idea Festival at the Whitechapel Idea Store on Saturday November 17th at 1pm. CLICK HERE TO BOOK A FREE TICKET
The Small Trades Of Spitalfields
This Saturday 20th October at 11am I am giving an illustrated lecture on THE SMALL TRADES OF SPITALFIELDS in the crypt of Christ Church, exploring how the culture of artisans created the identity of Spitalfields and how the small traders are faring today. This event is part of HUGUENOT SKILLS DAY which includes demonstrations, workshops and lectures. Click here for tickets and further information
When these die-cut Victorian scraps of small trades are enlarged to several times their actual size, the detail and characterisation of these figures is revealed splendidly. Printed by rich-hued colour lithography, glossy and embossed, these appealing images celebrate the essential tradesmen and shopkeepers that were once commonplace but now are scarce.
In the course of my interviews, I have spoken with hundreds of shopkeepers and stallholders – and it is apparent that most only make just enough money to live, yet are primarily motivated by the satisfaction they get from their chosen trade and the appreciation of regular customers.
Here in the East End, these are the family businesses and independent traders who have created the identity of the place and carry the life of our streets. Consequently, I delight in these portraits of their predecessors, the tradesmen of the nineteenth century – rendered as giants by these monumental enlargements.
You may also like to take a look at these other sets of the Cries of London
Geoffrey Fletcher’s Pavement Pounders
William Craig Marshall’s Itinerant Traders
H.W.Petherick’s London Characters
John Thomson’s Street Life in London
Aunt Busy Bee’s New London Cries
Marcellus Laroon’s Cries of London
More John Player’s Cries of London
William Nicholson’s London Types
Francis Wheatley’s Cries of London
John Thomas Smith’s Vagabondiana of 1817
John Thomas Smith’s Vagabondiana II
John Thomas Smith’s Vagabondiana III
Thomas Rowlandson’s Lower Orders
Lew Tassell At Charles & Diana’s Wedding
We join Detective Constable Lew Tassell of the Fraud Squad on duty on the roof of Ludgate House for the wedding of His Royal Highness Prince Charles & Lady Diana Spencer on 29th July 1981, thanks to his personal photographs published here for the first time
The view from Ludgate Circus at dawn
“In July 1981, I was a Detective Constable in the City of London Police attached to the Fraud Squad at Wood St Police Station. The City of London force was quite small and an occasion such as a royal wedding required every officer to be involved, as well as drafting officers from other forces for the day.
On the day of the wedding, I was based in Ludgate House on the north-west quadrant of Ludgate Circus. The night before I walked to Hyde Park to watch the fireworks and then back along the route to Wood St, where I spent the night sleeping on the floor of my office before a very early morning start. Following a shower and wearing my best suit, I walked to Snow Hill Police Station for a 5:45am muster.
Then I walked to Ludgate House taking my camera along. The procession along the Strand to St Paul’s did not just involve royalty and the military but also celebrities. The crowd loved that. Spike Milligan held the proceedings up on at least a couple of occasions in Fleet St and Ludgate Hill by stopping the car to interact with the crowd.
Although it was extra to my duties as an investigator in the Fraud Squad, I really enjoyed all the state duties I was involved with and I felt it was a privilege – I certainly got to meet some interesting people.”
Ludgate Hill
NBC TV crew on the roof of Ludgate House
Fleet St
Ludgate Circus
The Queen & Prince Philip
Prince Charles & Prince Andrew
Earl Spencer on the way to the Cathedral with Diana
Awaiting the return procession
Charles & Diana
India Hicks, thirteen-year-old bridesmaid
The Queen Mother & Prince Andrew
Princess Anne & Princess Margaret
The Duke & Duchess of Kent
Princess Alexandra & Sir Angus Ogilvy
Detective Constable Lew Tassell of the Fraud Squad, 1981
Photographs copyright © Lew Tassell
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On Night Patrol With Lew Tassell
Maureen Rose, Button Maker
‘Every button tells a story’
On the ground floor of the house where Charles Dickens grew up at 22 Cleveland St in Fitzrovia is a wonderful button shop that might easily be found within the pages of a Dickens novel. Boxes of buttons line the walls from floor to ceiling, some more than a hundred years old, and at the centre sits Maureen Rose, presiding regally over her charges like the queen of the buttons.
“A very nice gentleman – well turned out – stood in my doorway and asked, ‘Charles Dickens doesn’t live here anymore, does he?'” Maureen admitted to me with a sly grin. “I said, ‘No, he doesn’t.’ And he said, ‘Would you have his forwarding address?’ So I said, ‘No, but should I get it, I’ll put a note in the window.'”
Taylor’s Buttons & Belts is the only independent button shop in the West End, where proprietor Maureen sits making buttons every day. It is a cabinet of wonders where buttons and haberdashery of a century ago may still be found. “These came with the shop,” explained Maureen proudly, displaying a handful of Edwardian oyster and sky blue crochetted silk buttons.
“Every button tells a story,” she informed me, casting her eyes affectionately around her exquisite trove. “I have no idea how many there are!” she declared, rolling her eyes dramatically and anticipating my next question. “I like those Italian buttons with cherries on them, they are my favourites,” she added as I stood speechless in wonder.
“Let me show you how it works,” she continued, swiftly cutting circles of satin, placing them in her button-making press with nimble fingers, adding tiny metal discs and then pressing the handle to compress the pieces, before lifting a perfect satin covered button with an expert flourish.
It was a great delight to sit at Maureen’s side as she worked, producing an apparently endless flow of beautiful cloth-covered buttons. Customers came and went, passers-by stopped in their tracks to peer in amazement through the open door, and Maureen told me her story.
“My late husband, Leon Rose, first involved me in this business. He bought it from the original Mr Taylor when it was in Brewer St. The business is over a hundred years old with only two owners in that time. It was founded by the original Mr Taylor and then there was Mr Taylor’s son, who retired in his late eighties when he sold it to my husband.
My husband was already in the button business, he started his career in a button factory learning how to make buttons. His uncle had a factory in Birmingham – it was an old family business – and he got in touch with Leon to say, ‘There’s a gentleman in town who is retiring and you should think about taking over his business.’
Leon inherited an elderly employee who did not like the fact that the business had been sold. She had been sitting making buttons for quite some time and she said she would like to retire. So at first my mother went in to help, when he needed someone for a couple of hours a day, and then – of course – there was me!
I was a war baby and my mother had a millinery business in Fulham. She was from Cannon St in Whitechapel and she opened her business at nineteen years old. She got married when she was twenty-one and she ran her business all through the war. As a child, I used to sit in the corner and watch her make hats. She used to say very regularly to me, ‘Watch me Maureen, otherwise one day you’ll be sorry.’ But I did not take up millinery. I did not have an interest in it and I regret that now. She was very talented and she could have taught me. She had done an apprenticeship and she knew how to make hats from scratch. She made all her own buckram shapes.
I helped her for while, I did a lot of buying for her from West End suppliers in Great Marlborough St where there were a lot of millinery wholesalers. It was huge then but today I do not think there is anything left. There was big fashion industry in the West End and it has all gone. It was beautiful. We used to deal with lovely couture houses like Hardy Amies and Norman Hartnell. I used to go to see their collections, it was glamorous.
I only make buttons to order, you send me the fabric – velvet, leather or whatever – and I will make you whatever you want. We used to do only small orders for tailors for suits, two fronts and eight cuff buttons. Nowadays I do them by the hundred. I do not think Leon ever believed that was possible.
Anybody can walk into my shop and order buttons. I also make buttons for theatre, television, film and fashion houses. I do a lot of bridal work. I am the only independent button shop in the West End. I get gentleman who buy expensive suits that come with cheap buttons and they arrive here to buy proper horn buttons to replace them.
My friends ask me why I have not retired, but I enjoy it. What would I do at home? I have seen what happens to my friends who have retired. They lose the plot. I meet nice people and it is interesting. I will keep going as long as I can and I would like my son Mark to take it over. He is in IT but this is much more interesting. People only come to me to buy buttons for something nice, although I rarely get to see the whole garment.
I had a customer who was getting married and she loved Pooh bear. She wanted buttons with Pooh on them. She embroidered them herself with a beaded nose for the bear and sent the material to me. I made the buttons, which were going down the back of the dress. I said, ‘Please send me a picture of your wedding dress when it is finished.’ She sent me a picture of the front. So I never saw Pooh bear.
A lady stood in the doorway recently and asked me, ‘Do you sell the buttons?’ I replied, ‘No, it’s a museum.’ She walked away, I think she believed me.”
‘Presiding regally over her charges like the queen of the buttons’
Cutting a disc of satin
Placing it in the mould
Putting the mould into the press
Edwardian crochetted silk buttons
“I like those Italian buttons with cherries on them, they are my favourites”
Dickens’ card while resident, when Cleveland St was known as Norfolk St (reproduced courtesy of Dan Calinescu)
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The First Punjabi Punk
Spitalfields Life Books is publishing A MODEST LIVING, Memoirs of Cockney Sikh by Suresh Singh next week and here is the sixth instalment.
In this first London Sikh biography, Suresh tells the story of his family who have lived in their house in Princelet St for nearly seventy years, longer I believe than any other family in Spitalfields. In the book, chapters of biography are alternated with a series of Sikh recipes by Jagir Kaur, Suresh’s wife.
You can support publication by ordering a copy now, which will be signed by Suresh Singh.
Click here to order a signed copy of A MODEST LIVING for £20
Suresh Singh & Jagir Kaur at 38 Princelet St this summer (Photograph by Patricia Niven)
Suresh (in the hat) with punk friends in Spitalfields, 1977
Encouraged by my Trotskyite, Leninist, Marxist and Maoist teachers at the City & East London College – and even Eddy Stride, Rector of Christ Church whose thinking was out on a limb – I became rebellious. I questioned everything and could no longer accept things as they were. I preferred to wear clothes from jumble sales and I looked different from other people. Dad appreciated that too. We both had swag. He was more of a snappy dresser and I was more of a punk.
He never minded when I got my ears pierced, and Mum heated up the needle so I could pierce my nose, a very do-it-yourself job. Dad understood my actions as being like the yogis who wore dreadlocks and painted their bodies with mud.
He preferred that I discovered my own expressions of identity instead of asking him, ‘Dad, can I buy a flash car?’ or even, ‘Can you give me the money for a pair of Nike trainers?’ He would rather I find a pair of old football boots, take the studs off the soles, shave them and make them into a nice pair of shoes by painting a Union Jack or something on them. He liked the sense of surprise and was curious to see what I would come up with. It was so exciting to me at fifteen years old. the courage to put two fingers up to the skinheads and say, ‘You try it now!’
I was an outsider. I was not inside the white community, I was not inside the Bengali community and I was not inside the Sikh community either, because Dad did not want me to be a stereotypical Sikh. So instead I chose the freedom of an anarchic existence.
I remember seeing a skinhead band, Screwdriver, in the student union at the Polytechnic in Whitechapel. The audience were entirely skinheads and I thought, ‘Oh shit, I’m going to die,’ because I was the only Asian there. But I am still here. At the Marquee in Soho, I went to see Generation X and Boomtown Rats. At the Acklam Hall in Portobello, I saw The Fall. All for fifty pence. Through word of mouth, I was able to catch Blues Dub sound systems nights in big basements in Notting Hill. These were exciting times.
In retrospect, I think it was less about rebellion and more about creativity. This explosion of musical culture in London came at the right time for me, just as I left school. The Rastafarians believed the world would end in 1977. Apparently Haile Selassie said that ‘When seven sevens clash, that is the year of reckoning.’
I started listening to the Sex Pistols, though I preferred the early days of Siouxsie & the Banshees before they were signed up. No-one would sign them at first because they did not know how to play their instruments and Siouxsie did not know how to sing, she just wailed like a banshee.
I was a good drummer, even though I had never learned how to play. I just picked up a pair of sticks because I used to play the flute at school and got bored with it. I used to play Dad’s Indian dholki (hand drum) quite a bit at home, so I knew I could do it. I got a drum kit that I bought out of the back of Melody Maker for twenty-five quid. It was a good kit made by Rogers. I practised at home in the back room in Princelet St. A lot of the time I rehearsed using just my drum sticks and telephone directories. I put the directories in place of the snare drum to practice without making noise, allowing me to strengthen my arm and wrist action.
I did not know Spizzenergi at all, although I heard through the grapevine that they were looking for a drummer. Spizz, the frontman, was a nice posh white kid from Solihull. He was living in Portobello Rd, where a lot of people were playing and rehearsing music in the squats. I used to cycle over. I found a bike in an abandoned Anderson shelter in Parfett St which meant I could travel all over London. I made new friends at City & East London College, including Mark Fineberg who lived in Belsize Park, so my social life expanded beyond the East End.
Spizz knocked on my door in Princelet St one day. I looked out of the window at the top of the house. He shouted, ‘Look, I’ve got a van here. Get your drums in the back, we’re going on tour with Siouxsie & the Banshees.’ I said, ‘Who?’ and he yelled, ‘Do you want to go on tour with us?’ So I asked, ‘Can I go, Dad? I’ve got a drum kit,’ and he said, ‘You’ve got a drum kit, so you can go.’
In true do-it-yourself spirit we put our records in plastic sleeves and and delivered them ourselves to Rough Trade in Portobello. I loved doing our John Peel session in November 1979 and seeing in 1980 at Au Plan K in Brussels. When we put out ‘Where’s Captain Kirk?’ it became a huge hit and the members of the band thought they were going to become pop stars. They wanted the sound to become more con- trolled and less spontaneous. I did not want us to end up sounding like a bunch of session players. I was Hero Shema, the drummer who never played in an orchestrated fashion. ‘Bollocks to this,’ I thought, ‘I’m shipping out.’ Dad always said, ‘If your ego overrides you, you’ve had it.’ I could see the egos expanding. I recognised the band were losing their edge. Dad said, ‘When that happens, just ship out.’ It was time to be in the world and not of it.
As an adolescent I loved the idea of not conforming – not being different just for the sake of it but to avoid becoming part of the status quo. By questioning, I learned different ways of doing things and different ways of thinking. It taught me to consider the value of things and resist becoming set in my ideas. At that time, black culture was becoming more accepted in this country and, through sharing music, people learned to respect other cultures. Most important for me was that I was not rebelling against my parents, which was quite different from my mates’ situations. They would tell me, ‘My dad hates me being a punk, I can’t even get out the house without my old man going “Who are the Boomtown Rats? And what are those trousers you’re wearing?”’
My parents’ acceptance of punk made me feel that it was of value and gave me more confidence in my own anarchic understanding of what was valuable in life. Dad was the same. He was holding two fingers up to the gurdwaras and the Sikhs, because he had his own way of living and being a Sikh. If your parents love and support you, you do not need to rebel against them because you know that they value you as an individual in your own right. Dad did not want to create another Joginder Singh, he wanted me to find my own identity as Suresh without losing my Sikhism.
Sometimes Sikhs would come round to our house and ask, ‘Why do you let your son pierce his nose?’ and Dad would say, ‘Well, he isn’t doing you any harm is he? Has he said anything to you? No? Well, let it be.’ Their sons would come round dressed up, wearing badly-fitted suits, they just looked terrible. Dad loved it and got off on winding people up – I actually think that was what gave him the edge.
Suresh plays drums for Spizzenergi at Lewisham Odeon 31st October 1979 (Photograph copyright © Philippe Carly)
The cover of Where’s Captain Kirk? reproduced courtesy of Spizz
Suresh’s cat Scratti named after Scritti Pollitti
Suresh Singh will be in conversation with Stefan Dickers at the Write Idea Festival at the Whitechapel Idea Store on Saturday November 17th at 1pm. CLICK HERE TO BOOK A FREE TICKET
Click here to order a signed copy of A MODEST LIVING for £20
Matyas Selmeczi, Silhouette Artist
Matyas Selemeczi is cutting silhouettes at the Huguenot Skills day next Saturday 20th October 11-4pm in Hanbury Hall and The Gentle Author is giving a lecture on the Small Trades of Spitalfields in the crypt of Christ Church at 11am. General admission is free but click here for tickets for workshops and lectures
With his weathered features, grizzled beard, sea captain’s cap and denim bib overalls, Silhouette Artist Matyas Selmeczi looks like he has just stepped off a boat and out of another century. For several years now, Matyas has been a fixture in Spitalfields and he is participating in the Huguenot Skills event next Saturday 20th where there will be the opportunity for you to have your silhouette done.
Such is his gentle, unassuming personality that it is possible you may not have noticed Matyas sitting in his booth, yet I urge you to seek him out because this man is possessed of a talent that verges on the magical. With intense concentration, he can slice through a piece of paper with a pair of scissors to produce a lifelike portrait in silhouette in less than three minutes, and he does this all day.
Once his subject sits in front of him looking straight ahead, Matyas takes a single considered glance at the profile and then begins to cut a line through the paper, looking up just a couple of times without pausing in his work, until – hey presto! – a likeness is produced. The medium is seemingly so simple and the effect so evocative.
Silhouettes were invented in France in the eighteenth century and named after Etienne de Silhouette, a finance minister who was a notorious cheapskate. These inexpensive portraits became commonplace across Europe until they were surpassed by the age of photography and when you meet Matyas, you know that he is the latest in a long line of silhouette artists on the streets of London through the centuries.
In spite of photography, silhouettes retain their currency today as vehicles to capture and convey human personality in ways that are distinctive in their own right. And for less than a tenner, getting your silhouette done is both a souvenir to cherish and an unforgettable piece of theatre.
“I have always been able to draw and I trained as an architect in St Petersburg. When my daughter was eight years old, I tried to teach her to draw but it was too early and she would cry. A pair of scissors were on the table so I picked them up and cut her silhouette to make her smile – that was my very first. When she was twelve, I was able to teach my daughter to draw and now she has become an architect.
In 2009, I was working in Budapest as an architect, but there was a crash in Hungary so I came to London. I found there was also a crash here, so I couldn’t get a job and I decided to do silhouettes instead. The first two years were hard but interesting. I did not know anything, I started in Trafalgar Sq. A friendly policeman explained that I could not charge, instead I had to ask for donations.
Then I was on the South Bank for two years and I used to have a line of people waiting to have their silhouettes done. In winter it was very hard, I had gloves and put my hands in my pockets to keep them warm so I was ready to work, but it was very windy and the wind blew away my easel and folding chair.
So four years ago, I came to Brick Lane where I can charge money but I have to pay rent, and I’ve been here every weekend since, and I am in Camden from Wednesday to Friday. On Monday and Tuesday, I am free to do my own drawing and painting.
To draw a portrait you start from the brow and draw the profile but with a silhouette you begin with the neck. It is like a drawing but you only make one line and you cannot make any mistake in the middle. It is like a shadow or a ghost. It takes me three minutes but it is not hard for me.
I like to do father and son, mother and daughter and it is very interesting to see the similarities and the differences, and how the profile changes over time.
Anybody can take photographs but silhouettes require skill. It is not really an art but a beautiful craft. You must have good eyes and very good hands.
The first time I saw a silhouette being cut was in Milos Forman’s ‘Ragtime.’ In the first few minutes of the film, you are in the Jewish quarter of New York and you see a silhouette artist on the street.
Once on the South Bank, I had a very old lady at the end of the queue watching me and I thought she had no money, so I offered to cut her silhouette for free – but she said, ‘No, I am a silhouette artist.’
She had come to this country as a child with her family from Vienna in the thirties escaping Hitler and cut silhouettes on the streets of London. Her name was Inge Ravilson and she was eighty-eight years old. She invited me to her home, and I visited her and we drank tea.
We became friends. She was wonderful and she taught me her tricks. She could cut a silhouette very fast, in one minute, and she told me I am too slow but my work is more characterful, so I was very proud. I know I am not the best, but she told me I am good and she gave me her scissors. That’s good enough for me.”
Photographs copyright © Estate of Colin O’Brien
Matyas Selmeczi can be found in Spitalfields every weekend and is also available for parties, weddings and events.
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