An Astonishing Photographic Discovery
Today, it is my great delight to reveal these breathtaking photographs taken by Horace Warner in Spitalfields at the turn of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. These pictures which have never been reproduced before, and have hardly been seen by anyone outside his immediate family, are published with the gracious permission of Horace Warner’s grandson, Ian McGilvray.
Previously, only a handful of Warner’s sympathetic portraits of the children who lived in the courtyards off Quaker St – known as the Spitalfields Nippers – were believed to exist, but through some assiduous detective work by researcher Vicky Stewart and a stroke of good luck upon my part, we were able to make contact with his grandson who keeps two albums comprising more than one hundred of his grandfather’s pictures of Spitalfields, from which the photographs published here are selected.
Many of the pictures in these albums are photographic masterpieces and I believe them to be the most significant set of photographs in existence of East Enders in this era. There is a rare clarity of vision in the tender photography of Horace Warner that brings us startling close to the Londoners of 1900 and permits us to look them in the eye for the first time. You can imagine my excitement when I met Ian McGilvray and opened Horace Warner’s albums to discover so many astonishing pictures. I experienced a sensation almost of vertigo, like looking down the dark well of time and being surprised by these faces in sharp focus, looking back at me.
It was no straightforward journey to get there. I first published a series of Horace Warner’s Spitalfields Nippers in these pages in 2011, reproduced from a booklet accompanying a 1975 exhibition of the handful of pictures once published in fund-raising leaflets by the Bedford Institute in 1912. Then last year, when I sought to reproduce these pictures in The Gentle Author’s London Album, Vicky Stewart established that the photographic prints were held in the Quaker archive at Friends House in the Euston Rd.
This discovery which permitted me to include those pictures in my Album was reward enough for our labours and I wrote an account of our quest entitled In Search of the Spitalfields Nippers last August. The story might easily have ended there, if we had not been shown a 1988 letter from Horace Warner’s daughter Gwen McGilvray that accompanied the prints. In this letter, Gwen mentions the ‘albums’ which was the first tantalising evidence of the existence of more of Horace Warner’s Spitalfields photographs.
Even as our hopes of finding these other pictures were raised, we were disappointed to realise that Gwen was unlikely to be still alive. Yet through the research facility now available online and thanks to his unusual surname, Vicky was able to find an address for one of Gwen’s four children, her son Ian, in Norfolk. It was a few years out of date but there was a chance he was still there, so we waited until the Album was published in October and sent off a copy to Ian McGilvray.
Within weeks, Ian wrote back to ask if I would like to visit him and see the ‘albums.’ It was my good fortune that the one of Horace Warner’s grandchildren we had been able to reach was also the guardian of the photographic legacy. And so it was that on a bright winter’s day I made a journey to Norfolk to meet Ian and see the complete set of Horace Warner’s Spitalfields Nippers for the first time. My fear was that I had seen the most important images among those already known, but my shock was to recognise that the best pictures have not yet been seen.
These wonderful photographs have the power to revolutionise how we think about East Enders at the end of the nineteenth century since, in spite of their poverty, these are undeniably proud people who claim a right to existence which transcends their economic status. Unlike the degraded photographic images created by charitable campaigners or the familiar middle-class studio portraits, Horace Warner’s relaxed intimate pictures draw us into a personal relationship with his subjects whom we meet as our equals. The Spitalfields Nippers are a unique set of photographs, that witness a particular time, a specific place, a discrete society, and an entire lost world.
As a designer managing the family wallpaper-printing business, Horace Warner had the income and resources to explore photography in his spare time and produce images of the highest standard technically. As superintendent of the charitable Bedford Institute, he was brought into close contact over many years with the families who lived nearby in the yards and courts south of Quaker St. As a Quaker, he believed in the equality of all and he was disturbed by the poverty he met in the East End. In the Spitalfields Nippers these things came together for Horace Warner, creating compassionate images that gave dignity to his subjects and producing great photography that is without parallel in his time.
Ian McGilvray has granted his blessing to the publication of all Horace Warner’s Spitalfields Nippers in a book for the first time so that everyone can see them and – with your help – we mean to do this on November 1st. As with our other titles, I need to gather a group of readers who are willing to invest £1000 each. Please email Spitalfieldslife@gmail.com if you would like to help bring this exciting project to fruition and I will send you further information.
Excerpt of 1988 letter from Horace Warner’s daughter Gwen McGilvray referring to the ‘albums’ and giving the name of his grandson, Ian McGilvray. (Reproduced courtesy of Friends House)
Sisters Wakefield
Walter Seabrook
Celia Compton
Photo referred to by Gwen McGilvray with headlines at the end of the Boer War, dating it to 1902
At the Whitechapel Gallery to see the Burne Jones exhibition 1901
In Pearl St (now Calvin St)
See the man looking over the wall in Union Place (off Wheler St)
Friederike Huber’s cover design for the book to be published on November 1st
Publication Rights in these Photographs Reserved
Click here to order a copy of SPITALFIELDS NIPPERS by Horace Warner
Thomas Bewick’s Cat
Accompanying my volumes of Thomas Bewick’s History of British Birds, I also managed to discover a copy of his General History of Quadrupeds from 1824 in the Spitalfields Market and – of course – I turned first to his entry upon the domestic cat, from which I publish these excerpts below.
To describe an animal so well known might seem a superfluous task – we shall only, therefore, select some of its peculiarities as are least obvious and may have escaped the notice of inattentive observers.
It is generally remarked that Cats can see in the dark, but though this is not absolutely the case, yet it is certain that they can see with much less light than other animals, owing to the peculiar structure of their eyes – the pupils of which are capable of being contracted or dilated in proportion to the degree of light by which they are affected. The pupil of the Cat, during the day, is perpetually contracted and it is with difficulty that it can see in strong light, but in the twilight the pupil regains its natural roundness, the animal enjoys perfect vision and takes advantage of this superiority to discover and surprise its prey.
The cry of the Cat is loud, piercing and clamorous, and whether expressive of anger or of love is equally violent and hideous. Its call may be heard at a great distance and is so well known to the whole fraternity that, on some occasions, several hundred Cats have been brought together from different parts. Invited by the piercing cries of distress from a suffering fellow creature, they assemble in crowds and with loud squalls and yells express their horrid sympathies. They frequently tear the miserable object to pieces and, with the most blind and furious rage, fall upon each other, killing and wounding indiscriminately, till there is scarcely one left. These terrible conflicts happen only in the night.
The Cat is particularly averse to water, cold and bad smells. It is fond of certain perfumes but is more particularly attracted by the smell of valerian and cat mint – it rubs itself against them and if not prevented will infallibly destroy them.
Though extremely useful in destroying the vermin that infest our houses, the Cat seems little attached to the persons of those who afford it protection. It appears to be under no subjection and acts only for itself.
All its views are confined to the place where it has been brought up. If carried elsewhere, it seems lost and bewildered, and frequently takes the first opportunity of escaping to its former haunts. Frequent instances are recollected of Cats having returned to the place from whence they have been carried, though at many miles distance, and even across rivers, where they could not possibly have any knowledge of the road or the situation that would apparently lead them to it.
In the time of Hoel the Good, King of Wales, who died in the year 948, laws were made to fix the different prices of animals, among which the Cat was included as being at that period of great importance on account if its scarceness and utility. The price of a kitten was fixed at one penny, till proof could be given of its having caught a mouse twopence, after which it was rated as fourpence which was a great sum in those days.
If anyone should steal or kill the Cat that guarded the Prince’s granary, he was either to forfeit a milk ewe, or her fleece and lamb, or as much wheat as when poured on the Cat suspended by its tail would form a heap high enough to cover the tip of the former.
Hence we may conclude that Cats were not originally native of these islands, and from the great care taken to improve and preserve the breed of this prolific creature, we may suppose, were but little known in that period. Whatever credit we may allow to the circumstances of the well known story of Whittington and his Cat, it is another proof of the great value set upon this animal in former times.
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Blackie, the Last Spitalfields Market Cat
At Quality Castings
Andrew Hudson, Master Caster
Quality Castings has occupied a string of old buildings alongside the Regent’s Canal in Haggerston for the last thirty years but, now the property has become more valuable for residential use, the company is transferring their business to Hackney Wick this summer. So Contributing Photographer Sarah Ainslie & I decided to pay a visit this week and record this celebrated endeavour in familiar surroundings before they move out to a new factory further east.
Our guide was Alan Factor, a soft-spoken Welshman with twinkly eyes that cast an air of alchemical mystery upon preceedings, even as he revealed to us the plain reality of the lost wax process. “We do precision casting in aluminium, brass, bronze, silver, gold, platinum and palladium,” he explained, clasping his hands proudly when we met him in the tiny white cubicle of a reception room without windows. “Jewellery’s gone to the Far East,” he revealed, “So we do more for engineering and industry now. We are a service industry, we replicate other people’s products.”
In wonder, Alan told us about a conceptual artist who melted down celluloid film stock to remove the silver and cast a chewed pencil with the metal extracted. He told us about the husband who brought a dried rose that had sentimental meaning for his wife and asked to have it cast in a precious metal. He told us they made the handles for the Queen’s Gold Cup at Ascot, that she presented to herself when her horse came first. “She won her own cup that year,” Alan confided with a chuckle, showing us a picture of the famous cup.
“We make a lot of different things,” he assured me, widening his eyes with promise as he led us through into the workshop, which reminded me a little of a school science laboratory. In the far corner Paul Prowse, Master Mould Cutter, was packing rubber around a small piece of jewellery in a frame the size of a tobacco tin. Then he placed it in a heated press that would melt the rubber and compact it into a mould. Taking out a mould that had already cooled, he set to work with a sharp knife like an expert fishmonger, inserting the blade and cutting through to fillet out the object at the centre and leave a clean mould for casting.
Next to Paul, Precision Waxer Geoff Luke was holding the completed rubber mould up to a hot wax injection machine, to create a replica of the original. Once the rubber mould was filled, he placed it upon a refrigerated surface to harden the wax before opening it up to remove delicate wax facsimiles of intricate jewellery and, using a paintbrush, dust them with talcum to prevent any sticking in the plaster mould. Across the room, Chris Walsh, another Precision Waxer was working with a heat gun, attaching the fragile wax forms onto a central core, arranged dextrously in a spiral to create a curious tree-like filigree effect.
Along the corridor, Alan led us through another door where we met Andrew Hudson, Master Caster, lurking in his own lair – a dignified industrial environment. Andrew places the frail wax ‘trees’ into cylinders which he fills up with plaster to create the mould that receives the molten metal. These cylinders are baked overnight in ovens to melt away the wax and leave a void into which the metal is poured. Thus, when these moulds are finally broken open, replicas of the original items are revealed – having travelled a strange journey through mutability, becoming negative, positive, negative and finally positive objects again.
Hundreds of orders stream through, mostly turned round in a week with repeats occasionally turned around in a day. It is an ancient process that has not lost its magic even when it is done with such apparent effortless efficiency and accomplishment, as at Quality Castings.
In the mould-making workshop
Placing the rubber in the heated press where it will form a mould as it melts
Paul Prowse, Master Mould Cutter of sixteen years experience
Removing the original from the mould
A selection of rubber moulds
Geoff Luke, Precision Waxer of seventeen years experience, fills the mould with wax
Geoff dusts the wax replica of a gold ring with talcum to prevent it sticking in the mould
Chris Walsh, Precision Waxer
Treeing up
Trees of wax replicas – on the left you can see parts of a watch
One hundred and fifty thousand moulds in the store room
Andrew Hudson, Master Caster
The trees are surrounded with plaster to create a mould for the casting
The moulds sit overnight in the ovens to remove the wax
Crucibles for hot metal
The crucible sits in the upper canister and the molten metal runs down into the mould
Finished castings ready for despatch
Alan Factor joined the company as General Manager twenty years ago
Photographs copyright © Sarah Ainslie
Quality Castings is currently at 2-4 Orsman Rd, N1 5QJ but will be moving this summer to Victoria Park Industrial Centre, Rothbury Rd, E9 5HD
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Bob Mazzer On The Tube Again
Today it is my pleasure to publish some of Bob Mazzer’s tube photographs which did not make it into the book, accompanying an invitation to his forthcoming lecture at Rich Mix next Monday 30th at 7pm. In the meantime, Bob’s debut exhibition runs at Howard Griffin Gallery, 189 Shoreditch High St until July 13th and copies of UNDERGROUND can be ordered online here
Photographs copyright © Bob Mazzer
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East End Lollipop People
Let us now praise the Lollipop People. Those benign spirits who arrive miraculously twice a day, like guardian angels or fairy godparents, glowing fluorescent, wielding their wands and shepherding their flocks safely across the road to and from school.
When the City of London & Cripplegate Photographic Society approached me offering their services to collaborate with Spitalfields Life, I knew at once that the Lollipop People would be the subject – to my eyes, they are unacknowledged, universally-loved, heroes and heroines who deserve to be celebrated and photographed.
Yet, getting to the right place at the right time and capturing these timid fleeting spirits, proved more challenging than we had anticipated. We discovered that, due to the Education Cuts, the Lollipop People are an endangered species and, such is the unassuming nature of these modest folk, some shunned the lens while others would not give their names.
Thankfully, through tenacity and charm, Cathryn Rees and Jean Jameson were able to produce this slim portfolio of elegant portraits that must serve as the historical record of these hardy, altruistic souls.
Frank Smith at Cubbitt Town School, Isle of Dogs (Photo by Cathryn Rees)
Sabah at Bigland Green School, Limehouse (Photo by Jean Jameson)
Abdul Rif at Caley Primary School, Bow (Photo by Jean Jameson)
At Cyril Jackson Primary School, Limehouse (Photo by Jean Jameson)
Jackie Clarke, St Peter’s School, Wapping (Photo by Cathryn Rees)
At Cyril Jackson Primary School, Limehouse (Photo by Jean Jameson)
Julie Hutchinson at Mayflower School, Poplar (Photo by Cathryn Rees)
Sabah at Bigland Green School, Shadwell (Photo by Jean Jameson)
At Redlands Primary School, Stepney (Photo by Cathryn Rees)
Photographs copyright © Cathryn Rees & Jean Jameson
Learn more about City of London & Cripplegate Photographic Society, London’s oldest photographic society, founded in 1899
Colin O’Brien’s London Life
There cannot be many photographers who have created the expanse of work that Colin O’Brien has done, documenting the changing life of London over seven decades – beginning as a child with a Box Brownie in Clerkenwell in 1948 and continuing today as a regular Spitalfields Life Contributing Photographer, taking the digital photos of the Druids for yesterday’s story.
A retrospective of Colin’s photography entitled London Life opens at Hackney Museum this week and today we preview a small selection of pictures from the show.
Car Breakers, Hackney Wick
Fish Shop, Chatsworth Rd in the eighties
Finsbury, 1951
Hackney, 1998
Old Dalston Station
East Enders Cafe, Hackney
Brick Lane in the eighties
Cafe, Battersea Park
Chatsworth Rd in the eighties
The Griffin, Shoreditch, on the last day of smoking in pubs
Tapping Harlem, Hackney Empire
Regents Canal, Hackney
Victoria Dwellings, Clerkenwell, in the fifties
Hackney, last day of the Routemaster on the 38 bus route
Old Kent Rd
Covent Garden, 2004
St Martin’s Lane
Battersea Power Station
Median Rd, Hackney
Rag & Bone Man, 1959
Colin O’Brien (left) at Sir John Cass School, Aldgate 1954
Raymond Scallionne & Razi Tuffano, Hatton Garden in 1948
Photographs copyright © Colin O’Brien
London Life runs at Hackney Museum until 30th August, Admission Free
Take a look at more pictures by Colin O’Brien
Colin O’Brien’s Clerkenwell Car Crashes
Travellers’ Children in London Fields
Colin O’Brien’s Brick Lane Market
Among The Druids On Primrose Hill
In the grove of sacred hawthorn
At Midsummer, Contributing Photographer Colin O’Brien & I joined the celebrants of the Loose Association of Druids on Primrose Hill for the solstice festival hosted by Jay the Tailor, Druid of Wormwood Scrubs. As the most prominent geological feature in the Lower Thames Valley, it seems likely that this elevated site has been a location for rituals since before history began.
Yet this particular event owes its origin to Edward Williams, a monumental mason and poet better known by his bardic name Iolo Morganwg, who founded the Gorsedd community of Welsh bards here on Primrose Hill in June 1792. He claimed he was reviving an ancient rite, citing John Tollund who in 1716 summoned the surviving druids by trumpet to come together and form a Universal Bond.
Consequently, the Druids began their observance this year by gathering to honour their predecessor at Morganwg’s memorial plaque on the viewing platform at the top of the hill, where they corralled bewildered tourists and passing dog walkers into a circle to recite his Gorsedd prayer in an English translation. From here, the Druids processed to the deep shade of the nearby sacred grove of hawthorn where biscuits and soft drinks were laid upon a tablecloth with a bunch of wild flowers and some curious wooden utensils.
Following at Jay the Tailor’s shoulder as we strode across the long grass, I could not resist asking about the origin of his staff of hawthorn intertwined with ivy. “It was before I became a Druid, when I was losing my Christian faith,” he confessed to me, “I was attending a County Fair and a stick maker who had Second Sight offered to make it for me for fifteen pounds.” Before I could ask more, we arrived in the grove and it was time to get the ritual organised. Everyone was as polite and good humoured as at a Sunday school picnic.
A photocopied order of service was distributed, we formed a circle, and it was necessary to select a Modron to stand in the west, a Mabon to stand in the north, a Thurifer to stand in the east and a Celebrant to stand in the South. Once we all had practised chanting our Greek vowels while processing clockwise, Jay the Tailor rapped his staff firmly on the ground and we were off. A narrow wooden branch – known as the knife that cannot cut – was passed around and we each introduced ourselves.
In spite of the apparent exoticism of the event and the groups of passersby stopping in their tracks to gaze in disbelief, there was a certain innocent familiarity about the proceedings – which celebrated nature, the changing season and the spirit of the place. In the era of the French and the American Revolutions, Iolo Morganwr declared Freedom of Thought, Freedom of Speech and Freedom of Association. Notions that retain strong resonance to this day.
Once the ritual wound up, we had exchanged kisses of peace Druid-style and everyone ate a biscuit with a gulp of apple juice, I was able to ask Jay the Tailor more questions.“I lost my Christian faith because I studied Theology and I found it difficult to believe Jesus was anything other than a human being, even though I do feel he was a very important guide and I had a personal experience of Jesus when I met Him on the steps of Oxford Town Hall,” he admitted, leaving me searching for a response.
“When I was fourteen, I went up Cader Idris at Midsummer and spent all night and the next day there, and the next night I had a vision of Our Lady of Mists & Sheep,” he continued helpfully,“but that just added to my confusion.” I nodded sagely in response.“I came to Druids through geometry, through studying the heavens and recognising there is an order of things,” he explained to me, “mainly because I am a tailor and a pattern cutter, so I understand sacred geometry.” By now, the other Druids were packing up, disposing of the litter from the picnic in the park bins and heading eagerly towards the pub. It had been a intriguing afternoon upon Primrose Hill.
“Do not tell the priest of our plight for he would call it a sin, but we have been out in the woods all night, a-conjuring the Summer in!” – Rudyard Kipling
Sun worshippers on Primrose Hill
Memorial to Iolo Morganwg who initiated the ritual on Primrose Hill in 1792
Peter Barker, Thurifer – “I felt I was a pagan for many years. I always liked gods and goddesses, and the annual festivals are part of my life and you meet a lot of good people.”
Maureen – “I’m a Druid, a member of O.B.O.D. (the Order of Bards, Ovates & Druids), and I’ve done all three grades”
Sarah Louise Smith – “I’m training to be a druid with O.B.O.D. at present”
Simeon Posner, Astrologer – “It helps my soul to mature, seeing the life cycle and participating in it”
John Leopold – “I have pagan inclinations”
Jay the Tailor, Druid of Wormwood Scrubs
Iolo Morgamwg (Edward Williams) Poet & Monumental Mason, 1747-1826
Photographs copyright © Colin O’Brien
The next Pagan ritual on Primrose Hill will be held at Lammastide, 1pm on Sunday 10th August – more information from the Loose Order of Druids
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