Sandle Bros, Manufacturing Stationers
Not so long ago, there were a multitude of long-established Manufacturing Stationers in and around the City of London, of which Baddeley Brothers is the only survivor today. Sandle Brothers opened in one small shop in Paternoster Row on November 1st 1893, yet soon expanded and began acquiring other companies, including Dobbs, Kidd & Co founded in 1793, until they filled the entire street with their premises – and become heroic stationers, presiding over long-lost temples of envelopes, pens and notepads which you see below, recorded in this brochure from the Bishopsgate Institute.
The Envelope Factory
Stationery Department – Couriers’ Counter
A Corner of the Notepad & Writing Pad Showroom
Gallery for Pens in the Stationers’ Sundries Department
Account Books etc in the Stationers’ Sundries Department
Japanese Department
Picture Postcard & Fancy Jewellery Department
One of the Packing Departments
Leather & Fancy Goods Department
Books & Games Department
Christmas Card, Birthday Card & Calendar Department
A Corner of the Export Department
Images courtesy Bishopsgate Institute
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Roger Pertwee, Manufacturing Stationer
I have just heard that the former premises of Gary Arber, the legendary Printer & Stationer of 459 Roman Rd, are under threat from developers. Learn more about the campaign to save it at Roman Rd Residents & Businesses Association
Read my stories about Gary Arber
Tim Hunkin, Cartoonist & Engineer
Tim Hunkin
I know I cannot be the only one who still has a cardboard file of copies of Tim Hunkin’s genius cartoon strip, ‘The Rudiments of Wisdom,’ clipped weekly from the Observer and cherished through all these years. So I hope you will appreciate my excitement when Tim invited me over to Bloomsbury last Sunday to photograph the arrival of his automata and slot machines, prior to next week’s opening of Novelty Automation, his personal amusement arcade.
I can now reveal that there were a few anxious moments as Tim’s nuclear reactor lurched violently while being manhandled from the van. But you will be relieved to learn that all the machines fitted through the door and are safely installed inside his tiny premises in Princeton St off Red Lion Sq, where – for a small fee – Londoners will be able to practice money-laundering, witness a total eclipse, lose weight, get frisked, get divorced, get chiropody and – of course – operate a nuclear reactor.
Yesterday I went back to admire Tim’s machines, illuminated and humming with life in their new home, which gave me the opportunity to have a chat with the engineer while he tinkered with the works, making his final adjustments and ironing out a few last minute snags. “I started making things as a child and the cartoons were a distraction at university when I couldn’t have a workshop,” he revealed modestly, his hands deep inside a machine, “I started drawing for a student magazine and that led me to the Observer.”
Leaning in close with a puzzled frown, Tim tilted his gold spectacles upon his brow and narrowed his eyes in thought, peering into the forest of cogs and levers. I hope he will forgive me if I admit could not ignore the startling resemblance at that moment, in his posture and countenance, to Heath Robinson’s illustrations for Norman Hunter’s Professor Branestawm stories.
“It’s much easier to make a living by drawing than by making things, and it’s harder to make things that work,” he confessed, turning to catch my eye, “I often say, I spent the first half of my life making things badly.”
“I just like being in my workshop, I get itchy feet sitting at a desk. But if my body gives out before my mind, I plan to write a huge book about Electricity,” he continued, growing excited as the thought struck him.
“I plan to hang on as long as I can,” he reassured me, returning his concentration to the machine.
“The ingredient you need when you make things is to know it’s worthwhile,” Tim said, half to himself, “There needs to be a point to it – sometimes I leave my workshop and go down to the arcade in Southwold and I see people laughing at my machines there. You can’t imagine how addictive that is for me.” Casting my eyes around the room at Tim’s array of ingenious and playful machines, each conceived with a sharp edge of satirical humour, I could easily imagine it. “I’m quite a loner, so it’s my connection to the world and it gives me great pleasure,” he confided without taking his gaze from the work in hand.
“People underestimate slot machines,” he informed me, almost defensively, “Once they have paid, they pay attention, read the instructions and concentrate because they have invested and they want to get their money’s worth. So you’ve really captured your audience.”
“In the eighties, I had a brush with the Art world, but I prefer the notion that, rather than buy your work, people buy an experience,” he concluded, adding “and you don’t have to be sophisticated to enjoy it.”
All this time, Tim had been fiddling with an hydraulic system which caused the eyes to shoot out of a bust of Sigmund Freud but – at that moment – was failing to pull them back in again afterwards. Constructed of old timber, the device comprised an automated bedroom with dream figures popping up from inside the wardrobe and outside the window.
“The machines are the stars not me,” Tim declared when I exclaimed in wonder to see the mechanism spring into life, “I’m looking forward to when I can get back to my workshop.” I left him there playing with the dream machine and I rather envied him.
Tim Hunkin and his team deliver their Nuclear Reactor in Bloomsbury
Tim Hunkin and the Dream Machine
NOVELTY AUTOMATION at 1a Princeton St, Bloomsbury, WC1R 4 AX, from Wednesday 11th February . Wednesdays 11am – 6pm, Thursdays 11am – 7pm, Fridays 11am – 6pm & Saturdays 11am – 6pm
Philip Mernick’s East London Shopfronts
These splendid shopfronts from the beginning of the last century are published courtesy of Philip Mernick who has been collecting postcards of the East End for more than thirty years. In spite of their age, the photographs are of such high quality that they capture every detail and I could not resist enlarging parts of them so you can peer closer at the displays.
S.Jones, Dairy, 187 Bethnal Green Rd
J.F. List, Baker, 418 Bethnal Green Rd
A.L.Barry, Chandlers & Seed Merchants, 246 Roman Rd
Direct Supply Stores Ltd, Butcher, Seven Sisters Rd
Vanhear’s Coffee Rooms, 564 Commercial Rd
Williams Bros, Ironmonger, 418 Caledonian Rd
Francis J. Walters, Undertakers, 811 Commercial Rd
Pearks Stores, Grocer, High St, East Ham
A. Rickards, Umbrella Manufacturer, 30 Barking Rd, East Ham
Huxtables Stores, Ironmonger, Broadway, Plaistow
E.J Palfreyman, Printer, Bookbinder & Stationer, High Rd, Leytonstone
J.Garwood, Greengrocer, Bow Rd
“The banana is the safest and most wholesome fruit there is”
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Billy & Charley’s Shadwell Shams
Old Truman’s Beer Labels
In Spitalfields, we all live in the shadow of the old Truman Brewery founded in Brick Lane in 1666, which makes the history of Truman’s part of the history of the place and thus a subject of fascination to us all. So I was delighted to come upon these pristine Truman’s labels for beer bottles dating from the middle of the last century which have never been used. There is a timeless quality to the elegant simplicity of their design and their unusual use of bold colours, combined with fine hand-drawn lettering, delivers an appealing series of small graphic masterpieces.
If anybody has more old Truman’s Beer Labels or can tell me who designed them, please get in touch
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Picking Hops for Truman’s Beer
First Brew at the New Truman’s Brewery
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Textile Designs At Rodney Archer’s House
Rodney Archer, the Aesthete of Fournier St, & his pal Trevor Newton, the Curator, have been busy again, lining Rodney’s magnificent old house with a collection of original French nineteenth century designs for satins and silk velours, created at the Lyons factory of Antoine Donat between 1840 and 1865.
Trevor came upon these designs in a long-abandoned silk mill and they have not seen the light of day since the eighteen-seventies which accounts for their vibrant unfaded colours. Each design is labelled on the reverse with the date and instructions for setting up the loom, and all are for sale – many for as little as twenty pounds.
It certainly makes a splendid display in Rodney’s blue and gold drawing room on the first floor – the one with Oscar Wilde’s fireplace in it – and since these houses in Fournier St were built on the income from silk weaving, it is difficult to imagine a better location to enjoy these rich and extravagant designs, glowing in the February sunlight .
31 Fournier St will be open on Tuesdays, Thursdays & Saturdays from Thursday February 19th until Thursday March 19th – from 10am until 4pm weekdays and 2pm until 5pm on Saturdays. Numbers are limited and visits are by appointment only.
To receive an invitation, please email newtonartist@hotmail.com saying when exactly you would like to visit and how many will be in your party.
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Snowdrops At The Chelsea Physic Garden
The Snowdrop Theatre
At the weekend, I rose early on an overcast morning and took the District Line over to West London to join the other passionate horticulturalists at the Chelsea Physic Garden at opening time on the first of the Snowdrop Days. The Garden is closed during the winter months but these special openings permit the opportunity to admire the drifts of snowdrops, supplemented by rare species on display in a Snowdrop Theatre and a sale of exotic varieties.
The snowdrops in my garden in Spitalfields have already been in flower for a couple of weeks, encouraging my anticipation of seeing those at the Physic Garden. Through the passing years, the wonder of these flowers that appear in the depths of winter, glowing white against the dark earth as the first harbingers of spring, has never dimmed for me. Yet such is my short-signtedness, I did wonder whether the differentiation of multiple varieties might be no more than academic in my case.
Fortunately, the Physic Garden has strategies to bring snowdrops to your eye level. As you come through the entrance in Swan Walk, you encounter snowdrops growing in moss balls hanging from the trees – in the Japanese style – and then you arrive at the Snowdrop Theatre where sixteen different specimens line up for your scrutiny behind a crimson proscenium. To my mind, there has always been a drama in the appearance of snowdrops emerging out of the darkness and, placed in a theatre, their natural stage presence delivers an effortless performance worthy of applause.
Once you have taken a stroll through the woodland planting upon the southern edge of the garden where clumps of snowdrops may be viewed in an approximation of their natural environment, attending by starry yellow aconites and pale-hued hellebores, you visit the marquee where dozens of varieties are lined up on a long table just waiting for you take them home and cherish them.
I paced up and down, peering over and looking closely to ascertain the precise nature of the fine distinctions between all these snowdrops. The attendants even opened the showcase that contained the most expensive varieties at thirty and sixty pounds a pop, so that I might examine them too. Yet I could not bring myself to favour any particular example over another. The differences were immaterial. I love all snowdrops equally.
Moss balls planted with snowdrops hang from the trees
Hellebore
Aconites
Selecting snowdrops from the dozens of varieties on sale
Sir Hans Sloane leased the land for the Chelsea Physic Garden to the Society of Apothecaries in 1673
SNOWDROP DAYS run at the Chelsea Physic Garden, 66 Royal Hospital Rd, Chelsea, until Sunday 8th February from 10am-4pm – including a variety of lectures, walks & workshops with snowdrop experts.
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At The Annual Grimaldi Service
I am publishing my account of a visit to the Annual Grimaldi Service as a reminder to any readers who might choose to join this year’s service which takes place at 3pm this afternoon at All Saints Church, Livermore Rd, Dalston.
The first Sunday in February is when all the clowns arrive in East London for the annual service to honour Joseph Grimaldi (1778-1837), the greatest British clown – held since 1946 at this time of year, when the clowns traditionally gathered in the capital prior to the start of the Circus touring season. Originally celebrated at St James’ Pentonville Rd, where Grimaldi is buried, the service transferred to Holy Trinity, Dalston in 1959 where the event has grown and grown, and where there is now a shrine to Grimaldi graced with a commemorative stained glass window.
By mistake, I walked into the church hall which served as the changing room to discover myself surrounded by painted faces and multi-coloured suits. Seeing my disorientation, Mr Woo (in a red wig and clutching a balloon dog) kindly stepped over to greet me, explaining that he was veteran of forty years clowning including a stint at Bertram Mills Circus with the legendary Coco the clown – before revealing it was cut short when he fell over and fractured his leg, illustrating the anecdote by lifting his trouser to reveal a savagely-scarred shin bone. “He’s never going to win a knobbly knees contest now!” declared Uncle Colin with alarming levity, Mr Woo’s performing partner in the double act known as The Custard Clowns. “But what did you do?” I enquired in concern, still alarmed by Mr Woo’s injury. “I got a comedy car!” was Mr Woo’s shrill response, accompanied by an unnerving chuckle.
Reeling from the tragic ambiguity of this conversation, I walked around to the church where fans were gathering for the service and there, in the quiet corner church dedicated to Joseph Grimaldi, I had the good fortune to shake hands with Streaky the clown, a skinny veteran of sixty-three years clowning. There is a poignancy to old clowns such as Streaky with face paint applied to wrinkled skin -a quality only emphasised by the disparity between the harsh make-up and the infinite nuance of the lined features beneath.
At first, the presence of the clowns doing their sideshows to warm up the congregation changed the meaning of the sacred space, as if the vaulted arches became tent poles and we had come to a show rather than a church service – although both were strangely reconciled in the atmosphere of celebration that prevailed. Yet although the children delighted in the comedy and the audience laughed at the gags, I must admit that – as I always have – I found the clowns more funny peculiar than funny ha-ha.
But it is precisely this contradiction which draws me to them, because I believe that, through embracing grotesque self-humilation, they expose an essential quality of humanity – that of our innate foolishness, underscored by our tendency to take ourselves too seriously. We need to be startled or even alarmed by their extreme appearance, their gurning and their dopey japes, in order to recognise our true selves. This is the corrective that clowns deliver with a cheesey grin, confronting us with a necessary sense of the ridiculous in life.
“This is the best job I ever had – to make people smile and get them to laugh,” declared Conk the Clown, once he had demonstrated blowing bubbles from his saxophone. “How did you start?” I enquired. “I got divorced,” he replied – and everyone within earshot laughed, except me. “I had depression,” Conk continued with a helpless smirk, “so I joined the amateur dramatics, but I was no good at it, so I thought, ‘I’ll be a clown!'” Twelve years later, Conk has no apparent cause to regret his decision, as his mirthful demeanour confirmed. “It’s something inside, a feeling you know – everyone’s got laughter inside them,” he informed me with a wink, before disappearing up the aisle in a cloud of bubbles pursued by laughing children.
Turning around, I found myself greeted by Glory B, an elegant lady dressed in subtle tones of turquoise and blue, and sporting a huge butterfly upon her hat. Significantly, her face was not painted and she described herself as a ‘Children’s Entertainer’ rather than a ‘Clown.’ “Sometimes children are scared of clowns, “ she admitted, articulating my own thoughts with a smile, “so I work with Mr Woo as a go-between, to comfort them if they are distressed.”
Once the clown organist began to play, everyone took their seats and the parade of clowns commenced – old troupers and young goons, buffoons and funsters, jokers and jesters – enough to delight the most weary eyes and lift the spirits of the most down-hearted February day. An army of clowns filled the church with their pranking and japes, and their high wattage personalities. The intensity of an army of clowns is a presence that defies description, because even at rest there is such bristling potential for misrule.
In their primary-coloured parodic suits, I could recognise the styles of many periods, from both the twentieth and the nineteenth centuries, and when a clown stood up to carry the wreath to lay in honour of ‘Joey Grimaldi,’ I saw he was wearing an eighteenth century clown suit. At the climax of the service, the names of those clowns who had died in the year were read out and, for each one, a child carried a candle down the nave. After the announcements of ‘Sir Norman Wisdom,’ ‘Buddi,’ ‘Bilbo’ and ‘Frosty,’ I saw a feint light travel through the crowd to be lost at the rear of the church and it made tangible the brave purpose of clowning – that of laughing in the face of the darkness which surrounds us.
Mr Woo once worked with Coco the clown at Bertram Mills Circus until he fractured his leg.
Conk the clown once suffered from depression.
Arriving at Holy Trinity, Dalston.
Streaky at Grimaldi’s shrine with the case of eggs recording the distinctive make-up of famous clowns.
Streaky the clown, a veteran of sixty-three years clowning.
Glory B., Children’s Entertainer.
The commemorative window for Joseph Grimaldi.
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