Terry Smith, Envelope Cutter
There is not much that Terry Smith does not know about envelopes. He has been cutting them for fifty years at Baddeley Brothers, the long-established family firm of fine stationery manufacturers in Hackney. “When I tell people I make envelopes, sometimes they look at you and ask, ‘What does it take to make envelopes?’ Terry revealed to me with a knowing smile, “So I tell them to get hold of a piece of paper and a knife and a ruler, and try to cut out the shape – because that is the trade of envelope making.”
Envelopes, especially of the brown manila variety, are mostly mundane objects that people prefer not to think about too much. But, at Baddeley Brothers, they make the envelopes of luxury and the envelopes of pleasure, envelopes with gilt crests embossed upon the flap, envelopes with enticing windows to peer through and envelopes lined with deep-coloured tissue – envelopes to lose yourself in. This is envelope-making as an art form, and Terry Smith is the supreme master of it.
Did you know there are only four types of envelope in the world? Thanks to Terry, the morning post will never be the same as I shall be categorising my mail according to styles of envelope. Firstly, there is the Diamond Shape, made from a diamond-shaped template and in which all four points meet in the middle – once this is opened, it cannot be resealed. Secondly, there is the “T” Style, which is the same as the Diamond Shape, only the lower flap ends in a straight edge rather than a point – permitting the top flap to be tucked underneath, which means the envelope can be reused. Thirdly, there is the Wallet, which is a rectangular envelope that opens on the long side. And lastly, the Pocket – which is a rectangular envelope that opens upon the short side.
“The skill of it is to make all the points meet in the middle,” confided Terry, speaking of the Diamond Shape, and I nodded in unthinking agreement – because by then I was already enraptured by the intriguing world of bespoke envelope-making.
“I was born in Shoreditch, and my mother and father were both born in Hackney. My dad was a telephone operator until the war and then he became a chauffeur afterwards. My first job, after I left school at fifteen, was at a carton maker but I was only there for three or four weeks when a friend came along and said to me, would I like to work in a ladies clothing warehouse? And I did that for a year until it got a bit iffy. The Employment Exchange sent me along to Baddeley Brothers and I joined when I was seventeen, and stayed ever since.
The company was in Tabernacle St then and I worked in the warehouse alongside the envelope cutters. It was a good thing because as somebody left another one joined and I worked with them, and I picked stuff up. Eventually when one left, they said to me, ‘Do you think you can do it?’ And I said, ‘Oh yes, give me a try.’ At first, I did the easy ones, punching out envelopes, and then I started to learn how to make the patterns and got into bespoke envelopes.
It is something that I should like to pass on myself, but I have not found anyone that can handle the paper. Once you have got the paper under the guillotine, it can be hard to get just the shape you want. And it can be quite difficult, because if the stack shifts beneath the pattern it can be very tricky to get it straight again. After you have trimmed the paper in the guillotine, then you put it in the adjustable press, and set up your pattern to cut through the paper and give you the exact shape of the envelope. I design all the patterns and, if we need a new knife, I design the shape and make the pattern myself. All of this can be done on a computer – the trade is dying, but this firm is thriving because we do bespoke. If a customer comes to us, I will always make a sample and nine times out of ten we get the job. You won’t find many people like me, because there’s not many left who know how to make bespoke envelopes.
I retired at sixty-five after I trained somebody up, but two months later I got the phone call saying, ‘Will you please come back?’ That was two years ago nearly and I was pleased to come back because I was getting a bit bored. It’s a great pleasure producing envelopes, because I can do work that others would struggle with. There’s a lot of pressure put upon you, you’ve got a couple of machines waiting and a few ladies making up the finished envelopes.
I was brought up with sport and I ran for London, I am a good all-rounder. I am a swimming instructor with disabled people at Ironmonger’s Row Baths. Every morning, I do press ups and sit ups to keep in shape – a good hour’s work out. I know that when I come into work, I’m ready to go. I’m probably fitter than most of the people here.
They’ve asked me how long can I go on making envelopes and I answer, ‘As long as I am able and as long as I am needed.'”
Terry at work making envelopes in 1990 in Boundary St.
Terry sets a knife to cut the final shape of a stack of envelopes
Die cutting, 1990
Jim Roche checking the quality of foiling on envelopes
Checking the quality of foiling, 1990
Alan Reeves and envelope machine
Alan Reeves and envelope machine, 1990
Gary Cline
Die press proofing, 1990
Folding envelopes by hand
Folding envelopes by hand, 1990
Gita Patel & Wendy Arundel – “We are the best hand finishers”
Proofing Press, 1990
Alan Reeves, Gary Cline, Terry Smith and Jim Lambert.
Baddeley Brothers at Boundary St in the building that is now the Boundary Hotel, 1990
Colour photographs copyright © Colin O’Brien
Black & white photographs copyright © Baddeley Brothers
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Moyra Peralta’s Street Portraits
Sylvia in Tenterground, Spitalfields
Since I published it last week, this compelling photograph has been haunting me with its tender emotional resonance. Sylvia’s once-smart shoes and flowery dress tell us about the life she wished to lead – and maybe about the life she had led – yet it is apparent from Moyra Peralta‘s affectionate portrait that the life Sylvia aspired to was lost to her forever. Unwillingly to enter a night shelter, she slept rough in Spitalfields in the seventies and today this photograph exists as the only lasting evidence that, in spite of her straitened circumstance, Sylvia kept her self-respect.
Following my recent gallery of Moyra Peralta’s Spitalfields pictures, today I publish this selection of her London portraits. Through the seventies and until the end of the nineties, Moyra Peralta befriended people living on the street in the capital, visiting them several times each week. “I miss that world terribly,” she admitted to me, looking back on it, “my relationships were more social than photographic, but in the process of those relationships I took portraits – there are those here that I knew over thirty years, most of these people I knew for well over twenty to thirty years.”
“Definitions of the homeless lost all meaning for me.” Moyra emphasised, “As a photographer, I tried to show the human face, rather than the problem of homelessness itself because those termed ‘homeless’ are not an alien grouping – they are people of all ages and backgrounds, many of whom have met with crippling misfortunes.”
Moyra’s intimate photographs succeed as portraits of heroic individuals, evoking the human dignity of those marginalised by society. “To me, those I have photographed are an important part of our social history.” Moyra asserted to me, “I want my photographs to rescue people from oblivion and celebrate their lives lived in a climate of disregard.”
John T in Lincoln’s Inn Fields.
Bert known as ‘Birdman’ slept outdoors since the age of fourteen. He had an affinity with the black swans and sparrows in St James’ Park and was treated with tolerance by the Park Police.
Two men sitting in a cellar.
Maxie on the steps of the Cumberland Hotel, Marble Arch.
Maxie pours Stan a drink at Marble Arch.
Eddie and Brian tell tall stories on Kinsgway
Brian raps on the church door, Kingsway
Man and a cat in a Cyrenian short stay hostel, 1974.
Grant and pal laughing at the Bullring, South Bank
Mary reads the Big Issue in Holborn
Tommy M in Lincoln’s Inn Fields
Bill H, Cyrenian House, Barons Court, in the seventies.
Brian D at Middlesex Hospital, 1997
Brian’s begging hand.
Francis at Cable St
JW and Jim at Pratt St, Camden
John T, Storyteller, Whetstone 1995.
John T, the valentine.
Kerry’s Christmas Tree, Kingsway 1994.
Drag artistes from the Vauxhall Tavern give a surprise performance to entertain guests at a night shelter, 1974
Drag artistes improvise costumes at the Vauxhall shelter.
Billy and Maxie, two ex-servicemen at Marble Arch, 1976. Billy (left) died of a broken heart the year after Maxie’s death
Billy at Marble Arch in the seventies.
Sid takes tea at Ashmore Rd short stay hostel in West London.
Resident washing dishes at West London Mission, St Luke’s House – part of former Old Lambeth Workhouse, 1974.
Tiny, ex-circus hand and born wanderer extends a greeting at the Vauxhall Night Shelter, 1974.
Man and his bottle in Central London, seventies
Disabled Showman Zy with his wheels.
Zy plays a trick with his teeth
Brian the Poet in Kingsway, 1994.
Photographs copyright © Moyra Peralta
Signed copies of ‘NEARLY INVISIBLE,’ including these photographs and more by Moyra Peralta plus writing by John Berger & Alan Bennett, are available directly from Moyra. Email moyra.peralta@zen.co.uk to get your copy.
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At Plashet Park Bowling Club
Photographer Colin O’Brien and I went over to visit the Plashet Park Bowling Club in hopes of witnessing some exciting action on the green and reporting back to you. But, with temperatures rising in excess of thirty degrees, we found the members had wisely decided not to venture beyond the Club House and were spending the afternoon sitting in the shade drinking tea and eating cake instead. We could not fault the wisdom of such a decision, especially as it gave Colin the opportunity to take their portraits and, enlivened by the novelty of photography, a spontaneous tea party ensued that filled the afternoon very pleasantly.
The Club has been in the headlines recently on account of a recent surge in membership from Asian people, reviving a flagging institution, but when we arrived none were to be seen. “They’re at the mosque today,” explained the Club Secretary, Joan Ayre, proudly – as we stepped into the kitchen for a cool glass of lemonade,“They’re really good players and they’ve made us a stronger and better Club.”
“We do have a history of acheivements,” interposed Cliff Dye, the youthful President & Chairman, standing up for the Club’s legacy, “In 1911, a group of men got together and founded this Club in Plashet Park as an offshoot of the Bowling Club at the Green Man, a pub which has gone now.”
“You know how all the pubs round here have car parks?” added Joan, unable to conceal her disappointment, “Well, those all used to be the Bowling Greens.”
“In 1999, there were fifteen Bowling Clubs in Newham,” revealed Cliff, quoting figures, “and now there are only six – lack of membership was the problem.”
“We are the originals,” continued Joan, clutching at the arm of her husband Nobby for moral support.
“We both joined twenty-six years ago when we retired,” Nobby admitted to me, “I am the second oldest member at eighty-five.”
“The Asians were rolling up every day to practice in the first year so, in the second year, we invited them to join our competitions,” Cliff informed me, eagerly picking up the narrative of the club’s recent ascendancy, “And they won them all because of the practising – they’re very good bowlers.” This last comment drew nods of agreement and approval all round.
“I am confident of the future of this Club,” Joan assured me as I studied the score boards, trophies and old photographs that adorned the Club House, “because we are going to become the first all-Asian Bowls Club in years to come.”
And I was touched by the many emotions present in Joan’s statement, of her relief that her precious Club would not die like so many others, of her delight in sharing it with new members, of her excitement at the renewed competitive future of the Club and her pleasure that her beloved sport had delivered the arena for a such an unexpected meeting of cultures united by their enjoyment of bowls.
By now, I spotted two Asian gentlemen who had sought the cool shade of a laurel hedge to relax and so I went over to discover their side of the story.“I only started playing bowls when I joined the club in 2010, though I was always keen on sports from volleyball, basketball, cricket and athletics when I was young.” confided Bashir Patel, known affectionately as “Bash,”It’s a very friendly club with very nice people and all suspicions on both sides have been dispelled.”
A heat haze hung over the green and it was necessary to retreat back into the Club House where we persuaded the members to gather for a group photo, before our taking our leave and promising to return later in the summer when all the members would be present to show us how a game of bowls should be played – and Colin can take portraits of all those we missed this time.
In the meantime, the Plashet Park Bowling Club seeks new members of all ages. Email Joan Ayre to learn more dayre657@btinternet.com
Plashet Park Bowling Club
Joan Ayre, Club Secretary and Member for twenty-six years – “I don’t go in for competitions anymore because I’ve won them all.”
Ted King – “I started playing bowls when I was sixty-one and I was eighty-seven on Sunday. I love bowls because it’s out in the open and this is a real friendly Club, that’s what I like about it. When the Asian chaps wanted to join, we was a bit amazed at first but we’ve accepted them and they’ve become really good members.”
Peter Chilkes -“I’ve been playing bowls for forty years, ever since I got injured playing football. And, in 1974, I was rhythm guitarist in Mike Berry & The Outlaws and our hit “Jumping Jeremiah” went to forty in the chart.”
Lilian Lucas
Barry Menzies – “Eight years, I’ve been a member of the Club. I learnt to play at the bus depot ten years ago when I was working on the busses.”
Margaret Springford , member since 1985 – “I love the social life and the camaraderie!”
Nobby Ayre – “I am the second oldest member at eighty-five”
Dot Mardle – “I only started bowling when my husband died. I’ve been a member for eighteen years and it’s been good because it opens up your life. You don’t do anything with your life if you don’t play bowls.”
Alf Goring
George Gale – “I’m eighty-two and I’ve been playing bowls for eighteen years, I love it. I need my exercise because I’ve had a lot of accidents.”
Betty Ayrton
Frank Adams
Hazel Clarke
Les Langford – “I’m retired and it gets me out of the house.”
Bashir Patel (known as “Bash”) – I only started playing bowls when I joined the club in 2010, though I was always keen on sports from volleyball, basketball, cricket and athletics when I was young.”
Moosa Patel
Patrick Hickey
Cliff Dye, President & Captain
Members of Plashet Park Bowling Club – (Click photo to enlarge)
Photographs copyright © Colin O’Brien
Delwar Hussain, Writer & Anthropologist
Delwar Hussain in Puma Court
This is Delwar Hussain in his long attic room at the very top of the family house in Puma Court where he grew up. Within the shadow of Christ Church, Delwar’s window overlooks the rooftops of the old houses at the heart of Spitalfields. Downstairs, his mother tends to the tiny courtyard garden, while his sister’s children play up and down the stairs but, up here in the quiet, Delwar presides over his own intellectual territory, defined by the enormous crowded bookshelf that fills an entire wall at one end of the room.
Delwar’s perspective is upon borderland, yet not just with the City of London that is visible from his eyrie but across continents to the land of of his family’s origin and the boundary between India and Bangladesh, where Delwar spent two years conducting interviews to write his first book Boundaries Undermined, completed as the culminate of his doctorate at Cambridge University. With its eloquent authoritative prose and generous shrewd sensibility, it is a strong debut – a highly readable book of real stature, introducing an important subject of international significance that was previously unexplored.
Yet the wonder is that Delwar can still inhabit his childhood world in Spitalfields with ease, overseeing his nephews and nieces playing in Puma Court and reconciling this with his intellectual endeavours as Writer, Anthropologist and occasional Correspondent for The Guardian upon Bangladeshi affairs. Thus our conversation was interrupted by a nephew seeking Delwar’s signature upon a note for his teacher, the house cat entering and stretching out upon the floor, and the general hullabaloo of busy family life – all without any disruption to Delwar’s line of thought as he told me his story.
“I was born in the Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel. My grandfather came to this country first, when he was in the Merchant Navy. My father came in the sixties, he worked in the garment trade and my mother joined him in the seventies. When I was born, they were living in one of the big old houses in New Rd and I still have an affection for houses with a step up to the front door because of that. Then we moved here to Puma Court in the late eighties.
The book came out of my Phd thesis looking at borders. I think I am interested in borders because I grew up in Spitalfields where there are so many borders, not just the one with the City but borders of ethnicity and class too. Growing up in a borderland, I’ve always been comfortable crossing boundaries, and I am fascinated by how different kinds of people can live together and form a life together in such places.
So I thought my upbringing was a preparation for going to the border region where India is building a two-and-a-half-thousand mile barbed-wire fence around Bangladesh. I turned up in Boropani, this village in the coal-mining region, where the mines are in India and the miners on the Bangladeshi side. The miners have to pay the border guards and cross the border illegally every day just to go to work. I wrote about these people and how their lives are there.
Yet Spitalfields did not prepare me for what I found. It is is one of the most dangerous border regions of the world – one of the most violent places I’ve been, comparable to the East End in the nineteenth century – where killings are a regular occurrence but where somehow people carry on their lives. The nature of work is changing there, people who were once peasant farmers have lost their land to soil erosion and their homes to floods. The circumstances reflected issues of globalisation – climate change destroying land and people forced to work in Indian coal mines that are supplying China with power for industry.
After two years, I came back with a large collection of notebooks of my interviews, and sat in a library in Cambridge writing them up – conveniently directly connected to Spitalfields by rail through Liverpool St Station. I did a degree in Anthropology at Goldsmith’s College first before going up to Cambridge University and I was always aware that I was privileged to be there. My mother doesn’t speak English and, when I was a child, we used to ask neighbours to help us out filling in forms. It was only at Cambridge that I was told I came from a deprived background and I actually believed it, until I turned up in this village on the India/Bangladesh border, then I realised what deprivation and poverty means.”
At this moment of the publication of his first book, I asked Delwar whether he considers himself more of an Anthropologist or a Writer. “Often Anthropologists are more interested in theories and arguing about those, rather than the people they claim to be interested in,” he assured me with a significant frown, “whereas Writers tend to be more interested in people than the theories.” If I had not guessed it already, it was ample confirmation of where Delwar’s sympathy lies.
Delwar’s grandfather, Haji Mofiz Ali
Delwar’s father, Haji Abdul Jallil
Family portrait at a studio in Vallance Rd, 1980. From left to right – Arful Nessa (mother), Haji Abdul Jalil (father), Hafsa Begum (sister), Rahana Begum (sister), Faruk Miah (cousin), Shiraz Miah (cousin) and Delwar Hussain.
Delwar Hussain
Portraits of Delwar Hussain copyright © Lucinda Douglas-Menzies
Click here to order a copy of BOUNDARIES UNDERMINED by Delwar Hussain
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Bob Mazzer On The Tube Today
These days, visionary photographer Bob Mazzer no longer works in a porn cinema in Kings Cross and has moved out to Hastings, but he still takes pictures on the tube whenever he gets the chance. “I love taking photographs of people on the tube,” he admitted to me, “I say to them, ‘You look fantastic, can I take your picture?’ and they say, ‘Yes.'”
Photographs copyright © Bob Mazzer
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More Bob Mazzer On The Tube
“In all my time taking pictures on the tube, only one person ever objected, ” revealed photographer Bob Mazzer, “and that was a guy with a huge teddy bear on his lap, which was a pity because it would have been a great picture.”
“I think if you love people, they respond to that and find it perfectly natural to be photographed,” he confessed to me.” I feel compelled to take photographs on the tube now, and I can’t travel without a camera because I can’t bear the thought I might miss something.”
Photographs copyright © Bob Mazzer
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Bob Mazzer On The Tube
“There’s definitely a link between being born in Aldgate and taking all these pictures on the tube,” admitted photographer Bob Mazzer, “You don’t think you are starting a project, but one day you look back over your recent pictures and there are a dozen connected images, and you realise it is the beginning of a project – and then you fall in love with it.”
“For a while in the eighties, I lived with my father in Manor House and worked as a projectionist at a porn cinema in Kings Cross. It was called The Office Cinema, so guys could call their wives and say, ‘I’m still at the office.'” recalled Bob affectionately, “Every day, I travelled to Kings Cross and back. Coming home late at night, it was like a party and I felt the tube was mine and I was there to take pictures.”
Photographs copyright © Bob Mazzer
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