C.A.Mathew At Sandys Row Synagogue
Please come along and raise a glass next Thursday 20th September at 6:30pm to celebrate the first exhibition of the pictures by the enigmatic photographer C.A.MATHEW, taken in the streets of Spitalfields in 1912.
The photographs from the Bishopsgate Collection are being exhibited at Sandys Row and this is an ideal opportunity to visit London’s oldest Ashkenazi Synagogue – occupying a building which has existed as a place of worship for two hundred and fifty years, first built as a Huguenot Chapel in 1766.
Additionally, making a rare public appearance, the distinguished poet of the East End, Bernard Kops, will read a poem he has written for the occasion.
Sandys Row looking from the northern end – note the horse and cart approaching.
Sandys Row looking from the southern end with Frying Pan Alley on the right.
Widegate St looking towards Sandys Row.
Bernard Kops
C.A.Mathew photographs courtesy Bishopsgate Institute
Bernard Kops portrait copyright © Lucinda Douglas-Menzies
Invitation designed by James Brown
You may also like to read more about
and
In the Footsteps of C.A.Mathew
and my profile of
Saeed Malik, Shoe Seller
At Bina Shoes
May I introduce Saeed Malik, the suave shoe seller of Wentworth St? If you are looking for something dainty and strappy to enhance your twinkletoes, then Saeed at Bina Shoes is your man. Sandwiched between the shops run by the African ladies that sell the ‘Wax’ fabric, Saeed can sell you the glamorous shoes and bags in multiple colours and metallic finishes to match these kaleidoscopic textiles.
You might think that Saeed set up shop to complement the famous fabric shops, but Bina Shoes predates them all. When Saeed came here with his father, they were among the first Asians to open a stall. Theirs was just across the road from the current premises.
Wentworth St was exclusively Jewish businesses at that time, yet Saeed saw them all depart in the intervening years. Working in the shoe trade for four decades, he has witnessed an extraordinary growth in his own family business and experienced the roller-coaster of the commercial world of at first hand too.
“My dad had a shoe stall on the corner of Old Castle St in the seventies and it was the biggest stall here, and it was jam-packed with people buying. He was one of the first Asians and he had to put up with a lot of discrimination from the Jewish guys for selling on their territory. My father came over from Pakistan in 1961 but, instead of living within the Asian community, he found a place in Romford and we were the only Asians there. I was born in 1960, number five of seven children, and we came from Pakistan to join him in Romford in 1965.
I joined the infant school, it wasn’t that bad. We got through it. When you are in the playground things could be difficult, but with my elder brother there I never had any problems. Romford was a safe place, it was the East End that was dangerous for us. There were punch-ups and scuffles in this area but my father always stood up for himself.
He started off working for someone else and then he had his own stall in Romford Market. My uncle worked for a man who sold shoes, so he said, ‘Why don’t you do that?’ Romford was a busy market then and, as we lived there, moving the stock around wasn’t a problem. In those days a lot of people didn’t drive, but when I was sixteen my dad got an Anglia and he did Romford Market on Wednesdays, Thursdays and Fridays, and came here to Wentworth St to sell on Sundays. It was difficult to get a licence but he got one in 1976 when another guy gave it up.
In 1978, we founded Bina Shoes. These were the days of platform shoes and we couldn’t sell them quick enough. It was a young people’s fashion, every teenage girl wanted it. They all wanted to look like rock stars and they could get it from the market at affordable prices. The business was growing and we started importing shoes from Italy.
I had always helped out on the stall since I was twelve. It was a family thing, and everyone was involved and we loved what we were doing. The stall was a great outlet and soon we had two stalls, and we opened a warehouse in the Bethnal Green Rd where we stored stock from our Italian suppliers and sold wholesale. It was just across the road from the corner of Brick Lane where the National Front sold their newspapers on Sundays, but fortunately we weren’t around then.
We got this shop in Wentworth St in 1983 and moved our stock to a larger warehouse in Shoreditch High St. Those were good days, when supply could not meet demand. People were happy, they had money and they enjoyed it. You had easy parking round here then and the area was thriving. If you couldn’t afford a shop, you could get a stall in the market and you’d go home with only half the stock that you brought.
In the nineties, we used to go regularly to Italy and visit the factories, creating our own designs. It was part of the job, and when I was thirty-four I took over the business. We always sold everything we made then. We were a family business and we could easily relate to the Italian factories which were also family run. But eventually, we had to get out of the wholesale business because we couldn’t get companies to pay us for their orders. And the alarm would go off at two in the morning because somebody had broken in to the warehouse. I got sick of it. One day, I went to work after the Bank Holiday, and they had cut a great big hole in the roof and taken all the boxes of our stock out through it. ‘That’s enough,’ I thought. It hurts when you put your your heart and soul into something, and it gets taken away from you. We sold the warehouse in 2004. If we’d started ten years later, we wouldn’t have been so adventurous.”
Today, Saeed has three sons aged seven, eight and nine that are the delight of his existence, and he commutes each day from his home in Hornchurch to his single premises in Wentworth St, when once Bina Shoes had four shops. Yet although the glory days of shoe-selling in the eighties are over and he no longer enjoys extended trips to Milan, Saeed is comfortable with this more modest endeavour. In spite of the set-backs, the business has travelled a long way from its origins as a single stall in Romford Market. Now Saeed just wants to sell the two floors of shoes that he has filling the building above his shop. So maybe you can give him a hand with that? If you are looking for fancy Italian shoes at a keen price in Spitalfields, Bina Shoes is the place to look.
Saeed at school.
The shoe stall in Romford Market in the seventies.
Saeed at twenty in Milan.
Bina Shoes stand at a trade fair in Earls Court in the seventies.
Saeed at thirty in 1990.
Saeed at Bina Shoes today.
Saeed has two floors of stockrooms above his shop.
Bina Shoes, 27 Wentworth Street, London, E1 7TB
You may also like to read these other stories of Petticoat Lane
The Wax Sellers of Wentworth St
Miriam Lantsbury, Headway East
Miriam Lantsbury has such an open and direct manner that you might imagine she has always known what she was going to do in life. Yet she had no plan, even if she is blessed with a clear personal sense of what is important to her and the moral courage to implement her ideas, whether they conform to accepted wisdom or not.
Without access to higher education, but possessing a sharp intelligence and talent for working with people, Miriam steered a path through the maze of the health service to become a quiet iconoclast, creating Headway East – a creative environment unlike any conventional clinic where survivors of brain injuries can engage in community life and rediscover their self-esteem.
Around twenty to thirty people participate in the activities each day at the centre beside the Regent’s Canal, the only one of its kind in the East End. It is a sympathetic place which permits the opportunity for members of this particular community to find their new selves in the aftermath of the life-changing experiences they have suffered, and to re-balance.
When you arrive at the day centre, you encounter people involved in all kinds of tasks and it is unclear at first who is who, or who is in charge. Yet a relaxed purposeful atmosphere prevails. And this is exactly how Miriam wants it – how she set it up and how Headway East is distinct from other such endeavours across the country. Drawing upon her experiences as a nurse in a hospital where the very structure of its organisation prevented her from treating those in need of support with the care and respect she believed they deserved, Miriam set out to reconfigure the relationships and the nature of the care, and create something more humane.
“I was born in Hackney and grew up in Wanstead. I come from a family where going to university was never considered as an option and, when I left school at seventeen, I didn’t know what I wanted to do. Our careers education was non-existent, but I met someone who was training to be a physiotherapist and I was fascinated by what she was doing. So I thought the best thing would be to get a job at a hospital and I wrote to the Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel. They asked me to an interview and said, ‘We’ll offer you a job as an auxiliary nurse,’ and within six months the ward sister and the nursing officer told me that I ought to train and become a nurse. It was never a decision. I found it interesting but I didn’t want to stay in the health service. The frustrations of the nursing profession were that you just had to do what you were told, which was no problem as far as I was concerned, but you might be in the middle of bathing an old person who was naked under a bed sheet and when they’d say, ‘Go for your coffee break now,’ you’d be expected to go – and that drove me mad.
I qualified and trained and became a Mildmay nurse, I’m a christian and it was still a christian mission then. I did my first six months there and the rest of my training at the Royal London, Mile End, St Clements and Great Ormond St. But then I got married at twenty-two and had three children and in between I did some community nursing in the evenings. I would go all over Tower Hamlets including Spitalfields. In those days, they would let you go out on your own. I was accosted on a few occasions. Then I did all kinds of jobs while my kids were growing up, book-keeping (because I’ve a bit of a head for figures), working in a playgroup, some nursing and being a receptionist at a doctor’s surgery. When my youngest went to school, I looked for something more permanent and that’s when I joined the Community Health Council as a complaints officer.
My husband saw an advert in the Guardian for someone to set up a Headway house in East London for people with brain injuries. It was just two and a half days. I went along to an interview at a day centre in Homerton and I was interviewed by five people including a psychologist and a neurologist, and it was a very hot day. They offered me the job, and I was presented with a room with nothing in it and a brief to set up a day centre. Most people with brain injuries were in hospital for two years receiving intensive support, but then they went down hill once they were released because social services knew nothing about it. So all the expensive care they had received was wasted and neurologists were seeing people decline after rehabilitation. Twenty-four-year-olds with brain injuries were sent to old people’s day centres because there was no specialist provision in East London.
No-one was there to meet me when I started work, I had to work it out for myself. I rang up the chairman and said, ‘Do you think I should come and see you?’ Then I went to visit some other Headway groups and started to learn about them for myself. I came up with a plan that included what activities we would do, how to run it day to day, how to recruit volunteers and how to get funding. We are a completely separate charity from the national umbrella group.
And now this has become a community. When I first started, I based it on what I knew and I’ve always had a lot of people around at my home, so I treated this the same way. It’s user-led because it was the most natural thing to ask people what they want to do, even if they don’t always answer. We work as co-producers here, which means that everybody participates in some way in whatever we do. What’s important is that when you arrive, it’s not obvious who is who. It’s not just about what the professionals do for the members. We have loads of activities going on which people are encouraged to join and the secret is developing activities that people want to do. There’s no point if nobody’s interested, and so you have to be continuously rethinking what you do. You can’t ever say, ‘We’ve arrived, this is how we do it.’ It doesn’t work like that.
People with brain injuries deserve our respect, but we are also interested in what they have to offer. Like the members do the cooking and I eat the food! They have experience of a life-changing event that they can pass on. It’s about treating people as I would like to be treated if I had a brain injury, not patronised but encouraged to figure out how to create a positive future. It’s fifteen years since I started this. I deliberately did not employ health service professionals because they have too many preconceptions. We have an ex-agricultural researcher, an ex-park ranger, an artist, a psychologist, and an ex-receptionist working here. All I did was employ the staff.”
Miriam on the roof of the Mildmay Hospital while training to be a nurse in spring 1979.
Miriam (right) with the very first person to come to participate at Headway East in 1997.
Miriam Lantsbury, CEO and founder of Headway East – “All I did was employ the staff.”
You may also like to read about
More Victorian Tradesmen Scraps
Here is another set of scraps I have acquired in my ever-growing collection of Cries of London and popular images of tradesmen. With their gaudy chromo-lithographic hues, these lively pictures celebrate the industry of their subjects, expressed in both the exertion and the absorption of their labour. I cannot resist the feeling that the artist who designed this handsome set proudly accented it towards his own trade by including portraits of the lithographic artist and the colour printer – thereby illustrating the means of production of these scraps.
You may also like to take a look at my other scraps
Lennie Sanders, Cab Driver
If you are around Arnold Circus on a Sunday morning, you may very likely see Lennie Sanders upon his regular pilgrimage, coming on the 67 bus from Stamford Hill to sit upon the first bench on the left beneath the bandstand, the one donated by the Cambridge & Bethnal Green Boys’ Club. He was born ninety years ago in Padbury Court nearby, close to where his wife Annie grew up on the Boundary Estate, and, when they first married, they lived in Cookham Buildings where their son Roy was born. Lennie confided to me that it consoles him – now that Annie and Roy are no longer alive – to return to Arnold Circus on Sunday and sit in quiet contemplation of those years which brought him so much happiness.
“My mother was a very religious woman and she used to bring her friends back from church for sandwiches on a Sunday evening,” Lennie informed me, introducing his story, “But my father was quite the opposite, he used to come home when the pub shut on Sunday night and say, ‘You lot, out!”
As we walked over to Padbury Court (known as Princes Court when Lennie was growing up as the youngest of nine) he paused constantly to point out all the things that existed for him but which were no longer there. “I used to know everybody but now I am a foreigner here,” he declared to me, breaking from his reverie,“Everyone I knew has moved to Stamford Hill.”
“I’m always happy when I’m here, because I feel as if I am back home.” Lennie continued, regaining his absorption as we turned the corner from Brick Lane into Padbury Court, halting for a moment of devotion at the site of the terrace on the north side where he grew up, demolished half a century ago. Further along, where the road becomes Gibraltar Walk, and passing the old furniture workshops, we came to the junction with the Bethnal Green Rd where the event took place which Lennie considers to be the turning point in his childhood.
“We were skylarking at the water fountain and someone pushed me and my arm went underneath me and broke. They carried me to the Mildmay Mission who said they couldn’t do anything, so my father took me in a taxi to the Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel, where they were going to cut it off,” Lennie related, rolling his eyes for effect and twisting his arm to demonstrate what happened, “but my father asked his governor, Mr Jackson at the compositing works,”They’re talking about cutting my son’s arm off!” And Mr Jackson sent his surgeon, he said, ‘He’ll patch it up.'”
“To be honest, I never knew my mother because she died when I was eight,” Lennie revealed with a shrug – moving on unexpectedly – and outlining the lengthy rehabilitation that preoccupied his attention in those years. A process compounded by the subsequent discovery that the accident had affected his hearing, which kept Nennie out of school for four years. “When my mother died, my father had a bad heart attack and couldn’t work no more,” Lennie added under his breath, amplifying the nature of the circumstances and lowering his eyelids in regret.
Then, one night in 1932, everything changed for Lennie when met his pal, Willy Greenhough, in the street and he said, “Where are you going? There’s this Jewish boys’ club, but they don’t bar anyone so we could go along there and get some cocoa.” It was a highly significant cup of cocoa because it led to membership of the Cambridge & Bethnal Green Boys’ Club and a circle of friendships that Lennie enjoys to this very day. “The only reason they dropped the word ‘Jewish’ from the name was because Mosley and his fellows used to come along and smash their windows – so they took it off,” Lennie explained wryly before asserting gravely, “The Jew and the Gentile were always very close in Bethnal Green.”
As it turned out, Lennie’s rehabilitation encouraged a love of sport and very soon he was leading the boys of the club in nightly runs down to Trafalgar Sq and back. “If they wasn’t very fit, I would let them wait at St Paul’s and join us again on the way back,” he confessed with an indulgent grin, “I was always a very fit boy.” Leaving school, Lennie went to work as one of more than a hundred Western Union messenger boys based in Great Winchester St in the City of London, which further exercised his athletic ability. “Mostly we delivered round the Stock Exchange, but sometimes we had to cycle to Shepherd’s Bush,” he recalled gleefully. In fact, Lennie played football and cricket at professional level for Clapton Orient, the club that became Leyton Orient. “My doctor kept going on about having my arm straightened, but I refused – I never made it a handicap.” he confirmed.
Much to Lennie’s regret, his poor hearing prevented him joining the Navy when the War came along and so, unable to enlist, he worked as glazier and then in demolition upon bomb sites, staying in London throughout the blitz. Memorably, he took his wife-to-be Annie Hiller up to the West End to see a film only to return to Shoreditch to discover an unexploded bomb was stuck in the chimney of the wash house on the Boundary Estate. “Annie couldn’t go home, so I took her back to Princes Court to meet my father for the first time,” Lennie confessed. In 1942, they were married and moved into Cookham Buildings where their son Roy was born two years later.
“I started cab-driving in 1946. My brother-in-law said ‘You already have the Knowledge from when you were a messenger boy.’ When I began, the cab was open, so you had to wear a hat and a big coat in winter. I did it for fifty-five years until I retired in 2000.” Lennie told me. It was in 1951, when Roy was ten, that the family moved to a two bedroom flat in Stamford Hill, where Lennie lives alone today yet where seventy people attended his recent ninetieth birthday party.
All this time, Lennie cradled a bag of two cheese beigels which he bought that morning in Brick Lane. Completing his story, he revealed that an old friend had recognised him in the crowd and called out to him, a recurring event on these Sunday visits to the market. “I get off the bus at Shoreditch High St, and I walk through Brick Lane and then back up towards Bethnal Green, and I go down my street, Padbury Court,” he recounted – as much to himself as to me – recapping our journey that morning. We shook hands at the top of Brick Lane before he went to catch the 67 bus for his return journey. “I’ll be alright, I’ll take it slowly,” Lennie reassured me, taking one last affectionate look around, “I’ll go home and eat my beigels.”
Lennie Sanders
Lennie’s father Basil (he called himself George) with his dog Nobby in the garden of 7 Padbury Court.
Lennie’s mother Ellen wore an apron of sacking but put on a white one for this picture.
The north side of Padbury Court (known as Princes Court then) where Lennie was born in 1922.
Lennie visits Padbury Court today – the northern side was demolished over fifty years ago.
Lennie was the youngest, here aged four in 1926 photographed with (clockwise) Bunny, Eddie, George & Jess in the back garden of 7 Princes Court.
The family in 1928, Lennie stands at the centre aged six.
Lennie (in the white shirt) camping with the Cambridge & Bethnal Green Boys’ Club, 1936.
Lenny is number 87 in the club cross-country team.
Lennie at Cookham Buildings where he lived when he was first married and his son Roy was born.
Lennie and Annie with their son Roy in 1944.
Lennie Sanders, Cab Driver
Read my other Cambridge & Bethnal Green Boys Club Stories
Maxie Lea MBE, Football Referee
At the Cambridge & Bethnal Green Boys Club 86th Annual Reunion
John Claridge’s Cafe Society
Commercial Cafe, Commercial Rd 1965
“This was one of those places you could just pop in from the cold and warm up,” photographer John Claridge recalled affectionately while contemplating this beloved cafe of yesteryear, “I love the front of it – it was just beautiful, especially the typography. The window above the curtain used to get all steamed up. It was very welcoming, you know, and it was was gorgeous to come in and have a nice cup of tea.”
In this set of photographs, published here for the first time, John shows us his collection of cherished East End cafes, accompanied by some random portraits of people that you might expect to meet in them. “Everywhere you went, you would find a cafe where you could go in and get a bacon sarnie and a cup of tea,” he told me ,“they were not fancy restaurants but you could always rely on getting a cuppa and a sandwich.” In John’s youth, the East End was full of independently-run cafes where everyone could afford to eat, and his pictures celebrate these egalitarian and homely places that were once centres for the life of the community.
“You don’t have to build things up, you just show people the beauty of what is.” John assured me, neatly encapsulating his modest aesthetic which suits these subjects so well.
Pepsi, Narrow St 1963 – “I just love these graphics, and when you see it you hope it’s not going to go.”
Boxing managers at Terry Lawless’ Gym, E16 1969.
Windsor Cafe, 1982.
Windsor Cafe, 1982 – “As I walked past the Windsor Cafe, I looked back and saw ‘Snack Bar or Cafe.’ Genius!”
The Wall, 1961 – “We were all seventeen. At weekends we’d go down Southend. Peter on the left, his sister was going out with Georgie Fame.”
7Up, Spitalfields 1967.
Michael Ferrier, Breaker’s Yard, E16 1975 – “He looks like the artful dodger.”
Alfie Ferrier, Breaker’s Yard, E16 1975 – “Michael’s father was sitting inside the hut with his little wood-burner, where he had his cup of tea and a cigarette.”
Victory Cafe, Hackney Rd 1963 – “This was very early, they’d just delivered the sack of potatoes.”
Ted, Cheshire St 1967 – “This made me laugh, it’s his wardrobe in the background hanging there. It’s as if he’s about to burst into song or something!”
Scrap, Brick Lane 1966.
78b, Spitalfields 1967 – “You remember the lady in the kiosk? This is her with her friend.”
Spitalfields 1963 – “Just a chap standing with his eyes closed. He looked content and I didn’t want to disturb him.”
Father Bill Shergold, founder of 59 Club, at Southend – “I met him at the 59 Club to say hello. And someone wanted me to do a portrait for a charity thing, so I said, ‘Absolutely, we’ll get him down to Southend.'”
Cafe under a railway arch, E1 1968.
Isle of Dogs, 1970s – “This couple with the four kids lived in that tiny caravan. I did this picture for a charity to make people aware of poor living conditions.”
Hot Pies, E2 1982 – “It makes you think twice whether you would eat one of their hot pies.”
Under the Light, Puma Court, Spitalfields 1970 – “Two of my ex-brother-in-laws with Santi, a Spaniard who became a squash champion – we were on the way to the pub. Keith was working at the Truman Brewery in Brick Lane at the time and I had a studio in the City, so I said, ‘I’ll meet you after work for a drink.'”
Dog, Wapping – “This was taken for anti-litter campaign and the headline was ‘You foul the pavement more than he does.'”
Photographs copyright © John Claridge
You may also like to take a look at
Along the Thames with John Claridge
At the Salvation Army with John Claridge
A Few Diversions by John Claridge
Signs, Posters, Typography & Graphics
Views from a Dinghy by John Claridge
In Another World with John Claridge
A Few Pints with John Claridge
Rob Ryan at Charleston Farmhouse
Throughout my childhood there were a pair of Staffordshire dogs on the window sill at the the top of the stairs which impressed themselves upon my consciousness. They had been the property of the “lost” grandparents on my father’s side of the family who died before I was born yet – somehow – these dogs still manifested their presence, possessing a melancholy aura as if they contained the dispossessed souls of the dead.
Since then, I have been fascinated by Staffordshire figures as inscrutable embodiments of household spirits and I am spellbound by the recent work of Rob Ryan (the papercut supremo of Bethnal Green) – painting new designs upon Staffordshire figures cast from old moulds and giving expression to the latent emotional presence of these ubiquitous vernacular sculptures. An attractive selection of these pieces is currently on display alongside his papercuts and tiles at Charleston Farmhouse, the former home of Vanessa Bell and Duncan Grant near Lewes in Sussex, until Sunday 28th October.
Inspired by the colour palette and spontaneous gestures of the Omega Workshops, Rob applied his designs freely with a paint brush upon ceramic blanks to create gloriously idiosyncratic pairs of Staffordshire dogs which are entirely at home at Charleston, imbuing them with a lively painterly quality and a playful spirit in sympathy with the collective visual style we associate with Bloomsbury. But, more than this, Rob has inscribed his figures with texts of vivid sentiment, addressing experiences of loss, loneliness, ageing and death – which, upon close examination, transform these Staffordshire dogs into sentinels of mortality, emphasising the fragility of such familiar ceramics that have occupied many households through generations as insentient witnesses of the passing of human life.
Rob first encountered the creations of the Omega Workshops in the early eighties as an art student from Trent Polytechnic on a day trip to London. “What I saw with my own eyes was all I needed to know. Amongst that (quite crudely) painted and decorated furniture, screens and ceramics was a joy in making that I just didn’t see in the contemporary art of the eighties that surrounded me.” he admitted. So, by exhibiting his pieces at Charleston, Rob has completed the circle by making homage to these early inspirations.
The modestly proportioned timber-framed barn at Charleston provides an elegant setting for Rob’s intricate works and, during this Indian Summer, it makes a pleasurable excursion to visit his exhibition and wander in the gardens with their magnificent displays of September colours, as I did last week.
The pair of Staffordshire dogs that Rob Ryan made for Spitalfields Life.
Ceramics copyright © Rob Ryan
Rob Ryan’s exhibition runs at Charleston until 28th October.
You may also like to read
