The Golden Heart, 1986
Here, as promised, is Mike Myers’ pub profile of The Golden Heart in Commercial St, opposite the market, from “Spitalfields News”as originally published in February 1986:
“Den and Sandra Esqulant have run The Golden Heart for seven years. During that time Spitalfields has changed quite a bit and the pub has altered accordingly. Out went the public bar with its pool table, dart board and large colour TV. In came the Spitals Wine Bar with waitress service, a “very high standard of food, good wine” (no bottles of Hirondelle suspended over fibre optics here), and a wicker fan from the Kings Rd. They were the first to open a wine bar in Spitalfields and the first to serve a Beaujolais Nouveau breakfast last November – an event covered by the local press.
The Golden Heart is a chameleon-like pub with its character changing with each session. It opens at six in the morning and is soon full of bustling market men and Spanish lorry drivers, who apparently prefer coffee to beer. A typical market pub in fact. Lunchtime sees the pub filling up with chartered accountants and in the evening the pub is used mainly by local residents. So it could be a metaphor for the whole of Spitalfields – that is if you’ve drunk enough Beaujolais Nouveau and are feeling suitably pretentious.
The saloon bar has black flocked wallpaper, table tops in metal, red carpets, gilt framed mirrors and a “real” gas fire. Like any other Trumanized pub in fact. The only exceptional thing about it are the signs above the toilets – “Dames” and “Hommes” they read, instead of Ladies and Gents. Was this a concession to the Common Market? I asked Sandra, who has dark hair and eyes, and bears a striking resemblance to the barmaid in Eastenders. “No,” she said, “We have an old French name, so I wanted to add a bit of France to the bar.”
Had she any plans for the future? “Yes, lots but I’m not going to tell you anything,” she replied brusquely, pouring another glass of wine as if to mollify her refusal to reveal anything further. “You should see it in a few months though,” she added. Do they get any prostitutes in the pub? “No, never, they are not allowed to come in. We’d rather have an empty pub. I like to keep a high standard. A pub should be an extension of your home.”
Both Den and Sandra are attached to Spitalfields. “We love the people, the market, the area, it has lots of character and everyone is very neighbourly.” Den and Sandra are a friendly couple and it is their presence that turns the pub from an ordinary Truman’s pub, wine bar notwithstanding, into a jolly sort of place to have a drink in…”
When I met Mike Myers, the Spitalfields crooner, who edited the “Spitalfields News” for two years in the eighties, we searched in vain through his personal archive to find this article. Mike thought he probably gave his only copy to Sandra in 1986, but thanks to the Local History Collection at the Bancroft Library you can read it today. Once I opened the copy of “Spitalfields News,” there was Sandra prominent on page three.
Although the picture is feint and grainy, there is no doubt Dennis and Sandra make a happy couple and I think Sandra looks pretty good, fashion-forward in an eighties mode with her Princess Diana style ruffle collar. Not yet the Queen of Spitalfields we know today, but already a princess in waiting. She seems to have shown Mike a little bit of attitude when he went to interview her early in 1986, but we all mellow with time, and neither she nor Mike knew that he would become a regular, still coming back for a pint a quarter of a century later.
Reading the feature now, I am struck by the novelty of European things. The United Kingdom joined the European Union in 1973 and wine bars were all the rage throughout the eighties as drinking wine became a more sophisticated alternative to an honest pint. No doubt Sandra is relieved not to open at six in the morning anymore, though she still retains an early licence. We shall not grieve for the flock wallpaper either. The French signs on the toilet doors remain, as does the “real” gas fire where Sandra’s dog Molly sleeps most nights, and The Golden Heart does feel like a private home. Back then, people were already talking about Spitalfields “changing quite a bit” just as they do today, though regrettable prostitution is still part of our neighbourhood.
Yesterday, I dropped into The Golden Heart around five o’ clock when Sandra was busy serving pints to the thirsty office workers. Once there was an opportunity, I handed her a photocopy of the story, unfolding it onto the counter and, amid the clamour of the Public Bar, she read it through to herself with her hand upon her cheek in quiet concentration. Sandra remembered the moment when the picture was taken and placed her fingers affectionately upon the image of Dennis,who died last year, “He never changed” she said, “I still have that sweater, I always bought him intarsia cashmere sweaters from Ballantynes.” I asked Sandra about her old French surname, mentioned in the article, and she confirmed that she understands Esquilant is of Huguenot origin.
I had not realised that The Golden Heart was the first pub in London to host a Beaujolais Nouveau breakfast, “We used to have two chefs and Edith Piaf blazing until five in the morning, and all the directors of Trumans got drunk and collapsed in the brewery,” she recalled with pride. Reconsidering her comment about the prostitutes, Sandra told me candidly, “We used to be friends and I protected them when they needed it.”
I think it was a cushy job Mike had going round writing pub profiles and now that most of the ones he wrote about have closed it has become an important social record. Maybe I can follow his example, writing pub profiles for “Spitalfields Life”? There are plenty of bars left in the neighbourhood for me to work my way around.
Graffiti at Arnold Circus
Since I wrote about the historic graffiti on St Paul’s Cathedral last year, I have been searching for some closer to home and this week I got a tip-off to look on the Boundary Estate. So I took my umbrella and walked through the rain up to Arnold Circus to investigate. I love these tall red brick buildings constructed in 1902 around the circular raised park, which is shortly to be restored under the supervision of the Friends of Arnold Circus. There is something warm and humane about their vernacular style, with steep pitched roofs that recall Norman tithe barns and their intricate layout which feels like the plan of an ancient castle or medieval city.
From the Circus, I walked down Navarre St and on the right came to Wargrave House, which is currently being renovated and is covered in scaffolding. This was where I was told to look. The first I noticed was G.GOLDSTEIN 1950 AGED 12 and I halted in surprise, although the graffiti had been there sixty years it looked spontaneous and fragile. Immediately I wondered, where is G.Goldstein – now aged 72?
Quickly, more caught my eye, all at child height and some incised deeply into the bricks. As I took out my camera and began snapping, I became aware of two workmen with brushes touching up the bricks, they were a few yards to my right and edging towards me as I was taking my pictures. With a flash of emotion, I thought, is this the last moment to capture these inscriptions before they are erased forever? But once the first workman arrived, I showed him the graffiti and he lit up with delight, bringing his pal over to see the names, written before any of us were born. We shared a reverential moment of silent awe, before the guys reassured me that they were simply tinting some of the bricks to restore the tone of the wall and the inscriptions would not be affected.
So then the three of us set to work, conveniently sheltered from the rain by the scaffolding, the workmen tinting the bricks and me recording the dozens of names on the wall. You can see a few of my pictures below. Some people just left their surname and initial, some their full name, some the date, some the date and time, and a few their date of birth. I was interested by those who had chosen to give the day of the week and exact time, commonly 3:30pm, because I assume they had just come out of Virginia Rd or the Rochelle School. These timed inscriptions serve to pinpoint a single moment, whereas those where the age is given record a time of life and those with the date of birth simply declare “I exist.”
Most are from the nineteen fifties and sixties but the oldest complete inscription I can be sure of is Roy Lyons 3 June 1947, although there are two worn initials from the second decade of the twentieth century for which the final digit of the date is gone, CW 191?
The nature of the names is revealing too, Goldstein and Rosenfeld are Jewish surnames, Kelly and Murphy are Irish, while Bertrand and Lyons suggest French Huguenot origin. The egalitarian mixture of names collected together on the wall in Navarre St now comprises a map of the different cultures of the peoples who have passed through this neighbourhood and of whom little else remains.
I walked all around the building and examined some other streets but although there were signs of worn graffiti, I could find none with the clarity of the names on the Navarre St side of Wargrave House. I am fascinated by the survival of these modest inscriptions, but I do not know if they survived because that street is sheltered from the elements, or if more names were written there because it is the quietest street.
The question I have now is, does anyone know where Richard Mills, R.Rosenfeld, P.Kelly, G.Goldstein, Mark & Sherri Bertrand, Lily Sampson, Roy Lyons, Albert Harris, A.J.A Bedford, A.Silkoff, Peter Keogh, Shirley Wiseman, T.Nile, and C.Jones are today? A reward will be given for anyone who can help me find them, because I think it is time we caught up with these young vandals. I want to confront them with their handiwork of half a century ago and ask them to explain themselves to us.
Goshka Macuga, artist
Today I visited Goshka Macuga at her studio in the Rochelle School overlooking Arnold Circus. I was early and as I stood waiting on the iron fire escape in the snow, I spotted Goshka, who hails from Poland originally, walking towards me taking bold strides through the snowy drifts of the Boundary Estate in a long sheepskin coat and gloves, and sporting a multicoloured Peruvian hat. She gave me a cheery wave, grabbed her mail from the box and sprinted up the stairs to greet me. Once we were inside the former schoolroom, that is now her workplace, we had a cup of tea to warm up while Goshka entertained me with dramatic tales of her Christmas adventures on the island of Stromboli, where she went to peer into the active crater of the volcano at the fountains of molten lava. It sounded pretty exciting to me.
I have known Goshka for years but I am always mesmerised by her intense grey eyes and long auburn hair. With feline grace, she tilts and twists her hands to illustrate her spontaneous thoughts, gesturing with slender fingers to indicate the innumerable ideas and artistic possibilities that are constantly at her fingertips. Goshka draws you in to her world. When she laughs, Goshka’s eyes sparkle and she can give a very convincing self-parodic impression of a Polish witch. Talking of her work, she dazzles you with her notions, projecting them into the air with powerful conviction, and yet you know that behind the curtain of that low-cut fringe there is also a quiet rigorous self-questioning intelligence.
Born in 1915, Goshka’s father was an art supplies dealer in Poland who struggled his whole life to retain self-possession and integrity in the face of the institutionalised humiliations that defined life under Communism. No stranger to questions of politics and art, Goshka came to London in 1989 to do her Foundation Course in Fine Art at the Sir John Cass University opposite the Whitechapel Gallery where her current exhibition “The Nature of the Beast” (including the tapestry of Picasso’s Guernica) runs until 18th April.
Perversely, Goshka says she can be described as an artist or as a curator, and that she refuses to commit to any single medium in her work. So you might ask, what does she do? The answer is that she does plenty. In the case of the Whitechapel project, she originated the idea, borrowed the tapestry, designed the table, edited the film shown in the gallery and arranged the space. Goshka realised that she wanted to create an event that would feed into the ongoing history of the gallery. Knowing that the painting of Guernica was shown there as a political gesture at the time of the Spanish Civil War, Goshka displayed the tapestry of Guernica from the UN Building in New York (covered when Colin Powell made his speech claiming Iraq had chemical weapons as the justification for war), as a means to bridge the gap between these different wars. Equally, installing the round table and providing the space to any groups that chose to use it for debate (as hundreds have), was a means to open up the gallery itself as a democratic forum for public discourse.
The day I visited her studio, Goshka was painting portraits in tea of participants in the recent tea party protests in America against Obama, as preparatory work for a show in Boston where the so-called Tea Party that sparked the War of Independence happened. “I am interested in tea drinking as an act of social protest,” she announced and I was just thinking flippantly that this was the style of protest I could ascribe to, when she reminded me sagely that the history of the relationship between Europe and Asia can also be told through tea. Goshka makes inspiring company because her mind is constantly making lateral connections and you never know what direction the conversation will take next.
In the twenty years it took Goshka to cross the Whitechapel Rd from her first art school to her current exhibition, she studied at Goldsmiths and at St Martins School of Art and worked tenaciously to establish an identity for her own particular vein of work, eventually winning recognition on the art scene that resulted in her nomination for the Turner Prize in 2008. It was a long creative journey to travel a short geographical distance. And it is something of a personal triumph for Goshka that she has been able to communicate her elusive approach, succeeding in an ongoing sequence of high-profile commissions.
Finally, I asked about this old enamel sign in Polish above her desk and she told me it translates as “workplace.” Every factory in Poland had them at one time and she rescued this specimen from an abandoned factory post-Communism and brought it here to Arnold Circus – and though she did not say it, I think it serves as a reminder of the journey. This workplace is Goshka’s present tense where she combines things from the past in new ways to imagine possible futures and I admire Goshka’s extraordinary vitality of mind and passionate curiosity about all the things that humanity creates which, through their stories, tell us who we are.
Mike Myers, The Spitalfields Crooner
From the moment Warren Dent at the Bethnal Green Working Men’s Social Club mentioned Mike Myers, the Spitalfields crooner, I knew I had to meet him and this morning I enjoyed the pleasure of dropping round for a cup of tea with Mike in the warm brightly-lit kitchen of his flat – a cosy eyrie high up in the Spitalfields Market building on Lamb St, where he has lived since 1974.
“I’ve been singing for a few years now…” he told me,“I went in for a contest and I won first prize because I’ve got a good voice.” Word of Mike’s remarkable singing ability has travelled since he won the talent show at “Up the Creek” in Greenwich and now he performs regularly at functions and weddings, becoming the star attraction on New Year’s Eve at the Working Men’s Club over the past seven years. Mike Myers is a class act, taking his inspiration as a performer from singers like Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby and his preferred repertoire of songwriters is Cole Porter, Rodgers & Hart and Irving Berlin, with “That Old Black Magic”,” Night and Day”, “Just One of Those Things” and “Where or When?” as special favourites. “It all goes down well”, he confirms, adding, “I’m hoping to getting an agent now, so I can perform more.”
Mike Myers, the Spitalfields crooner, was the story I was going to bring you today but Mike is a man of many facets and when I told him about “Spitalfields Life”, he produced a stack of filing boxes with copies of “Spitalfields News”, the lively monthly newspaper that he edited for two years in the nineteen eighties. If you examine the photograph above, you can get an idea of the social campaigning stories that he championed and I recognised a kindred spirit in Mike as we spent half an hour poring over the treasured copies on his kitchen table, studying old neighbourhood stories. “You used to work to a deadline,” he recalled affectionately, placing a hand upon the plastic table top,” I remember sitting up all night pasting it together.” Then we tried to find the interview Mike did in the early eighties with Sandra and Dennis Esquilant at The Golden Heart (so I could reprint it for you), and though we searched in vain this morning, if Mike can trace a copy you will read it here.
When Mike moved into his beautiful old flat, unexpectedly quiet and secluded under the eaves of the market, the fruit and vegetable market was still in operation, so he has witnessed a transformation in his immediate surroundings over the intervening years. “A lot of the new buildings are horrible, just functional,” he declares, in pity for the office-workers in their synthetic cubicle workspaces that have replaced the sociable atmosphere enjoyed by the market porters. Time has granted Mike a certain perspective on things and through all his years working as a newspaper editor, driving a cab (until a year ago) and performing as a crooner, he knows our city and its inhabitants better than most.
Today, Mike continues to live confidently at home here in Spitalfields at the centre of his own personal universe. “It still has a village atmosphere – you meet up with people you know in The Golden Heart. It’s a friendly neighbourhood too, which is very important considering where it is right in the middle of the city,” he says. Indeed, Mike is a popular figure among the regulars at The Golden Heart where his portrait hangs in a frame on the wall. “The place where everybody wants to live and where, once upon a time, nobody wanted to live,” he muses wryly, contemplating the absurd changing nature of Spitalfields. Let me admit, I have not yet had the pleasure of hearing Mike Myers sing but I already know he has got soul.
Amy Cooper's handiwork
One afternoon at the end of last week, I walked down the Mile End Rd to the Bancroft Library, where the Local History collection is housed, to see a newly donated collection of Spitalfields silk and lace. The archivist produced a small cardboard chocolate box from the nineteen sixties with a Raeburn portrait of a child on the top. He kindly placed a table beside the window in the dying light and covered it with a piece of grey paper. The he opened the box and unwrapped the precious packages inside wrapped in white tissue paper, arranging them on the table, so that in the last light of day I could photograph them for you.
The first item to catch my eye was this little silk purse with the phrase SPITALFIELDS SCHOOL OF DESIGN 1848 elegantly picked out in gold thread. Not only is the stitching neat and regular, the balance and spacing of the typography is perfect – James Brown and Richard Ardagh would be impressed. This curious item has no wear, it cannot have had any function beyond displaying the accomplishment of its own creation. It fits neatly into the palm of the hand and is exquisite in every detail, the string of golden glass beads looped around the edges, the delicate string handle, the jet button and the oyster blue silk lining.
Next I examined the needlebook below, with embroidery of flowers on both covers, and taking the utmost care I unfastened the ribbons that held it closed. Opening it up, I found a scrap of paper folded in between the pages of needles which tells us the maker. This needlebook was made by Miss Amy Cooper: she was born in 1794 & died in 1891. The script itself had a delicacy and restraint, similar to the handwriting of “No more twist!” pinned on the Lord Mayor’s unfinished waistcoat in The Tailor of Gloucester.
I love the aesthetic, using pale silk and embroidering subtly coloured flowers in natural colours, as fresh as the day they were stitched. The use of different toned threads in the recognisable heather and rose flowers suggests she worked from nature. Every individual stitch is a decision made with the same care you might bring to the selection of vocabulary and arrangement of words in a poem. Fine details, like the sky blue lining, the grey glass beads sewn at intervals around the edge of covers and the use of bordered ribbon upon the spine, draw the eye in to observe the nuances of this lovely artefact. When someone invests as much time and consideration as Amy did here, it deserves our closest examination and rewards us in turn by delighting the eye.
Amy Cooper lived to be ninety-seven, born five years after the French Revolution, she died in the year that automobiles began manufacture. The three sisters who donated the collection, which belonged to their mother Mrs Ann Maitland MacEwen, know nothing of its origins – so we cannot say if Amy made them all or establish what is the connection to the Spitalfields School of Design, which was an early government project to promote design in industry, founded at 37 Crispin St in 1842. Amy would have been fifty-four in 1848, when the purse was made, and I would like to think she made it as an example to show her pupils at the school.
The other two items that complete this modest collection are two girls’ lace caps. The workmanship of these pieces is inconceivably intricate and bears testimony to long hours of patient labour and awe-inspiring skill. I am a keen stitcher myself, I have sewn shirts by hand, I mend my own clothes and you have seen the quilt I made, but I could never begin to approach this level of expertise. I particularly like the smaller one with its beautifully regular ruching, gathered at the crown and the drawstrings at front and back.
Now I have seen my first examples of Spitalfields lace and silk, it has made me curious to find more. This place is famous for the silk thread, cloth and clothing that was made here, and much of the story of Spitalfields can be told through the textile industry. Somewhere in archives there must be wonderful examples, and I have decided that I am going to seek some more of our predecessors’ work to show to you.
So long, Piers Wardle
This drawing by Piers Wardle has been on the wall of my office for more than ten years now. I love the irrepressibly joyful smile of this happy dumpster and it serves as a healthy reminder to me never to take myself too seriously. Significantly, the drawing is made upon a rare piece of lumpy handmade paper made of sheep shit in North Devon. This accounts for the pleasant beige tone of the paper which even has a watermark of a sheep running through it. It is highly characteristic of this clever artist that the dopey cartoon drawing is entirely in contrast with the hidden poetry of this charismatic work.
Piers Wardle, who died unexpectedly over Christmas, was a popular figure in Spitalfields – a participant in the art scene here for the past twenty years, at first as part of Joshua Compston’s Factual Nonsense in Charlotte Rd, including the “Fete Worse Than Death” in Hoxton Sq, and more recently as part of Decima Gallery. Tall and naturally authoritative, with old-fashioned deferential good manners and a disarmingly unsentimental sense of humour, yet equally blessed with a generous kindly spirit, Piers Wardle was an intriguing and attractive man. He cultivated an attitude of amused bewilderment at the absurdity of life and I think of him always primed with some droll unique observation to lighten any moment.
It was in early December, on the day I interviewed John Constable at the Crossbones Cemetery in the Borough, that I last saw him. After the interview, I walked down to visit Piers in his flat in Southwark to borrow a tripod to take the photo of the children outside Leila’s Shop before Christmas. Typically of Piers, he insisted on giving me the tripod as a gift, and instead of just dropping by, I found myself going off to have lunch with him at the local Spanish restaurant. Once we realised we had no money to buy lunch, this became an excuse for a tour around the architectural wonders of the neighbourhood as we searched for a cash machine.
That day he showed me his last artwork. A transparent plastic pin wheel that sat upon the screen of an overhead projector and turned in the heat rising from the light, projecting a revolving image of a star upon the wall. It was elegant in its simplicity, funny and magical too. Although he did not know it, it was a beautiful image to conclude his work as an artist and I am grateful to have last seen Piers then, on an inconsequentially happy day.
We had a nice lunch and, as it was getting dark, we said our goodbyes and I walked back towards Spitalfields, only to discover part of the tripod was missing. It was cold and miserable but in spite of my urge to go straight home, I called Piers and retraced my steps. He buzzed me into the building, I walked up the stairs, he passed me the missing piece of the tripod and with a brief amicable greeting we parted. We were sublimely unaware that after all the years we knew each other, this was the moment when we would never see each other again in this life. In retrospect, the moment is startling for its insignificance and I am glad of it. There is no good way to say goodbye to a friend forever, but there are plenty worse than my farewell to Piers.
Aged 49, Piers died unexpectedly of a brain haemorrhage on 22rd December at his mother’s home at Clyst Hydon in Devon. He will be greatly missed by everyone who knew him, including me.
I took this picture of Piers on my phone in the private bar at The Golden Heart, one summer’s evening in 2008 after a Decima Gallery cowboy event.
Columbia Road Market 18
Last Sunday, I woke early and walked up the road from Spitalfields through the frost to arrive at the market at the usual time, but there was hardly anyone there. Wisely, most of the stallholders had stayed at home and the hardy souls who had arrived were still unpacking. It was cold and it was grim, so I simply returned home and went back to bed. This week, I returned an hour later and the picture was much the same but I resisted walking away because I felt a hunger for some new plant life. So I began searching through the trolleys of plants, stacked up in trays and when I tore away the plastic wrap, I found a tray of these Snake’s Head Lilies or Fritillaria meleagris at the bottom of a trolley. They were four pots for a fiver, so I handed over my cash and bagged the lilies.
I have always been fascinated by these wonderfully strange plants with their spindly stems and exotic chequer board flowers in purple or white. They seem too exotic for England and yet there are places where they grow wild. I was once in Magdalen Meadow for a picnic, the island between tributaries of the river in Oxford that belongs to Magdalen College, and the entire meadow was full of Snake’s Head Lilies in flower. Having struggled to grow them in the past from bulbs, I was relieved to read Christopher Lloyd writing about the difficulties of cultivating them in “A Year at Great Dixter”. However, buying them in pots and then transplanting them is an effective subterfuge, and that is what I shall do with these – once I have enjoyed them indoors in this Honiton Pottery bowl of my grandmother’s and when the thaw has come.
On the way home, I passed Gilbert & George in the Bethnal Green Rd, on their way to E.Pellicci for breakfast. They were all wrapped up against the cold in magnificently tailored full-length tweed coats and mufflers. George wore a flat cap and Gilbert had a pair of ear muffs. With my first discovery at Columbia Rd and my first sighting of G&G, I feel that the New Year has now begun in Spitalfields.
