Happy Birthday, Edward Bawden!
Edward Bawden, the artist who made the famous linocut of Liverpool St Station that I featured last year, would have been one hundred and seven years old last week, and curator Bridie Hall made these cakes to celebrate the opening of the small retrospective exhibition in his honour at Ben Pentreath‘s tiny gallery in Rugby St off Lambs Conduit St, that runs until Saturday 20th March. Bridie is pictured here with Neil Jennings of Jennings Fine Art, co-presenter of this appealing show that has an intriguing variety of prints, paintings, books, posters and ceramics by Edward Bawden, Eric Ravilious and their contemporaries.
I often stop off in Rugby St when I am walking back to Spitalfields from the West End and I am always charmed by the unlikely collection of things you can find here, from antique mochaware, old enamel teapots and exquisite pieces of coral, to plastercasts, fine woodcuts and Pollocks Toy Theatre prints. With great imagination, Bridie turned the whole place into a Cabinet of Curiosities last Christmas and now to discover Edward Bawden’s works hung cheek by jowl among all the other stock creates a fascinating and sympathetic mixture.
The birthday party became a bun fight as hordes of enthusiasts descended upon the gallery to raise a glass of champagne and a slice of cake to toast Edward Bawden, and there was plenty to celebrate because his reputation has been steadily ascendant over recent years. Today, many contemporary artists readily acknowledged his influence, including Rob Ryan and James Brown, both of whom I have featured in these pages.
After the crowded party, I was happy to return, taking a stroll over to Rugby St on a quiet morning to meet Edward’s son Richard Bawden and his wife Hattie, who came up for the day from East Anglia to take in the show. Dressed in subtle tones of grey and brown, I recognised them at once, Richard in a grey herringbone tweed coat and sporting a white beard worthy of Don Quixote and Hattie with the deepest sharp blue eyes, like marbles.
Richard and I stood together, admiring one of the Curwen Press edition of Edward Bawden’s print of Smithfield Market from 1967, reproduced below, and he pointed out the drama between the figures in this picture, that his father was so adept at capturing. Apparently, Bawden cadged a lift off the local butcher in Great Bardfield in Essex, where he lived, travelling up to Smithfield early one morning to make sketches while the butcher loaded the van with meat. I know Smithfield Market well and I think the shade of pink Bawden chose in this print is especially evocative of the livid tone of carcasses of meat. Richard explained that his father used linocut to achieve a certain quality of edge to blocks of colour but then liked to have them reproduced by lithography because he preferred the finish, as in this example.
In common with the Liverpool St Station print, there is an interesting dynamic in the Smithfield print between the vast iron building and the people who inhabit the dramatic space it creates. The Liverpool St Station print was one of the largest linocuts ever made, almost six foot long, composed of multiple pieces of lino. Far too long for the press, Edward Bawden had to make the prints on the ground and invite art students to stand on the blocks to press them down. It was a small edition, because in 1967 no-one was interested in a huge print of a smoke-blackened Liverpool St, though recently one sold for £25,000.
I was delighted to meet Richard, who is a distinguished artist and printmaker in his own right, because I have one of his linocuts of a cat hanging in my house in Spitalfields. It has a wonderful sprung energy that I recognise in my cat, Mr Pussy – as if he has just arrived or is about to run off. You can see it below in contrast with Edward Bawden’s linocut of a cat, and this pair of feline images by father and son make a fascinating comparison that speaks both of the difference and the common qualities between the two artists. In Edward’s print, his homespun modernism is immediately apparent in the bold geometric lines that give his cat a strange alien quality, whereas the realism of Richard’s creature exists in relation to a historical tradition of printmaking that includes Thomas Bewick, demonstrating anatomical study. Both prints are full of poetry in different ways and are remarkable for their vivid graphic qualities, two top cats. As Richard observed, scrutinising a linocut by his father of a scene from Morte d’Arthur, commenting as if for the first time,“He could do so much with just black and white.”
Smithfield Market
Edward Bawden’s cat
Richard Bawden’s cat
A Raucous Party in Shadwell
My friend Anne Smith (who I met in Whitechapel last year, when she was wheeling her cat Oscar in a pram) took me to a party in Shadwell last Friday and photographer Sarah Ainslie came along too. A few weeks ago, I visited Anne in the small flat just off Cable St that she shares with her two docile cats Oscar and Cruella whom she likes to dress up in suits and ruffles. Anne is a free spirit with an instinctive sympathy for animals. And the preponderance of leopard and tiger skin prints on the soft furnishings, combined with the pet portraits, fluffy animals and the largest single fish I ever saw in a domestic tank, all in her living room, reflect Anne’s passion for our fellow creatures.
Once Cruella was comfortably installed in the pram, we set out for the community centre next door where there is a social gathering every Friday. On arrival, we were greeted by the master of ceremonies, John Wright, who shepherded us inside to join the happy throng. If you can imagine Larry Grayson, John Inman, Bruce Forsyth, Julian Clary, Paul O’ Grady and Graham Norton all morphed into a single individual, that would be John. With his resplendent blonde locks, immaculate manicure, easy charisma and relentlessly exuberant spirit, it is no exaggeration to say John is the life and soul of this party.
Everyone pays rapt attention to John’s mischievously blue humour and polished repartee, while he keeps everything moving along smoothly. After a career touring the world as a drag artist with his act “The Guys in Disguise”, John has now retired to bring a little necessary glamour to this quite corner of Shadwell, putting his years of professional experience to good use as host of this appealingly upbeat weekly afternoon of chatter, bingo and raffles. And it is much appreciated by the lively posse of local men and women who are under his spell, reciprocating John’s open-hearted affection with a loyal appreciation of his flamboyant rhetoric and idiosyncratic personality.
Many were making merry, quaffing ale, but I settled down to enjoy a quiet cup of tea and biscuits with Betty and Ted Rothon who revealed they have been married over sixty years, since they met when she was twenty-two and he was twenty-four. “We have lived in this neighbourhood over eighty years, our whole lives within a quarter of a mile. We are always together.” said Betty proudly, “We know no other life but we know everyone here!” Continuing enthusiastically, “I was a dress machinist in Ford Square. I started work on the Monday after I left school on the Friday. In the East End nearly all the girls were machinists making coats and dresses. I never got the sack from any job, and I still do it if anyone needs something altered. I worked with Ted’s sister, so when he came out the army, I started going with him and that was it. He was very handsome then and had lovely wavy hair…”
At this point, the conversation broke up into laughter as Betty qualified her statement, stroking Ted’s white hair and protesting that he retains his looks today. Then, with a broad grin, putting his arm around Betty to ease her blushes, Ted told me he worked at East India Dock, “Once upon a time nearly every man in the East End worked in the docks. I liked the friendly atmosphere.” The warmth of this engaging East End couple, still in love after all these years, was tangible.
Next I spoke with Ruby Gordon who came here as a youngster from Jamaica and worked for the “Daily Star”, then as a typesetter at a printing works, a hairdresser and teaching assistant. “I didn’t know anything about snow and smog until I came here,” she admitted to me, widening her eyes to illustrate her amazement, “You couldn’t see a hand in front of your face. I used to get lost in the smog sometimes.” Then with a vivid mime, re-enacting the experience, “You blew your nose and the cloth was dirty with soot from the coal fires.” she told me, shaking her head in amused disapproval. Ruby is a fine lady with a dignified style of her own, elegant features, coiffed hair and attractive gold teeth. It is a style indicative of a justly deserved self-respect, “I never stopped working since I came to this country,” she confessed with a weary smile.
My last conversation was with Doris Jeffrey. Just a few months short of ninety-four years old now, Doris was born in a Peabody flat round the corner that has seen four generations of her family. Full of life and droll understated humour, she looked a picture in her blue floral dress and red cardigan. When I enquired if she had a husband, Doris told me she had been a widow for forty years so I asked if she had ever thought of remarrying but Doris assured me she was quite happy on her own. Like Betty, Doris was also a machinist making clothes though nowadays, she confided, she has no-one left to sew for. Looking around the room and surveying the party, Doris explained to me authoritatively, “Most of the other people here have always lived in this area. It’s very central, convenient for the West End, and the streets are cleaner with better lighting these days. I wouldn’t move out of Shadwell now.” she said, summing it up with the thoughtful disclosure, “I think it grows on you.”
The time had arrived for John to commence calling the bingo numbers, in his distinctively amusing style, and all my interviewees were compelled to silence, concentrating upon their cards, hoping to win as much as four hundred and fifty thousand pounds that afternoon in the special currency that is exclusive to Shadwell.
Later, once the excitement of the day was over, Anne wheeled Cruella in the pram up Cable St, kindly accompanying me partway on my walk back to Spitalfields. But, as we said our goodbyes in Commercial St, I knew it would not be long before I should be paying a return visit back to Shadwell in the hope of meeting some more of the unique personalities that make these raucous Friday afternoon parties so special.
Photographs copyright © Sarah Ainslie
Columbia Road Market 26
Today, it was the busiest I have seen it early in the morning at the market this year and there was an equal increase in the variety of plants available too, which set my imagination racing. I was particularly attracted by the wide of perennials now available as seedlings and I deliberated over trays of Poppies, Erygium and Aquilegia, although there is still a keen edge to the wind, which instinctively caused me to withhold my enthusiasm for commencing Spring planting this weekend, in spite of the dazzling sunlight.
Meanwhile, for the past month, I have cast my eye each Sunday over the stalls selling all the varieties of Tulips and today, for the first time this year, I saw what I have been seeking, these Parrot Tulips. Only available for a few weeks of the year, these are one of my all-time favourite cut flowers, especially for an old house – evoking all those seventeenth century Dutch still-life paintings that dramatise the ephemeral nature of our existence with such grace. I love the lush extravagance of these Tulips’ rich silken colours and feathery pleated edges, getting even better as the languorous flowers open wide and the petals fall.
Remarkably, when I placed them on my sideboard, the morning sunlight collaborated with my painterly notion, delivering this phenomenal moving chiaroscuro, which caused the Tulips to open before my eyes, even as I was photographing them. And it led to me to wonder if many of those still-lifes were painted at this time of year when the Tulips come, and that maybe the distinctive quality of European sunlight in early Spring is itself part of the subject of these paintings?
Sandra & Dennis at The Golden Heart
On a Monday evening recently, Christ Church Spitalfields was alive to the sound of a big band playing show tunes. It was the night of the memorial arranged by Sandra Esqulant, landlady of The Golden Heart in Commercial St, to commemorate the life of her husband Dennis. They ran the pub together for over thirty years until he died a year ago. Sandra and Dennis’ friends and family were all present to pay tribute, supported by many residents of Spitalfields and, as I sat in the church while everyone was taking their seats, I wondered if there was anywhere else in London where the entire community would turn out in this way to celebrate their beloved publican.
Tracey Emin was the first to stand up and speak, affectionately recalling the first time she met Dennis, when he rescued her from the attentions of an unwanted admirer who mistook her for a prostitute. Expressing a sentiment shared by the majority in Spitalfields, Tracey closed her tribute with a declaration of the love commonly felt for Sandra among the populace here, who look to her as a community figurehead and inspiration. Kerry Phillips, one of Dennis’ contemporaries from his time working at the Truman Brewery, fondly recalled shared family holidays and confirmed Tracey’s story, describing Dennis’ ability to grab troublemakers by the scruff of the neck and eject them from the bar without even a break in the conversation. Then Stephen Craig spoke of running the marathon to raise £12,500 for the Dennis Esqulant Lung Foundation and a surgeon from St Bart’s collected the cheque on behalf of the cancer clinic, which drew emotional applause from the congregation.
True to Dennis’ reputation as a magnanimous host, the event concluded with drinks served in the church as the band played and guests mingled by candlelight beneath Hawksmoor’s awe-inspiring ceiling. It was the perfect culmination to a contemplative evening as both the volume and our collective spirits rose under the influence of a few glasses. And when the time came to leave, in a spontaneous gesture, Sandra distributed bunches of the vast number of white tulips that decorated the church to guests as they departed. Walking home through the dark streets with my tulips in hand, I realised the tribute had been conceived with a great deal of care and passed off with a relaxed professionalism that was entirely characteristic of Sandra.
Over the year since Dennis died, Sandra has worn black as an expression of her mourning and everyone in Spitalfields has empathised with the depth of her grief, because over all these years we have grown used to her as our inspired mistress of ceremonies at The Golden Heart. Until this year, we thought of Sandra as the woman who knew better than anyone else how to throw a party and who could always be relied upon to crack open an unexpected bottle of champagne on cue. Consequently, while we share her loss, we have been doubly saddened to see her brought down. We cherish Sandra for her hula-hoop dancing on the traffic island in the middle of Commercial St and for returning to the pub after an event in the West End with Elton John’s backing dancers in tow, to dance upon the bar in full costume at her invitation.
It was a week after Dennis’ memorial when I went round to The Golden Heart late one afternoon to have a quiet chat with Sandra at the fireside in the back bar before the evening’s trade got underway. “Me and my family are especially grateful to the Sisters of Charity and Father Tom of St Mary & St Michael who have given us so much support.” Sandra told me, describing the solace she has received from the counsel of those at the church in Commercial Rd where she and Dennis were married.
“Dennis worked in the brewery and understood the brewing process. He knew everything, particularly about his bitter. Fundamentally, it was one big family, the draymen to the company directors used to drink in here.” she recalled warmly, indicating the direction of the Truman Brewery that closed in 1989. “When we were first married we used to open at six in the morning for the market.” she added, with a glance in the direction of the Spitalfields Fruit and Vegetable Market that closed in 1991. During the lean years following these closures, it was Gilbert & George who were the first artists to bring their patronage to The Golden Heart, thereby initiating the new identity for the pub that it enjoys today, as a magnet for young artists to whom Sandra graciously extends her maternal affection.
Turning her gaze back to the fire, Sandra’s thoughts returned to Dennis, still troubled by the cancer that afflicted him, “I protected him from so much but I couldn’t protect him from that. It’s heartbreaking to see someone you love go like that. Where does this disease come from? I don’t know.” After a silence, she raised her eyes to mine,“We had so many fabulous times in the past, not many people have that.” she said, reminding herself of the salient truths,“I brought up our three children here and they turned out all right.” Then, as if on cue, Sandra’s daughter Kate appeared, she had been watching the bar during our conversation, and has shown dignified resilience through this whole episode.
It cannot be easy leading your life in public and with the relentless imperative to open every day, but Sandra’s answer to this challenge is simple,“I work very hard because I love people.” she said plainly. Then our brief conversation was necessarily at an end because she had to go upstairs and make steak pie for her dinner, a modest notion which nevertheless appeared to fill Sandra with an enthusiasm and delight, indicative of the spiritual consolation of familiar meals.
A few days later, I was back at The Golden Heart to celebrate an art opening and as she came round to our table collecting glasses, Sandra’s eye fell upon a collapsible top hat belonging to a friend of mine. She could not restrain herself from taking the silk topper in hand and causing it to spring back into shape in an instant, with the necessary flick of the wrist and a sophisticated grin worthy of Liza Minelli. In this playful act, itself a tiny moment of happiness, I realised something had changed now and I had been granted a glimpse of the old Sandra we have all missed so much.
The Barbers of Spitalfields
Spitalfields is full of barbers, though you might not realise it at first because there are only a couple on Brick Lane (where, coincidentally, Sweeney Todd was born at number 85 in 1756). But a foray into the sidestreets reveals more, and a stroll over towards Bethnal Green or down to Whitechapel will discover others nestling in alleys and appropriating unexpected spaces. Thankfully, most barbers remain resolute as small personal enterprises that speak of the diverse personalities of their owners and the culture of their clientele. I am fascinated by these rare places where men are constantly going to be shaved and trimmed and where, almost uniquely, it is acceptable for men to allow themselves to be vulnerable in a public place, as they submit themselves to the barbers for intimate grooming rituals. Above all, these are masculine spaces, designed for the comfort of men, run by men for men and where women rarely venture. They are utilitarian in appearance by contrast with the decoration of women’s salons, yet I surmise that men are the more frequent visitors to their barbers.
It seems paradoxical that barbers have such large windows (although obviously good light is required for shaving with a cut-throat razor), when the activity inside is of such a private nature, possibly accounting for the predominance of barbers in side streets. On the day I set out with photographer Sarah Ainslie to visit some barbers, we could not see into many because the windows were steamed up, creating a visible manifestation on the exterior of the emotional intensity within. I was eager for the opportunity to assuage my curiosity about these salons because, as you know, I always get my hair cut at the morgue, but I had reason to question my own enthusiasm as we set out through the sleet on an especially grey afternoon. However, on each occasion as we stepped from the cold street into the warm humidity of the salon, we were met graciously by the barbers and their clients, who even consented to permit a woman to photograph them in their moment of exposure, as long as a certain distance was maintained.
As I observed the men facing up to Sarah’s lense, I realised that there was an element of display involved, an element of masculine pride, even an element of vanity. Now I knew why barbers have huge windows, the expanse of glass creates a theatre where customers become protagonists in a drama enacted for the audience on the street. My assumption was confirmed when we arrived at a salon where the window was entirely free of condensation and the barber was shaving a handsome young man in the seat next to the window onto a busy street, as if to advertise the prowess of his masculine clientele, implying that any passerby could join this rank of heroes simply by coming in for a trim.
Starting in Brick Lane, Sarah and I wove our way through the sidestreets on our bizarre pilgrimage, drifting down through Whitechapel and further South as far as Commercial Rd in the unrelenting damp. We visited big salons and tiny salons, full salons and empty salons, sleek new salons and crumby old parlours. And every one secured a different place in my heart because each possessed a different poetry, a poetry that celebrates human life and hopes, equally containing the mundane need to be tidy alongside the aspiration to be be your best. The humble barbers shop is an oasis of peace and reflection, where cares are shorn away to allow a fresh start. This is where men go to get renewed.
We were told to go in search of Charlie, a legendary barber in Stepney, and eventually we found him exactly where we were told he would be, except his name was actually Michael, but we were still delighted to encounter this genial Turkish barber, who without a doubt was the afternoon’s star turn. To the uninitiated, Michael Gent’s Hair Stylists at 345 Commercial Rd is the most unremarkable barber’s shop you could imagine, but this modest salon has been in operation for over a century. Michael, a sprightly garrulous mustachioed gentleman in a neat blue overall jacket, who has been cutting hair here for thirty-two years, told me he took over from Maurice Pem, a Jewish barber, who was here for thirty-six years and whose unknown predecessor cut hair for at least forty years before that.
“All the time, I miss Istanbul,” revealed Michael striking a pensive note, mid-haircut, gazing out at the low cloud in Stepney, as if he could see the towers of the Blue Mosque emerging from the haze, “The city is like a dream.” A moment of nostalgia that led us into a discussion of the work of Orhan Pamuk, before Michael declared himself an Anglophile, “I love this country, the democracy – the country of equality and opportunities.” he said. Then, without a break in our conversation, he completed the haircut, unsheathing a ferocious cut-throat razor and tidying up the edges automatically before instructing his amiable teenage son to lather up the young man swathed in a red towel, prior to a shave. I could but admire the faith of this fellow in the chair, who never even blinked when Michael casually suggested his son might like to have go with the razor to practise his shaving technique. I did not like to ask if it was appropriate to practise on the customers with a cut-throat razor. If the young man had flinched, he might have lost his nose, and I could barely draw breath as Michael berated his son’s clumsy attempts at scraping the stubble, causing the unfortunate apprentice to redden with frustration.
Michael is too much of a professional to expose his customers to any risk and although the young man kept his cool, I believe it was a great relief to all concerned when Michael took over from his son, flashing a professional smile and gripping the young man’s face firmly in one hand while using the other to skim the razor over his jaw with bold strokes – demonstrating, as if to an invisible lecture theatre, exactly how it should be done. With a skill his son will master one day, Michael achieved results almost instantly, pinching the customer’s face and caressing his tender skin proudly. “Look at that, as smooth as a baby’s bottom!” he announced in unselfconscious triumph to the entire salon with a smirk, patting the young man’s cheek in proprietorial affection.
All photographs copyright © Sarah Ainslie
Andy Willoughby, Gardener
Over recent years, I have always made the detour up the steps through the park and past the bandstand, whenever I walk through Arnold Circus, in order to admire the planting. I like to see the native flowers on the slopes here, especially the Bluebells, Cowslips and Foxgloves that combine with the tall trees arching overhead and the Ivy garlanding the ironwork to create the effect of a piece of woodland transported to the city. Most intriguing is the inclusion of non-native species, particularly a fine range of diverse Hellebores, which complete the planting in a garden alive with detail at every season of the year, that is clearly the product of a sophisticated horticultural sensibility. So it was a pleasure yesterday to meet Andy Willoughby, the shrewd gardener employed by the Friends of Arnold Circus, responsible for the lyrical planting that has enriched this corner of the neighbourhood so attractively.
In part, it has been the success of Andy’s work, drawing attention to the beauty and potential of this neglected circular park in Arnold Circus at the centre of the Boundary Estate that has led to the major renovation works which have just commenced – involving the restoration of the bandstand, the cleaning of the railings, new lighting and benches, and reinstatement of the soil which has subsided due to the effects of rain and gravity since the park opened in 1900. The irony of this situation is that much of Andy’s work will now get trashed before he can move back in once the restoration is complete and commence gardening all over again. However, as much as possible that can be rescued has been transplanted into pots and tubs that currently litter the Boundary Estate, providing temporary accommodation for the displaced plants, and at the end of this feature you can see the gallery of my favourites, all the wonderfully various varieties of Hellebores flowering in exile.
Unfortunately, it will be impossible to rescue everything because Andy has planted so many thousands of bulbs, though he consoles himself in the knowledge that thanks to his work the soil is rich in seeds that will regenerate once the building work is over. After all his hard toil and conscientious devotion, I can see this is understandably an emotional moment for Andy, so I was happy to spend a couple of hours holding plastic sacks as he salvaged a few more plants, while the earth-moving equipment stood waiting to move in on one side and the ironworkers cut up the railings with an angle-grinder on the other side.
When we met and shook hands in Arnold Circus, I immediately noticed Andy’s intense steel-blue eyes, trademark guernsey sweater and direct manner, which is disarming at first because he requires you to connect with him at the same level of open-ness that he shows to you, but it quickly establishes a mutual understanding which allows an ease of discourse without requirement for small talk. The latter is especially useful when there is a job of work to be done and permits dialogue to be restricted to, “Are you warm enough?”, “Take this coat”, “Pass me the fork” and “Hold this bag.”
It is impossible not to respect the strength of character and physical constitution of a man who works fifty to sixty-hour weeks in all weathers outdoors from Easter to Christmas, and keeps very busy with other tasks in between. I noticed that the other workmen on the site were curious, drawn by respect for the obvious intent sense of purpose with which Andy approaches his work, and I was proud to be recognised as Andy’s silent assistant for the morning. As Andy dug clumps from the soil and I held out the sack for him to place them inside, rescuing them from the bulldozer, I was touched to witness at close hand the reverence he has for plants as living things.
“About fifteen years ago, I was at a bit of a loose end,” said Andy quietly, as we worked, introducing his brief account of how gardening came to take over his life. At first, he did grounds maintenance work and cut lawns, but then a job gardening at a hospice for the terminally ill offered the chance to show more creativity. “I learnt most at St Joseph’s Hospice – they liked to keep everything neat and tidy. A friend was a gardener there, so I worked with her and took over when she went on maternity leave. I have no qualifications as a gardener, I learnt from observation – and, by looking up in books, I learnt how things grow.” Andy told me.
Nowadays, as well as his duties at Arnold Circus, Andy gardens at couple of schools, Blue Gate Fields in Cable St, Bangabandhu in Bethnal Green, plus at children’s nurseries, George Green on the Isle of Dogs and Harry Roberts in Stepney, as well Lady Mico’s Almshouses in Stepney and another senior nursing home in Rotherhithe. Andy spoke passionately of his work with children, “They come and help, because they see me doing the work and I explain to them what I do. It is very important that children get an education in plants, otherwise they trample them without knowing what they are doing.” adding, “My mother had a garden and she liked plants,” in explanation of his earliest education in horticulture and revealing the origin of his own green fingers.
It is apparent that Andy loves gardening, derives fulfillment from it and is held in great esteem too. So I was completely astonished when, as we said our goodbyes, he casually revealed all his other previous jobs and accomplishments that filled his life before he arrived at that loose end fifteen years ago – including being a trained nurse, a Buddhist monk, a qualified carpenter and joiner, a bricklayer, a musical instrument-maker specialising in early woodwind, a dustman, a bicycle courier and a skilled rock climber and mountaineer who scaled peaks in the Rockies, the Cascades and the Alps. Travelling widely, Andy was the last European to catch smallpox in India before it was eradicated thirty-five years ago and has the scars to prove it, when I had merely assumed that his ruddy complexion was the result of years weeding in East London.
Now I understood something of the source of the natural authority that Andy possesses, not simply a down-to-earth quality but an insight that sees right through you. I recognised that he carries a wealth of experience which he chooses not to tell, and I was fascinated that gardening brought him into contact with people at all stages of life, from the youngest children at nursery school to senior nursing homes and the dying. Although into his sixties now, I have never met anyone more vitally and physically present in their body than Andy Willoughby, who after experiencing a great deal of life has, like Michel de Montaigne, discovered happiness in cultivating plants.
Old Town in Fournier St
Over this last weekend, Old Town, the distinctive clothiers from Holt in Norfolk that make classic British workwear, set up shop in Fournier St for three days, as they do each year, to allow their London customers to come and say “hello” while also taking the opportunity to enjoy browsing the complete range of styles and fabrics that have created the company’s reputation for uniquely characterful clothes.
As I have been running around the streets of Spitalfields in the snow, pursuing interviews and carting wooden pallets home for the fire, my only pair of warm Winter trousers have gone in holes. A tailor patched them twice to get me through but now they are entirely finished. Ever since I was a child, I have had an unbroken chain of pairs of tweed trousers that have seen me through all the Winters of my life until now. So this visit by Old Town was the perfect opportunity to go along and get measured up for a new pair all ready for next Winter, because there is no doubt I shall need them.
Let me admit, I had been corresponding in advance with Miss Willey up in Holt for months to arrange the crucial assignation on Saturday morning in Fournier St. When she threw open the door to me, I was stunned to silence by the shock of red hair that gave her the appearance of a dazzling pre-Raphaelite beauty, radiant in the low-angled March sunlight in Spitalfields. Swallowing my amazement, I followed her upstairs to enter the drawing-room where I was transported to discover it rigged out in the style of the clothing department of an early twentieth century regional store.
Everyone that lives in these so-called temperate climes, needs a reliable pair of Winter trousers that fit. And the history of my life has taught me the possession of a good pair can make all the difference when the weather turns grim. So I listened attentively as Miss Willey explained the style options to me with practised eloquence. For women, the choice is between The Denes or The Malverns, both of a wide legged cut, buttoning at either side of the waist – The Denes being of a wider leg and more relaxed waist than The Malverns. For men, there are five options, The Plains, Orfords, High Rise Trousers, Vauxhalls and Dreadnoughts which provide various permutations of leg widths and waist heights, some with high backs and others with fall fronts.
Already, I was captivated by the splendid names, their litany was a poem in itself. Once I had selected the style, I was able to rifle through the swatch book to choose between the linens, corduroys, serges, twills, moleskin and tweed. So much possibility, but, because I need maximum insulation when I am carting pallets through the windy streets of Spitalfields in the icy blast, I chose Harris tweed for my trousers. Then I had the option of herringbone or plain, but this was an easy choice because I am one of those who always chooses “plain” whenever it is an option. As they say, I find “plain” exciting. Now I was almost at the end of the multiple choice questionnaire that would lead to my new trousers. It all came down to blue or brown, specifically Lovat or Heather, and experience told me that I choose brown, which will not show the dirt as readily as blue. Now all I have to do is to travel up to Holt in a few weeks time to collect my new trousers, made especially for me.
It was Walt Whitman who first wore workwear with attitude. When he put on a pair of denim workmen’s trousers, he was a poet and liberal intellectual making a deliberate gesture of solidarity with the working people and over a century later we see the result of his powerful innovation all around us in the ubiquitous blue jeans, that are the most democratic item of clothing on the planet today. Old Town take this to a whole new level, making a wide range of work clothes inspired by classic twentieth century models. Neither slavish imitation, nor parody, the design of Old Town clothes manages to evoke the poetry of their origins while creating comfortable well made garments that transcend fashion, yet blend sympathetically with your Paul Smith, Miu Miu, Dries van Noten and Comme des Garçons pieces too. For years I used to go to great lengths seeking out rare original specimens of canvas work jackets and pull-on shirts to wear, so it is wonderful to discover you can get them made in your size. This is why Old Town evokes such passion among aficionados who are happy to travel to Norfolk for a shirt.
Will Brown, an unassumingly charismatic gentleman in a fetching tweed cap who describes himself as a clothesmaker, is the remarkable talent who designs all the clothes and is also responsible for creating the Old Town “look” including the elegantly austere graphics that make such confident use of Gill Sans. His partner in this singular enterprise is Marie Willey, the flame-haired Geordie with a poet’s grasp of the English language who described her role succintly and incontrovertibly thus, “I am the world’s best critic.” before explaining that she deals with the customers, supervises the work of the seven machinists and cutter, as well as personally making sure all the orders get sent out too. “A huge part of my job is trolling down to the laundry and washing and pressing everything,” said Marie, graphically illustrating her hands-on approach to quality control, “You’ve got to keep it tight,” she declared strictly.
I relish the humour and style of Old Town. They even produce a newspaper the “Evening Star” with the byline “Small life is here” that celebrates their playful world view and guarantees a chuckle. You could never have predicted that a business in a remote corner of Norfolk making clothes that are almost anti-fashion could thrive in the way it has. “We are the slowest growing business you could ever find,” said Marie, proudly aware of the absurdity of their success, based nevertheless upon hard work, imagination and flair. Old Town want to stay small, there will never be a chain and they will never sell out. And this is the beauty of it, doing something modest, doing it expertly, earning a decent living, treating everyone with respect and making clothes people love.
In the Spring, you will be able to read about my trip to Holt on the pilgrimage for trousers, but in the meantime you can watch a soundslide sequence about Old Town by clicking here.
