This year I seemed to spend much of Open House exploring artists' studios and workshops. I started at 1 Morocco Street, the studio (and home) of printmaker Norman Ackroyd. The first thing that you notice on entering the studio is the gigantic copperplate press which dominates the centre of the room. The second thing you notice is the press next to it, slightly smaller but still huge. These aren't just the kind of thing you can buy in a shop; as Mr Ackroyd told us, they're usually handed down as heirlooms between artists, and the big one is about a hundred years old.
He moved into the house with his wife and two children in the early 1980s, when it was a derelict hovel with no heating (she must have been very understanding), and has witnessed the gradual gentrification of the area over the years. Unfortunately, I'd only just made it into the house before it was closed for the day (it was one of those venues with a short visiting time) and as he'd been talking to visitors for three hours already and looked pretty knackered, I didn't want to bother him with my questions so I didn't get a chance to ask him what he thought about that (the gentrification, not being knackered). Instead I just entertained myself by peering into corners, and feeling myself getting itchy to get access to a proper large printing press again (or, heck, any press right now).
One thing you can often notice in an artist's studio is how practical and workaday everything is, which is a good reminder that even the most sublime fairy-tale artwork needs a good stash of cleaning products and systematic organisation to make sure everything lives in a dedicated space so you can find it easily, and leave more room for the ideas.
But even amongst the mundane, there are moments of magic that pop out at you, like the names of the pigments in these jars.
Jewellers Rouge and Dragons Blood
More pics here. Norman Ackroyd talks about his studio a bit here.
After leaving there, I sort of stumbled across Bermondsey Street Festival, taking place in Tanner Street Gardens across the road. It's a tiny, local festival, mostly local businesses selling food and stuff, but also random bits of street theatre passing by with no announcement.
I stopped by the local history stall, to discover they had a copy of Fenner Brockway's biography of Alfred Salter, a book which mentions my great-grandfather Archie, because he lived in Bermondsey and worked with Dr Salter. There's even a picture with him in the book, which happened to have been enlarged by the history society and was on display at the festival, because it was taken to commemorate Alfred Salter planting a tree in Tanner Street Gardens — not far from the very point I was standing. The tree itself isn't there anymore, but another one was planted to replace it, although the lady at the stall wasn't sure which tree it was. Anyway, here's the picture, with my great-grandfather appearing at the far left, slightly cropped off the edge (you can see him better in the book itself).
I think my granny (Archie's daughter) would probably have missed the ceremony as by that time she would probably have been studying at Central School of Art, which is just by Red Lion Square, where there is now a statue of Fenner Brockway — and which is also home to Conway Hall, where Interesting took place a couple of weekends ago. I love the way some seemingly random dots get connected like that. It can't help but make me feel like London is really mine.
As I was wandering along to my next Open House, I happened to espy the very man whose house it was, although it wasn't hard to miss him, given his colourful attire and his equally colourful companion:
It was of course Andrew Logan and that doyenne of Bermondsey Street, designer Zandra Rhodes. I was particularly tickled by the chance way that their outfits matched the trays of cupcakes in front of them (which was in fact what made me take the photo of them, as I'd already passed them earlier and not done so).
I'd been about to go and choose a couple of cakes as I was going off to meet a friend later, but I decided not to buy any after the woman at the cupcake stall started shouting "no photography!" I hate that. I can kind of understand it if you're selling original artworks, because you don't want to be ripped off, but not if it's food. Not only did she lose a sale, but I also can't recommend her wares to anyone else since I didn't try them and I didn't get a good enough photo to show them off. So it's her loss, silly woman.
Anyway, I wandered off to The Glasshouse and spent rather longer there than anticipated as I was allowed to take as many photos I wanted of anything I wanted. This is a much more preferable attitude, and ironically in a place where there really was more to protect; not just personal privacy, but also the artworks which were on display all over the place, which would have been far too much to live with, if it weren't for the fact that most of the pieces were out on display because they're going to be sold off next week.
Nonetheless, the house is chockablock with stuff, and I know all my clean-lines-minimalist-modernist friends would be horrified by it, but I've been a fan of Logan's work since I was a tot, and I found it rather enjoyable and inspiring. Every corner has something interesting to catch your eye and, as many of the surfaces are mirrored, nothing ever looks the same twice. It could have been quite disorientating but somehow it wasn't — and I think it was because there was so much to see. I imagine with less work on display after the sale, there's actually more chance of catching the odd reflection out of the corner of your eye and getting a bit spooked, because there's nothing else in the way.
The space itself is fantastic, originally built in the fifties as a garage and converted into the space it is now in the late eighties by Logan's partner, designer Michael Davis. Although you enter into a small and dark lobby, lined along one wall in fake ermine and velvet, once you climb the stairs you come out into a wide open space filled with light from the glass roof. Despite all the glass, it's surrounded on all sides by green terraces and blank walls so it's actually a very pleasant private space. One aspect I liked is the way that the main interior space contains other interior spaces, so that windows and balconies look out onto the main area, like houses overlooking a courtyard. There's a fantastic pink staircase up to the master bedroom, complete with a little balcony breakfast nook (the only drawback I can see to this is that the kitchen is two flights downstairs, which is a long way to bring breakfast back).
There's a great jumble of colours in the place, which is very uplifting, and sometimes fun and innovative use of furniture, like the old snooker table which is used to dine on, or the fantastically odd DVD-player holder, which hangs from the ceiling and looks like something out of Barbarella.
As with the first place, it was also interesting to see the studio and notice that despite the chaos of work, everything had its proper place:
In fact, there was so much to explore that I probably could have stayed there for quite a while longer, but I left before I finally succumbed to the temptation to start riffling through their bookcases.
