MY DOCKLAND LIFE

It is 2024 and I am about to write about my life in London’s dockland of the 1960s to 1970.

Recalling the late 50s to early 60s encompassed a world of recovering from war, to bouts of dealing with untreatable TB, embracing among other things a world of creative art and enquiry, of building and re-building houses, of travel to and around Europe, and then the world. 

I now, in the early 60s, found myself getting fat and vegetating in the country, loosening my ties with the world of art. After a world tour of drawing, and losing the facility and motivation to get back into it, it was time to change, re-invigorate, re-motivate and re-enter a more vibrant world. That meant getting back to London.

I would first have to sell the lovely one-bedroom studio home I had designed and built in isolated Berkshire countryside.

The main local housing agent in Andover declined to sell a house with only one bedroom. So I advertised it myself and sold to Francis Bacon, the painter.

I took “digs” in London’s Chelsea district, re-frequented the Limehouse area of busy dockland from which I had sailed several times as a supernumerary, and kept my eyes and ears open - especially thereabouts.

A Limehouse pub, frequented by both police and criminals, was a centre for information. And, true enough, I learned there of a warehouse shortly up for sale at auction. I bid for it and bought it. At least I now owned a large commercial studio to work in, but still nowhere in which to live.  

I had bought a shell of a warehouse right on the river bank at the head of a small creek of dockland Thames. The potential to create something special there was considerable.

I drew up rough plans to convert the place into two studios overlooking the river, using a prestigious west-end firm of architects to draw up my plans for a conversion from industrial to domestic use. This was in a dockland when no-one had ventured to do this before. Planning permission was given. 

Now I needed someone with general building skills to help me.

The chief of police at my “information” pub had used a first class heating engineer for a job. I met his man and we gelled. He was a Polish builder with artistic imagination. We would build the place together and then, when the project had been completed, he would return to central heating. And so it was. 

There were a few old waterside houses nearby where some rich and famous resided, but  my place was quite different in concept and environment. The dockers saw us as working people and absorbed us. Being rather oddities and friendly, and they being often “on the make”, made obtaining the wherewithall for building a rather underhand but locally normal way of going about things. So costs were low.

When finished, it was unique, with my one-roomed living/studio above, with a glass walled bathroom from which I could see through the studio to the river, and with an outside weathervane that transmitted wind direction directly beneath to the ceiling below.

All windows in the studio above, and the one to rent out beneath, had triple glazing. Moreover, there was a garage for a small car and bottling area for wine from casks, and all this, hidden behind an exterior that blended in so well with other adjoining walls that it was difficult to see what was what. 

I could now, at last, settle down to paint and be artistically creative with dockland shapes as my theme. These paintings now sell to private collectors but which were never exhibited.

Now the end of the 1960s arrived and all changed.

In fairly quick succession came marriage, a baby, sale of the studio house to some Lord or other and a Laker Airways flight to Yale where my then wife had a post-doctoral fellowship. Another phase in my life was about to start and, as usual, it involved many changes and much good luck.

Actually it was not the end of my connection with that dockland studio home. A later owner found several of my paintings in the loft space, contacted me, and although he technically owned them we decided to share the spoils between us.

Although the wife of that owner wanted to keep the place in the 1960s style in which it was conceived and built, her husband wanted to develop it - which he did. 

So it is now flats, and the newly-minted coins that we incorporated in the structure will have vanished with its demolition rubble. 

 

A TYCOON

 

Having been invalided out of the RAF as a pilot with TB, I started studies to become a doctor, and suffered TB again. I decided that as I had always shone as an artist I should learn my basic trade at art school. So I enrolled at the Central School of Art in Holborn, London.

As well as fine art I also enrolled in their theatre design department, thinking that theatre set design would eventually provide me with money as well as allow me to flourish as an artist.

There were three art school departments of interest to me, they being fine art in the drawing class, painting under the gaze of Bernard Meninsky, and theatre set design and theatre costume design, both in Jeanetta Cochrane’s department.

To work with Bernard Meninsky I had to submit to him a painting or two and some drawings. He didn’t think much of my paintings but liked the drawings so much that I was accepted.

From the theatre department there was much to learn about set design, costume design and sewing, with excellent guidance on the use of colour and brushwork in the presentation of ideas to producers.

As many of my fellow students were recently out of school, I was, as an ex-war student, given extra attention, possibly in a more adult laguage.

Although I eventually bought a Bernard Meninsky at Christie’s, I never really liked his work. But we made friends and would seek out living and defunct music halls in London.

In the drawing class, a callow youth, just out of school, often sat near to me as we made drawings of the nudes. 

I asked one of the nudes if she might pose for me. Her reply was yes, but only when I was famous. As my mantra for happiness in life is to avoid being either rich or famous, the chances were slim.  Had she known that a sniff of fame came my way when I once sold a painting at Christie’s for £33,600, and had I re-contacted her at that time, she would not have been the curvacious creature of art school days, but an old woman.

My fellow student in that drawing class really was to become both rich and famous. He was Terrence Conran, of Habitat and much else, but his drawings were dreadful.

TRAINING YOUR ROBIN

Most British gardens must have a resident robin that hangs around to pick up small worms when earth is dug.

I think that we all love these friendly little birds. The American robin is a much larger bird, as befits its nationality.

We have a small walled garden in London that is mostly paved with flagstones with nearly all its trees, bushes and floral displays growing in pots. These we move around as peer season and the vigour of the plants.

Growing next to the garden’s south-facing wall are alternating tomatoes and runner beans. On its north-facing wall is a small pear tree and apple tree, both in pots, apparently springing from a abacanthus that waves its long leaves in the wind. I grow mistletoe in the apple tree. 

 

All this is in the land, owned by its resident robin, who, this year, chose to nest and bring up a family with a mate high on the house wall in a box made for, but never used, by swifts.

At breeding time we do see and feed two robins but only one seems to belong. 

There have been robin-less years and the garden has seemed bare without one.

The only food we use to train a resident robin is Cheddar cheese, grated very finely. They love it, fresh or dry. 

To train a robin we place a little “bait” near to the house at one end of the garden, the other end housing our summerhouse, or shed as we call it. 

It is within this shed, where we spend much time and where we aim to entice a robin for company.

The first move is bait left on the ground well away from the shed where we humans have drink, music, food and conversation. Then, when the robin has acquired the taste for grated Cheddar, we lay bait nearer and nearer to the shed.

We keep as still as possible during this training period.

The first real excitement is when the robin takes bait from the sill of the opened shed door.

All this time the bird will have noticed, with its eagle eye, grated cheese in the feeder designed for it.

This object is of wood and roughly described as one open shallow box, upside down and sliding over another open shallow box. This can be adjusted to offer a small or large amount of grated cheese.

Bird-landing edges are of rounded dowel rod - fit for birds’ feet. 

Finally, our robin will enter our shed in short stages or even fly directly in, eventually to eat from my knee, which happens generally to be next to the feeding box. 

Friendly wood pigeons also raid the robin box and are deterred from tipping the feeder over to get to the cheese by a lead weight (a sculpture) resting on top of it.

Friendly birdlife has become quite a feature of our garden and amazes guests. 

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A BONANZA RECALLED ONCE MORE

 

In 1953 I was rebuilding my first house in London’s Fulham Road from one that had been bombed in the war.  At the same time I was at art school and teaching myself to paint and 

selling landscapes. 

As the house was right next to Chelsea Football Grounds, a pet subject was the ground itself, and in particular what is known by Chelsea supporters as “The Shed End”.

I would set up my easel on a spectator’s gravel bank and paint away. 

I painted on canvas stuck to board, mariflayed previously by me using tailors’ canvas, hardboard, animal glue and very hot water. The size that  I favoured was 2 foot by 4 foot.

One of the finished canvasses was entitled “Neighbours on Saturdays” as Chelsea then only played on their home ground on Saturdays.

Those football days were a bit on the rough side, hemming me in and sometimes with my garden used as a urinal. But no-one seemed to mind an artist in their midst. 

“Neighbours on Saturdays” was exhibited at the Daily Express Young Artists Exhibition and failed to sell. Still framed, it was stacked away and forgotten. 

Years later, Margreet’s niece  became engaged to be married and, although the groom was an Arsenal supporter, we decided to give the painting to them as a wedding present. The engagement was broken off and the painting hung on the studio wall in Hammersmith.

It so happened that a man from Christie’s auction rooms came to look at my work and asked if he could sell “Neighbours on Saturdays”.  I agreed.

We decided that the title should be changed to “The Shed End”, that being more readily in the minds of supporters.  And we agreed on a reserve of £1500.  He took it away.

I went along to Christie’s Brompton Road salesroom on a viewing day to see where it had been hung. I can’t say that I was ecstatic as it was placed on a wall rather low down. I would rather have seen it at eye level.

I was then contacted by a potential buyer who told me that he was pretty sure to obtain it as he was willing to go up to £5,000.  He wanted to make prints of it and, for a fee, would I be prepared to sign them. We left it at that. 

Somehow I heard that there was other interest in the painting and that it might even fetch a good price.

On the day of the sale I took a plush seat toward the back of a good crowd of art buyers. The auctioneer was a lady who was quite obviously very professional.

When it came to my turn, she said that this work was by Jim Page-Roberts and that there was considerable interest in it. My heart beat increased. 

“I will start at a thousand”.  Up went quite a few hands.

In no time bidding had reached £5,000, then £10,000.  Bidders started to drop out. 

Bidding continued until some £20,000 was offered. Soon only two bidders remained in contention. One, we heard later was the Chelsea owner’s agent and the other a lady who wanted to give it to her Chelsea-supporting husband as a Christmas present.

Bidding continued as the lady kept her hand aloft. 

Finally Abramowitz’s agent realised he would never obtain it and dropped out at £27,000. There was applause.

Christie’s quote hammer prices combined with their buyer’s premium. So the “Shed End” had sold for £33,600, the “Top Lot”.

At that time, fellow RAF pilots who trained to fly with me in Oklahoma, USA, got together with wives and children once a year. At one such meeting word had reached them about my auction success.

“What will you do with the money” ? I was asked. 

Without much aforethought I replied that I would now buy large potatoes as they were more expensive than smaller ones, but much easier to peel. They thought it was hilarious. 

I buy potatoes nowadays and find that the smaller ones are easier to peel. 

As for the fellow pilots (several of whom went to America on a freebee as “Heroes”), I imagine that they have now all flown high into the blue and are no longer interested in potatoes large or small. 

A REAL WINE MERCHANT

What I am about to write might well be cause to send me to the Tower of London. I will explain later.

I have always been interested in wine, about it, and drinking it - ever since consuming the dregs from bottles (recycled then) left out for the wine merchant to collect when I was a child in the country at the turn of the 1920s to 1930s. 

A good way to learn about wine is to have a wine book to record wines bought and years drunk, with opinions in explicitly one’s own descriptive words on its quality over time. 

The 1960s was the ideal period to start, when all but the great Châteaux in Bordeaux produced fine wine at plonk prices.

The 1960s was a decade when I knew the years but not necessarily the Châteaux. 

As most wine then was imported in casks and bottled by wine merchants in the UK, I didn’t see why I shouldn’t do the same. A customs officer, in the wine section of that organisation, who had bought a painting from one of my exhibitions, had done much for a Spanish sea captain and didn’t see why this sailor shouldn’t do something for him in return. 

So some pound notes changed hands and back from Valencia came two odd-looking casks strapped to the ship’s railings (94 litres of 16 grados and 90 litres of 15 grados). 

Bottles and corks had to be bought. Contractors then had agreements to take away all bottles left outside hotels and restaurants to be recycled. I visited their premisses where only Claret, Burgundy and Port bottles were recyclable, so there was a huge pile of broken glass formed in their East End yard of non recyclable bottles of all colours and shapes. So I decided also to collect my claret-shaped bottles left outside hotels and restaurants for free (at 4am), whereas I would have had to pay a shilling a bottle to those with contracts.  

Because of my unique position, the managing director of a famous cork company personally selected with me short-long Bordeaux length corks for my bottling. He was also rather fond of drinking Sherry, so we consumed quite a bit. 

Another wonderful importation was a hogshead (58 gallons) of Crianza Rioja Bilbainas, Haro and more from Prignac in Bas-Médoc, and so on it went.

Not all was straightforward. In 1969 a small cask (a quart de Barrique) of Châteaux Gallais Bellevue got crushed aboard a coaster on its way to a wharf on the Isle of Dogs in London, where it was found to have lost about half its contents. I would have had to pay duty as though it was full. But I had friends in the system and on the following day of its arrival my cask miraculously had a tin patch nailed to the wound and the barrel was now full to the shrive (bung). The wine that was used to top up my barrel must have been of the highest quality because the blend was absolutely delicious. 

For all my bottles, bottled and shared among friends, were labelled with my own designed label, and capped with a red tin/lead capsule, (whereas a firm, Corfe & Seccombe, could have provided me with a choice of many fancy labels of their design).

In those days, importers of wine could call the contents of their bottles anything they chose. So it was a period where knowledge and discernment came to the fore. 

It was about this time that I came across wonderful J Lyons at the Hop Exchange Wine Cellars in Southwark where most client’s bottles were washed and recycled on site. 

It was here in January1968 that I chanced upon Châteaux Cantanac-Brown 1959 which was the best wine I had ever, or since, drunk. So I bought a lot and had most kept in their paid reserve as I lacked space for it. The last bottle consumed was on the 4th of December 1993 and in my wine book I wrote: “Farewell dear old friend”. 

In those splendid Hop Exchange Cellars worked a wonderful lady. Her job was to stick the 

J Lyons house labels on their bottles. 

Beyond her gluing apparatus (two hands) was a large round bath in which was placed any wine the labels from which had to be soaked off and replaced by a wine in demand. 

Perhaps I should not have been witness to it, but at that time J Lyons were supplying Buckingham Palace with white wine (ordinarily just “Hock”) with rather grand royal labels, now stuck to the bottles by this lady. 

Is revealing such Palace secrets justification for a beheading? I hope not.