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A Dutch name on a gravestone in the City of London

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AT THE OLD BAILEY court on the 18th of February 1767, Edward Wild was formally accused (indicted) of stealing 25 yards of woollen cloth worth £10 from the widow, Winifred Vanderplank (https://www.oldbaileyonline.org/record/17670218), and found guilty. At the trial, Winefred’s son Bartholomew Vanderplank told the court:

“I live in Bartholomew-close with my mother; I am a cloth-worker. Last Monday three weeks, the piece of cloth mentioned was taken away; the prisoner at the bar was stopped with it; I was before Justice Welch when he and the cloth was; he there confessed he took it away.”

According to “The records of St. Bartholomew’s priory and of the church and parish of St. Bartholomew the Great, West Smithfield” (publ. 1921), Mr Vanderplank lived close to the Church of St Bartholomew the Great, formerly part of the Priory that existed there until it was disbanded and partially demolished during the reign of King Henry VIII. The records stated:

“… The house of  Mr.  Vanderplank close by (he  lived  at  No.  54 [ i.e., Bartholomew Close])  was  the  monastery  kitchen  from  which  a  subterranean  passage communicated  with  the  church,  persons  having  passed  through  it to  the  knowledge  of  the  proprietor.”

The same records revealed that the Vanderplanks lived at 54 Bartholomew Close:

“In the London Directory  of  1770, No.  54 was in the occupation of the Vanderplanks,  cloth  workers, who  lived  in  the  parish  until  the  middle  of  the  nineteenth  century.”

You might be wondering why I should be telling you about a family whose surname indicates that it probably has Dutch origins. Well, the reason is that yesterday (the 2nd of April 2024), I was in the church of St Bartholomew the Great (near Smithfield Market) when I looked at the floor and spotted the gravestone recording the deaths of several members of the Vanderplank family, including that of Bartholomew, who appeared in court on the 18th of February 1767. 

Regarding Bartholomew, he was affiliated to the City of London’s Clothworker Company (guild) (https://londonroll.org/search), as were some other members of the family, who lived in Bartholomew Close. I have not yet been able to find out when exactly the Vanderplank family settled in England,  but I have read (www.ourmigrationstory.org.uk/oms/londons-evil-may-day-riots):

“The Flemish and Dutch arrived in England in large numbers in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries and were primarily artisans, especially weavers and other cloth workers. This was partly due to ‘pull’ factors in the form of royal invitations and ‘letters of protection’ issued by the king. The Crown was keen to boost the English cloth industry by encouraging the arrival of skilled foreign workers. However, immigrants from the Low Countries also came due to ‘push’ factors, especially the hardships caused by warfare in the region and sentences of mass exile in the late fourteenth century for participating in revolts in Flanders.”

The top of the stone reads:

“Here lieth the Body of Barthow Vanderplank Late of the Parish who died July 19 1792 aged 48 years.”

The stone also commemorates the deaths of other members of his family – his wife and children. Because I was curious about the surname, I did a little research on the Internet, and found what I have just described.

William Hogarth and Damien Hirst as neighbours in a church in London

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ST BARTHOLOMEW THE GREAT church in the City of London was founded in 1123 by Rahere, a courtier of King Henry the 1st, who reigned from 1100 to 1135. It was originally built as the church for an Augustinian priory, which was abolished and partly destroyed during the reign of King Henry VIII. When this happened (in 1539), the priory church’s nave was demolished, leaving only the apse and beyond it, the Lady Chapel. The choir, which used to be at the west end of the apse and at the eastern end of the demolished nave, now stands at the east end of what is now the nave, but was formerly the apse. The current nave (formerly the apse of the original church) is a magnificent example of Norman architecture. I could go on describing this magnificent church in great detail, but I will not because plenty of people have done it before me (e.g., https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/St_Bartholomew-the-Great and https://medievallondon.ace.fordham.edu/exhibits/show/medieval-london-sites/stbartsgreatchurch). Instead, I will mention a couple of the many interesting items in the church that caught my interest during a visit today (the 2nd of April 2024).

Both the objects of interest stand in the southwest corner of the church, close to the entrance that leads to the path that runs along the location of the long-since demolished apse of the priory church. The two things stand a few feet from each other. One of them is a carved stone font, said to be one of the two oldest fonts in London – the other being in the parish church of St Dunstan & All Saints in Stepney. What interested me about St Bartholomew’s font, which is still in use, is that it was here that the painter William Hogarth (1697-1764) was baptised. He had been born in a house in Bartholomew Close near the church in the Smithfield district of London.

Hogarth was a successful artist in his time, and has become recognised as one of the famous British artists of the 18th century. Not far from the font, there is a dramatic gold coloured sculpture by one of the most famous British artists of our times – Damien Hirst (born 1965). The sculpture, which is on loan from the artist, is called “Exquisite Pain.” It is Hirst’s depiction of St Bartholomew holding his skin, having been flayed. The church’s website (www.greatstbarts.com/visiting-us/artworks/damien-hirst-exquisite-pain/) revealed:

“St Bartholomew, one of the original twelve disciples, was sent as an Apostle to Armenia, where he was killed by being skinned alive. The classic iconography of the saint sees him naked, his muscles exposed, his skin hanging over his arm – and in his hands, the instruments of his torture. This statue sees Damien Hirst conform to this imagery, but give it a unique twist: the instrument in his hand is not a standard knife, but a scalpel, used in the hospital across the road which also bears the saint’s name.”

I think it is a wonderful sculpture. However, like most works of art, it might not suit everyone’s taste, but there is no doubting that its dramatic impact and skilful execution are remarkable.

While Hirst’s fame is great today, and his works command high prices, I wonder whether his reputation as a notable British artist will survive as long as Hogarth’s.

From the screens of Instagram onto the walls of commercial art galleries

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DO NOT UNDERESTIMATE the power of Instagram.

Today (the 2nd of April 2024), we visited Beers Gallery in Little Britain, a street which is close to St Bartholomew the Great church and Smithfield meat market. Until the 13th of April 2024, they have an exhibition of delightful paintings by Florent Stosskopf, who was born in Rennes (France) in 1989. Based in Brittany, he has qualifications in web and graphic design, as well as holding an Advanced Technician diploma from L’école Multimedia. Yet, he is a self-taught painter. His current exhibition at Beers is called “The Mocking Bird”. The gallery’s press hand-out says:

“The title, he informs us, is a loose reference to elements of his own autobiography that he found mirrored in the song ‘Mockingbird’ by Eminem.”

Be that as it may, the paintings are full of bold colour and vibrancy. It was a joy to see them.

We had never heard of Florent Stosskopf. We asked a lady who worked in the gallery how her establishment had got to know of this artist. The answer astonished us. She told us that it was after he began posting pictures of his paintings on Instagram (see: www.instagram.com/stosskopf_florent/)  that he began to be recognised as being a painter worth exhibiting in commercial galleries.

Many people with artistic tendencies and varying degrees of skill post images of their creations on Instagram. Even I use Instagram to try to promote some of my books. However, just posting on Instagram is not enough. To become truly successful by using Instagram, you need real talent, and that is what Monsieur Stosskopf has in a large amount.

Victorian photographs exposed at London’s National Portrait Gallery

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JULIA MARGARET CAMERON (1815-1879) was born in Kolkata (Calcutta) and died in Sri Lanka. When her husband retired from the Indian civil service, she and her family bought a house on the Isle of Wight, close to that of her friend, the poet Alfred Lord Tennyson. From an early age, when she met the astronomer and chemist Sir John Herschel in Cape Town, she developed an interest in the relatively young technique of photography. It was only in 1863 when she was residing on the Isle of Wight that she was given her first camera. This was the start of her remarkable career as a photographer. Unlike many other photographers during the Victorian era, Julia was not interested in producing exact images of her subjects in her photographs. Instead, she experimented with lighting, focus, development, and printing, to produce photographic images that were artistic rather than accurate representations of reality. Her subjects included many of the cultural giants of mid to late Victorian Britain. Also, she loved to pose her subjects, dressed in imaginative fancy dress costumes, in intricately contrived tableaux before capturing their image on photographic plates.

Until the 16th of June 2024, there is a temporary exhibition of photographs by Cameron at London’s National Portrait Gallery. Many of Julia’s photographs are on display alongside those of another woman photographer, Francesca Woodman (1958-1981). Although Woodman’s photographs are of a high quality artistically, seeing them alongside those of Julia Margaret Cameron added little to my enjoyment of the exhibition. However, this show does give impressive exposure to Cameron’s pioneering work in using photography as an art form rather than as a medium for recording likenesses. As exhibitions go, I did not feel that this one is a sparkling example of curating. However, I am pleased that I went because I have read a great deal about the life and times Julia Margaret Cameron, and have also published a short book about her, which is available on Amazon:

A walk in the sunshine on a Saturday morning in north London

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AFTER DAYS OF GREY skies, the sun shone without pauses today (the 30th of March 2024). This was lucky because come rain or shine, we had decided to walk south from Primrose Hill through Regents Park to Marylebone Road. Much of the way we passed places with fond memories for us. The first of these was Chalk Farm Underground station. It was near here that my wife used to live in a flat on Fellowes Road long before we married.

From the station, we walked across a graffiti-covered iron bridge that crosses the mainline railway tracks from Euston. This brought us to the eastern end of Regents Park Road (‘RPR’). Lined with shops and eateries, this curving road is where we met with our friends frequently. One of our favourite places was Lemonia – a Greek restaurant. When it first opened, it was on the south side of the road. Now, it occupies larger premises on the north side of RPR. After having coffee at Roni’s, an Israeli café that did not exist in the 1980s when we often visited the area, we walked towards the base of Primrose Hill. Today, being the Easter weekend, the road was far less busy than it is on other weekends.

Looking down from Primrose Hill

Fortified with coffee and a croissant, we ascended the steep path leading from opposite the house where Friedrich Engels once lived to the summit of Primrose Hill, which had attracted a crowd of people who had come out to enjoy the sun and the magnificent view of London to the south of the hill. While we were descending the hill towards Regents Park, a young lady, who was ascending the hill with her husband and two children, greeted us. I did not recognise her as I had not seen her for 21 years, and (then only briefly) when she was a young teenager. She is the daughter of one of my cousins, and the great-great granddaughter of my ancestor Franz Ginsberg, who was a Senator in the parliament of South Africa between the two world wars.

After reaching the bottom of Primrose Hill, we crossed Prince Albert Road, and then walked over a bridge that traverses the Regents Canal. At the south end of the bridge, we passed some enclosures (containing what looked like large wild boars or warthogs) of the London Zoo.  Then, we walked along a straight path between grassy playing fields – not particularly scenic. In the distance we could see the minaret of the Regents Park Mosque and the domes on the roof of the London Business School, where my wife studied. Eventually we reached a more attractive area close to the eastern edge of the Boating Lake, over which we crossed on a bridge. Soon, we arrived at the circular road, appropriately named the Inner Circle. It seemed to being used as an unofficial racetrack for cyclists on expensive looking bicycles. Having safely crossing the road without being hit by a cyclist, we entered the round heart of Regents Park, which contains the famous Queen Marys Rose Garden.

We took refreshments at the strange-looking Regent’s Bar & Kitchen. In plan, it is a collection of identical adjacent hexagons. The roofs of some of these have sharp conical pinnacles. From there we passed beds of rose plants. All of the roses were without flowers, A small wooden bridge crosses a stretch of water – part of a larger pond – to reach the attractive Japanese Garden Island from which you can see a man-made rocky waterfall designed as it would be in gardens in Japan.

After wandering around the Japanese garden, we headed towards the Inner Circle, which we crossed before walking south along a road called York Bridge because it crosses a body of water by means of of a similarly named Bridge. Before reaching the bridge, we passed the buildings of Regent’s University. These used to house a part of the University of London – Bedford College. Founded in 1849, it was for the higher education of women. From 1878 onwards, women studying there were awarded degrees by the University of London. In 1984, after Bedford College had merged with Royal Holloway College, its premises in Regents Park became the home of Regent’s University, which is not affiliated to the University of London. Interestingly, the wrought iron gates to Regent’s University’s grounds still bear the crests of its predecessor – Bedford College. In the 1920s, my wife’s maternal grandmother, Benabai Bhatia, who had come from India with her husband Haridas, who was studying for an FRCS, studied at Bedford College. On her return to India and after she was widowed at a young age, she became a superintendent of schools in Bombay.

After crossing York Bridge, we soon reached Marylebone Road, having had a thoroughly enjoyable walk.

A small exhibition of watercolours at London’s Wallace Collection and an artist who was unknown to me

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SEVERAL OF THE GALLERIES within London’s Wallace Collection in London’s Manchester Square, have an overwhelming number of paintings crowded together on their walls. One of these galleries contains several paintings by Richard Parkes Bonington (1802-1828), which I doubt I would have focussed on had I not just seen a small temporary exhibition in a room on the ground floor. The exhibition is called “Turner and Bonington: Watercolours from the Wallace Collection”, and is on until the 12th of May 2024. It contains 10 watercolours (of landscapes) held by the Wallace Collection – four by JMW Turner (1775-1851) and the rest by his short-lived contemporary Bonington. Each of the watercolours is delightful and well-executed. Bonington’s watercolours are delicately crafted, but less adventurous than those of Turner. Because they are so sensitive to damage by light, these watercolours are rarely displayed. The last time they were exhibited was 17 years ago.

Watercolour by Bonington

Now, I had heard of Turner and have seen many of his works, but today (the 29th of March 2024) was the first time I became aware of Bonington. He was born near Nottingham and by the age of 11 was exhibiting watercolours at the Liverpool Academy. In 1817, he and his family moved to Calais (France), where his father set up a business. From there they moved to Paris in 1818. During his time in France, Bonington learned painting from French artists and soon became a friend of the French artist Eugene Delacroix. In 1820, he became a student at the École des Beaux-Arts in Paris. Some of his oil paintings were displayed in the Paris Salon of 1822, and elsewhere. By 1825, he had developed a method of mixing gouache with watercolour, which produced an effect close to what could be achieved with oil paints. After making trips to various parts of France, northern Italy, Venice, and London, he developed tuberculosis. He died in London, where his parents had sent him for treatment. In 1861, many years after Bonington died, Delacroix wrote in a letter (quoted in a Wikipedia article):

“To my mind, one can find in other modern artists qualities of strength and of precision in rendering that are superior to those in Bonington’s pictures, but no one in this modern school, and perhaps even before, has possessed that lightness of touch which, especially in watercolours, makes his works a type of diamond which flatters and ravishes the eye, independently of any subject and any imitation.”

I wish I could have thought of those words, which chime with what I thought after seeing Bonington’s watercolours and some of his many oil paintings now hanging in the Wallace Collection – a London address that no art lover should miss visiting.

An unexpected story told in a cafe in London’s North Kensington

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LAST YEAR I READ a fascinating book, “Staying Power”, written by Peter Fryer and first published in 1984. It is a history of black people in Britain from the time of the Roman conquest until 1984. In it, the author gives plenty of examples of the hostile reception that black people arriving in Britain received from their racist British neighbours and workmates.

Today (the 28th of March 2024), I was sitting in the Lisboa Patisserie, a cafe in North Kensington’s Golborne Road, when I began chatting about the ‘good old days’ with a gentleman, who is a few years older than me. He told me that he had come to Britain from the West Indies in the early 1950s when he was 8 years old. Having read Fryer’s book and having heard stories of racist behaviour, I asked him whether it had been difficult for him and his family after they arrived in England. I was astonished and very pleasantly surprised by his reply.

He told me not to believe that everything was as bad as is often recorded. From the moment his family arrived, the English people they encountered were all very kind and friendly. As an example, he described what happened when his family were evicted from their flat by their (black) landlord. They were literally out on the street with nowhere to go. Two English (i.e., white) ladies, who were chatting to each other over a garden fence, saw them, and asked what had happened. Hearing their plight, one of them said that she had a spare room in her attic, where they could live until they found somewhere of their own.

The gentleman in the café told me that once they had settled into new accommodation, they were at a loss as to how to deal with things that they had not had previously encountered in the West Indies. For example, back in the Caribbean, their home did not have electricity or gas or many other domestic things that were usual in British homes in the 1950s. It was their white milkman, who came to their rescue. If there was something they could not deal with – for example replacing a fuse – their milkman would come into the house and help them out.

Our friendly neighbour in the café said that he could give me many more examples of kindness and friendliness of white British people, which his family had encountered. However, as he could see that we had finished our coffees, he concluded by saying that contrary to, as he put it: “what millennials only want to hear”, it was not all bad as far as white British behaviour towards immigrants from the Caribbean were concerned. He did not know that I do a lot of writing, but he said that I should write down what he told us as it needed to be known – and that is what I have done.

I must add that his story is somewhat unusual because even today, we still hear of too many cases of intolerance and even harm to Afro-Caribbean people.

PS: although this has been published on the 1st of April, it is NOT an April Fool’s joke!

A sign on the pavement that points to a place that no longer exists

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THE EAST SIDE of London’s Russell Square is lined by large hotels, one of which is the Imperial. On the pavement where Guilford Street enters the eastern side of Russell Square, there is some lettering, which reads:

“Turkish Baths”.

Beneath this is an arrow pointing southwards, and below that, the word:

“Arcade”.

Kimpton Fitzroy Hotel in the background

If you follow the arrow, you will pass the west facing side of the 20th century Imperial Hotel, but you will not neither an arcade nor any Turkish baths. You will pass a vehicle entrance to a courtyard within the hotel.  Being puzzled by this old, and it seemed redundant, writing on the pavement, I researched it on the Internet, and soon found out something about it (see for example: https://carolineld.blogspot.com/2012/11/turkish-baths-russell-square.html & www.londonremembers.com/sites/imperial-hotel-statues)

The current Imperial Hotel was built in the late 1960s on the site of an earlier hotel of the same name (built in 1898), which was demolished, rather than restored, in 1966. It was in this first Imperial Hotel that the Imperial Turkish Baths were located. These were demolished along with the hotel that contained them. However, some statues that used to decorate the highly ornate baths were rescued, and now surround the above-mentioned courtyard.

The lettering on the pavement is outside the entrance to a Pret A Manger café. This eatery stands on the site of the former Librairie International bookshop, which might well have been a place where Communist and Anarchist publications were sold. A web page that describes this shop (https://alondoninheritance.com/london-parks-and-gardens/russell-square-and-librairie-internationale/) revealed:

“I have found references to the Librairie Internationale selling copies of Karl Marx publications in the 1920s and in the 1930s as one of the bookshops in London where you could purchase pamphlets such as those produced by the London Freedom Group, whose paper “Freedom – A Journal of Libertarian Thought, Work And Literature” included the address of the Librairie Internationale in Russell Square as one of the London bookshops and newsagents where Freedom could be purchased.”

I had never heard of this bookshop or the Turkish Baths at the Imperial Hotel, and would not have known about either of them had I not noticed the lettering in the pavement. I spotted this after having met a person, whom I had not seen since 1968, when we were both pupils at north London’s Highgate School. We had just met for coffee at a café within the Kimpton Fitzroy Hotel, which was built as The Russell Hotel and opened in 1900. Unlike its neighbour The Imperial, it was not demolished and replaced by something newer. The old Imperial would have been built in the same flamboyant style. Having noticed my interest in signs, my friend from schooldays pointed out another sign on the north side of the Kimpton Fitzroy. It commemorates the fact that a house where the suffragette Emmeline Pankhurst (1858-1928) lived with her daughters (Christabel and Sylvia) between 1888 and 1893. The house was demolished – possibly to make way for the construction of the hotel, which began in 1898.

Everything I have described above lies within a stretch of road less than 200 yards in length. And I have said almost nothing about the historic Russell Hotel that lies along this stretch. This and many other parts of London are so rich in history, which is one of many reasons that I am happy to be a resident of the city.

Moore and the atomic mushroom cloud at the Tate Gallery

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LAST YEAR, THE exhibits at Tate Britain were re arranged – or ‘rehung’ as the gallery likes to put it. In addition to rearranging the paintings and sculptures – very excellently I might add – previously unseen exhibits were added to the galleries. One of these is in a small gallery containing sculptures and some drawings by the British artist Henry Moore (1898-1986).

The additional exhibit in this gallery devoted to Moore is a glass cabinet containing a Ban the Bomb poster – a photomontage – designed by Henri Kay Henrion (1914-1990). I went to school in Belsize Park with one of his sons for a few years. The rest of the contents of the cabinet are documents – mainly press cuttings – about one of the sculptures near to the cabinet. They relate to a sculpture Moore created for the University of Chicago. The bronze sculpture, which at first sight resembles a combination of an atomic ‘mushroom cloud. with a distorted face beneath it, is called “Atom Piece (Working Model for Nuclear Energy)”. The Tate’s website (www.tate.org.uk/art/research-publications/henry-moore/henry-moore-om-ch-atom-piece-working-model-for-nuclear-energy-r1171996) explained:

“As its subtitle suggests, Atom Piece (Working Model for Nuclear Energy) 1964–5 represents the intermediary stage in the development of a much larger sculpture, Nuclear Energy 1964–6, which Moore was commissioned to make for the University of Chicago to mark the twenty-fifth anniversary of the first controlled generation of nuclear power, conducted by the Italian physicist Enrico Fermi in 1942.”

The sculpture next to the cabinet is one of 13 bronze castings that Moore had made from one of his plaster maquettes that were created whilst planning the larger sculpture commissioned by the University of Chicago. Moore donated it to the Tate.

The photomontage by Henrion shows a human skull superimposed by a mushroom cloud. He created it in about 1959. The Tate’s website mentioned that Moore was most probably aware of Henrion’s terrifying image long before he created the sculpture for Chicago:

“Moore is likely to have been familiar with Henrion’s photomontage: in 1950 he had signed a letter published in the Times protesting against the potential use of atomic weapons, and in 1958 had become one of the founding sponsors of the CND.”

Although I have seen the ‘atomic’ sculpture by Moore at Tate Britain many times, I had not taken any special interest in it. However, thanks to the superb ‘rehang’ at the gallery and the addition of the glass case containing Henrion’s image, I began to appreciate the atomic sculpture, and strangely also began to enjoy Moore’s sculptures even more than I had before.