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@147womendinnerparty – An Exhibition in Celebration of 147 Forgotten Women

1 Minute Read

‘If lockdown has taught us one thing worth remembering in 2020, it is how much we have missed eating and drinking with friends and family. To enjoy being human is to share food, drink and the exchange of conversation across a table, not a zoom screen. To listen to another is what it is to be a good human.

I wrote that in 2020. It is also human to forget. Already the idea that we had that time when we couldn’t see each other for dinner or a cup of tea is vanishing into the mists. This is why some don’t seem to care about Downing Street parties. I suppose they have already forgotten that to speak to someone in the street 2 metres apart – was a rare treat. Meanwhile, I was spending my time meditating and embroidering my moth holes… I wrote about it here.

I was in Delphi, Greece when Lockdown happened, visiting the ancient Greek site the Temple to Apollo. We knew it was going to happen but not when. We had bought our tickets months before and faced with grey, cold, damp, uncertain times in Britain It was a Mediterranean dream, empty of people, full of flowers, spring sunshine and an azure blue sea. I wandered around the ruins, did a ritual at the spring on the side of an empty road with a single police car monitoring our movements, I knew about Pythia and wishes. Suddenly the museums were closed, along with the restaurants and the gallery in Athens where we – the artist Wilma and I – were supposed to be in a mixed show. We ate takeaway meals in our bedroom from supermarkets. We swam in freezing water to stop getting ill. We flew back early in time for Lockdown in Britain.

I had a revelation the way you do, whilst at the Temple of Apollo, where the High Priestess, Pythia, foresaw and proclaimed. Why has nobody heard of Pythia? Pythia was a position rather than a person, but these High Priestesses held the most powerful position of any woman in the Ancient World. Leaders would ask for their sage advice and they gave the answers from a state of trance, therefore it wasn’t a women’s word it was Apollo speaking through her! Pythia wrote 147 Maxims for humans to abide by, carved into the stones around the temple.

I have been collecting Motto ware on and off for 15 years. It has a particular home-made quality. In fact, the potteries that started up in the late 1800s making souvenirs for holidaymakers, employed mostly women who made these dark terracotta plates around Torquay and Devon. They are beautifully crafted, each one individual, but all with a set of designs that are interpreted by each painter slightly differently. What interested me were the mottos. Quaint sayings in local dialect etched in but weren’t it time more people knew about Pythia’s maxims?

Britain is becoming an Island once again post Brexit. I wanted to recreate a dinner party that was about being on this small island and how we have treated women as less than equal. Pythia was one of these forgotten women in Ancient Greece. Her maxims were taken on by Socrates and Aristotle, founders of Western Philosophy, as their own and then adopted by all the main religions; male religions.

All of us need reminding that women have been part of the conversation since the beginning, not since the 20th Century. Politicians have put laws in place to restrict women, historians have wiped them out of history, then they have been replaced by men. On talking to Mandee Gage, a ceramic artist, about collaborating on the possibility of making 147 pieces for @147womendinnerparty at Vout-o-Renees, my club and gallery, she reminded me of Judy Chicago’s historic piece that I remembered seeing in Edinburgh on tour in the early 80. It happens to be 50 years since it was first conceived. Unlike Chicago’s dinner party, our tablecloth is hand-painted, there is no embroidery and only Mandee Gage and myself have been involved in the creation. Each piece whether a plate or cup, candlestick holder, vase or jug is traditionally painted not always with the motto ware designs of cottages, trees, sailing boats. Simple design but reinterpreted by us to suit the woman each piece is dedicated to. The mottos are also very different;  they have been replaced by the Pythia’s maxims.


From top to bottom – Jaqueline Gold, Julian of Norwich, Angela Burdett Coutts, Yvonne Connolly.

@147womendinnerparty is on a smaller physical scale than Chicago’s dinner table, but no less important as we celebrate not 39 women but 147 Women who have made Britain what it is.  Not all will have been forgotten by everyone, some may well be famous like JK Rowling, but Storm Jameson in the 40s was as well-known in her time and is no longer in print, or Dodie Smith whose creation lives on in ‘101 Dalmatian’s’, but nobody knows her name. If you are in their field, you might know their name, but they are not publicly acknowledged or necessarily attached to the important work they achieved during their lifetime. They might not have all been born on this small island but they have settled here and adopted our land, at a time when freedom of movement didn’t solely rely on how wealthy you were to enter a country, The 18ft dining table is laid out with each of the 147 pieces dedicated to each woman and their portrait is on the wall with a small biography on what they remarkably achieved. From Pythia to suffragettes to the eco-warriors of today, to queens and Nobel prize winners, inventors and lawyers, scientists, philosophers and artists.

Thus, this installation raises the dead and begins another conversation about men and women, feminism and power, creativity and achievement, the lost and found. By making these pieces we remember how the original unnamed potters and painters have been lost, how Britain was a place of slavery for so long and many of the rich and powerful thought nothing of it, and how the trend still continues as companies refuse to acknowledge the creativity of their individual employees, much as the Torquay and Devon potteries used to behave. Those names have been lost but with the miracle of the internet, we can all find women who should be better remembered.  It doesn’t always have to be Shakespeare and Marlow when there is Aphra Benn and Mary Montague! The things in our home don’t have to be mass produced, we make choices to forget or remember but being conscious and acting consciously is our daily choice. Celebrating women is the very essence of this show.


Teapot to Mary Wollstonecraft.

It has been a long two years and simultaneously, it has whizzed by. A thought became an idea, this then became a reality once I’d spoken to Mandee and we began making. As I researched and talked to other women including Danielle Neary, it also became a podcast @Shadowspies where forgotten women and their stories were brought into the light. It is hard to get your head around,  whatever gender you are, how subjugated women have been for hundreds of years and how many times women have been denied the credit they deserve for the work they do, whether that be as Bletchley Park code breakers, spies, scientists or mothers and carers. I guess we just don’t want to think about who bares the responsibility for the lack of parity. I hope children will see this exhibition and think, things have changed because of what we, as single humans do to make the difference, to make it better for others as well as ourselves, wherever we have come from. In political speech – because Its the Right Thing To Do!

A book accompanies the exhibition which includes images and biogs. All pieces are for sale prices from £40 to £250 includes a book.



Emily Williamson  and Moina Mathers


@147WomenDinnerParty -An installation in 147 pieces by Sophie Parkin & Mandee Gage

Showing At –

The Stash Gallery@Vout-O-Reenees, London 10.2.22 – 26.2.22.

The Beecroft Art Gallery, Southend 6.3.22 – 28.3.22

Broomhill Estate Sculpture Park + Gallery 8.4.22 – 2.5.22

A Guide to Surviving A Pandemic by Sophie Parkin

12 Minute Read

To make it through a pandemic – if you are me –
You will need:
A telephone, modern mobile pref
Some books, assorted 50-100 – fiction, poetry, short stories, history, philosophy, autobiog, art, various dictionaries
A wifi connection + laptop
One projector
Some empty jam jars – about 30
Weekly delivery from Oddbox – fruit and veg
A diary
Coffee and herbal tea
Paint (I use pigments and refined linseed oil but tubes are fine too), canvas, paper, brushes, turps, rags
Chocolate milk, chocolate bars – whatever takes your fancy current fav Tony Chocolonely
A bottle of dark rum – good quality for emergency chocolate milk

Some wine, European, good quality
Regular mail delivery
Postcards, envelopes and stamps
A crush, it is nice to daydream of another time and place
Five empty note/sketchbooks without lines and at least 10 Muji 0.5 ink pens
A garden, seeds, trowel and enthusiasm
A comfortable bed and bedding. I am happiest with French linen sheets and an eiderdown both underneath and on top, but I believe this is my particular
An alarm clock for meditating set to 31mins
A radio
A sewing basket
A comfortable chair/sofa for reading/ watching films/meditating
A yoga mat
A bicycle – this is now less necessary since it was stolen
Walking shoes
Good neighbours
Friends and family who can use WhatsApp
A surreal sense of humour
A slug of empathy
A barrel of not taking yourself too seriously
A box of good imagination
A sprinkling of willpower
A bucket of curiosity
A pinch of perspective
A carton of top non-judgement, and some apologies
A Spotify account
A lot of deep breathes
A note in the kitchen that reads – happiness comes from within
Ingredients are not necessarily in that order

Most recipes don’t unless they are Christmas cake, have such a large selection of ingredients but surviving a pandemic requires emergency supplies. It’s like preparing to make Christmas cakes for royal families everywhere in the world. Except it’s just me, by myself now.

This is a luxury. I did have my gorgeous son with me for the first nine months, but we couldn’t cope in a one-bedroom flat, and now he lives elsewhere, and I visit twice a week with shopping. Alone with all these ingredients in this second lockdown, I feel less in need of so many jam jars. The jam jars are to distribute all the ginger marmalade, aubergine Sri Lankan chutney, lemon curd and salsa verde that I make. The last lockdown I tried to learn Spanish every day for a month now I can’t remember a word. Gracias!

I’m certainly utilising my living room with all the paints, pigments and canvas which has become a studio. It’s no longer just a reading room with its large bookshelves, dining room with its table, or cinema with the one bare wall where I project from my laptop countless Preston Sturgis, Powell+Pressburger, Hitchcock, Fellini and De Sica movies. Here I have the separate space that allows me not to leave the flat and not feel that cabin fever will overwhelm me. Some days I run down the four stairs into the kitchen and out into the garden, then back again and every other day or so, I go to the Post Office, then buy milk and bread from the bakers. I was going on bicycle rides as well, but that will have to wait until spring. I hope someone is enjoying my rusty old gold Raleigh.










I wake in the morning, always trying to remember enough of my dreams to write something down. I seem to alternate between Armageddon, last place on earth, or expensive costume dramas in luxury mansions with endless performances. Some days there is total clarity, others a thick fog and then two days later it comes to me… I was in Italy!

I jump out of bed and say as I draw the curtains, ‘What Amazing things will happen today?’ because you never know. The time can be anything from 8-10 am, and I have no need to be strict about getting up. With no appointments for work or social, does it matter what time I start my meditation? But the one thing I’ve learnt is that meditation delayed can often mean it never appears. And a day without reflecting is like a day without sunshine, I’d rather have it even if it’s for only 15 mins.

Why I have spent so many years not meditating is beyond me? I suppose it’s why so many people I know don’t practice at all. It’s free. It requires no membership contract, studio or equipment, other than you and your dedication; in other words, it’s almost too good to be true. So most people don’t believe it will benefit them because it requires only willpower. Meditation is the only proved discipline that keeps the brain cells expanding as we get older. It keeps me calm with a sunny disposition; it delights me with unexpected ideas and delivers what I need from the universe. The other day I opened my eyes, knowing that my purpose was to inspire joy. I don’t have to win a prize. I have to bring joy, what a relief! So with that in mind, I always wear nice bright clothes, do my hair and makeup plus never forget a hat. Other people have to look at me in the street, so I try not to be an eyesore!

I have breakfast every day, something I used to think below me. Usually some muesli with plain live yoghurt and a homemade fruit compote with ginger. And sometimes some fresh fruit on top too – gild that lily. I have a lurking glut of kiwis, and yet I eat the peach. I make coffee from two different ground coffee types in a cafetiere with milk in a Mottoware jug heated up in the microwave. I drink my coffee out of a handmade @MandeeGage mug. It’s these small rituals in a diary of nothing that gives urgency to the day. Sometimes I will eat breakfast, exercise, shower, meditate, and then have my coffee and sit down to work on my laptop or my phone, topping up social media, reading what’s on other peoples’ minds, and adding funny thoughts into the Vout-O-Reenee’s WhatsApp group. Though my business premises are closed, my business is never closed. There is plenty to keep one person busy looking after members, applying for grants, working out ways to make money whilst my partner is furloughed on the other side of the world. I’ve had my website re-designed, a shop built, ticketing put in – the whole caboodle but I have to make the caboodle.

I tend to do my reading in the morning, or first thing, my writing. However, my painting is a thing of the night, and there is nothing I like more than listening to philosophical podcasts whilst grinding pigments. I am on a Jungian bent (This Jungian Life, Salome The Red Book) at the moment though I have been obsessed for the last few years with the Stoics. There is no doubt that Stoicism from Epictetus, Marcus Aurelius, Hecate, and Seneca helps keep me sane when the world tells me otherwise. These books are by my bed.

I will paint before as well as after I make dinner. And when I say make dinner, that’s one of my great pleasures – lunch will be a piece of toast some cheese and homemade chutney – but for dinner, I will slow roast tomatoes with chipotle, garlic and oregano from Mount Parnassus near Delphi. I will make a tortilla from scratch to have with the tomato sauce and a salad with watercress and oranges. Yes -all that care just for me. And I might even make a rice pudding. And why wouldn’t I? If I am not willing to spend time on myself, why would anyone else? I am beginning to understand that what we do in the outside world is responding to the deficit within. That for us to change the world outside our walls, we must change our relationship with ourselves. Jung calls this shadow work.

The things annoying you about the outside world are usually things about yourself you haven’t accepted. Like that bossy blustering Boris who never thinks before he speaks, or Priti Patel just trying to wing it with so little substance and so much confidence in deriding others. I see all that in myself sometimes, and it makes me want to gag, but I’m conscious, and I’m not sure how much of the government is, any government in the middle of this crisis.

I like sending postcards and packages to my friends and family. I like waiting in a Post Office queue just watching. I’m lucky enough to live between Stoke Newington and Stamford Hill’s Jewish community. I love seeing the families from my window on Friday nights and Saturday dressed in their best-going-to-synagogue wear. The kids are all in matching outfits playing in the streets on their scooters or pushing their younger siblings in prams, the boys and men huddled together in their tailored suits, white stockings and fur hats discussing the Torah. Social distancing seems a million miles away as it does on Church Street where the affluent anoraks parade inside and outside the expensive American health food stores. I want to shout; ‘Try the Turkish family store’.

The peacocks are hibernating I expect, sewing fabulous costumes of colour and spectacle. When spring hits us, I anticipate a magnificent carnival display down Dalston! I have been mostly darning, using bright embroidery threads to decorate the holes left by the ravenous moth family that stuffed itself silly over Christmas on my cashmere, Merino and lambswool. Now my jumpers, jackets and scarves look like they’ve been flicked with paint from a rainbow palette. I hope to start a trend that will stop people from throwing moth-eaten garments away by upcycling them into the height of fashionability so that people in Chelsea will be faking/making holes to ‘get that look’.

Darning moth holes allows me to watch old Hollywood movies or Netflix rubbish without feeling I’m squandering time. Because the cost to me is that I will never get this lack of pressure back again, which is silly because I will, I give myself the pressure, so I can damn well take it away. I worry that I will never have enough time to read all the books I want to, write all the books I need to, (slightly less worried about this as there are more than enough books in the world), paint all the paintings I want to, make all the people I love, feel truly loved. As I’m also the bringer of joy, there’s no option to be lazy.

Today I talk to my daughter Carson in Ramsgate on WhatsApp video. This is as close as we get to a hug. I’m so proud of her. Tomorrow I’ll visit my mum with a box full of homemade food. She likes trifle, so I always make a version of that. It’s not as if she can’t cook her food and maybe I do it as much for me as for her. Mum and I, we’re good. She said; ‘if it’s this pandemic that takes me then that’s what it is, I’ve had a great life, and I’m 88 almost 89, and maybe I’m not meant to live to 100, I’ve got to go sometime.’ I like that sanguine acceptance. Yes, we do have to go some time, it’s just, are you ready to leave the party? Have you done the work you were put on this earth to do?

Have you fulfilled your destiny? I know I haven’t, I’m sure my mum has, but I will miss her like hell when she leaves. But I will see that she knows I love her and I know she has loved me. However, I don’t think she’ll be going anytime soon, she’s just had her second vaccination and feels ‘full of beans and quite cosy’, plus she is starting a new series of collages.

At some point during the day, I will make cups of tea, eat chocolate, make phone calls or send texts to check that those I love are okay. I might make something from all the fruit and veg from my weekly Oddbox delivery. Now, what shall I do with white carrots, pickle them? And all those parsnips? Some nights I have a glass of wine. Most nights not but I like the thought that I can.

Just before bed, I’ll do the washing up, make a large cup of chamomile and mint tea, brush my teeth, touch my toes and thank the universe for another day that’s rushed by. When I finally tumble into bed at night, it is with a definite sense of abundance, sometimes it’s after a warm bath with scented oils, but I have a propensity to fall asleep in baths, so I put the radio on quite loud. I don’t intend to drown. I like my bedsheets to be French linen, white, clean and with an eiderdown and quilt and lots of pillows. There are piles of books to peruse whilst I lather unguents into my face and hands like a 1950s sitcom. I listen to the late news either at 10 or 12 pm. There are no rules since I got divorced two years ago!

I’m accountable to no one and yet to everyone in a pandemic, for though we must keep apart, we must always remember that especially post Brexit, no man Is an Island. That when we come through this, whenever that is, we will continue to give each other a helping hand, as well as all those hugs we’ve missed and not to stand with harsh judgements over each other’s behaviour. The other day I had a surprise phone call from an old friend who rang to see how I was getting on; ‘I suppose you’re madly creative’, he said. ‘Painting, writing…’ Yes, I answered all that. I felt too guilty to tell him about my moth embroidery, marmalade making, gardening, conversations with the squirrels and birds; it seemed too much like virtue signalling.

As enjoyable as I’m finding this time, life should not be about treading water. I do not wish that we go back to how we were before Covid when there is so much more joy to be created and shared. We can invent a better way to be together. Perhaps we are all being recalibrated so that our pre-pandemic, anxious, rushing, headless chicken within disappears.

Living in London during Lockdown – Sophie Parkin

8 Minute Read

Sophie Parkin is a writer, artist and poet. Her most recent book is A History of Soho’s The Colony Club. She owns an artist club in East London Vout-o-Reenees. During the lockdown, she’s taken to the cocktail shaker. With or without her ex-husband, Jan.

I nearly lost it yesterday. I thought I was enjoying this time. I never seem to have enough time. But suddenly I was mad as hell, I wasn’t going to be able to take it any more, my head was going to explode in frustration. For three and a half hours, I had been trying to sort out my Amazon account as a seller, none of my books was left on sale because my lovely book distributors had closed for the duration.

This was the ideal time to sell books, wasn’t it?

This is when people have time and might actually read my books, or just buy it and look at the pictures. This was an opportunity from nowhere and the one time it happens, none are for sale…. typical!

My final outburst was caused by realising I was shouting at a typing robot. I had to laugh. This wasn’t anything to do with the lockdown getting to me, this is what it’s always like dealing with any of those faceless global brands, any day any year.  So at two in the afternoon, I stopped and had a long soak in a scented bath, washed my hair, did half an hour of meditation and started again.

Discarding my annoyance, I contemplated what I should make of this day? Should I organise another part of my flat, pick up the phone and have one of the many extended catch-ups with friends I don’t see or talk enough to, or repair all the moth holes in my jumpers? Or make marmalade? I could make marmalade with ginger. Rice pudding? Wild garlic pesto.

I have been doing a lot of cooking, not just for me but also for my son Cameron who was between accommodations at Christmas and was looking for a place when this happened. He has been sleeping on a blow-up mattress in the front room of my one-bedroom flat, not ideal but we have a garden so we are blessed. He is a lovely boy of 32. Where did those years go? It is hard for mothers to see their sons as men in these times, which are so much to do with caring and rubbing along in the make-believe of normal family life but none of this is normal. I haven’t spent so much time with him since before he was 12? 8? Played football.

I do find myself sectioning out days to deal with stuff, work. I have a business and the priority is how I’m to keep it running and relevant. Emails to the council, trips onto Gov.UK for latest updates, calls to the accountant, is it worth being furloughed it turns out not -because to be paid by the government as a director of my company I am not allowed to do ANY work from my company accountants of social media or emails. What are they trying to do, kill us all?

For Vout-O-Reenee’s, I keep up the jolliness quota with my silly Vout’s Cocktail Masterclass (Slim Gaillard would have loved these!) – I go to the club once a week to check on paperwork, my ex-husband Jan Vink and the plants, and I make three videos of three drinks and post them through the week. People seem to like them. They are not professional in the least, they have Jan and I back-biting, laughing at each other rather than with, and recall Fanny Craddock and Jonny. Sometimes Jan doesn’t even appear because he’s so annoyed with me! I just thank the Universe that we aren’t still married, otherwise one of us would be a casualty. All it would take is a bottle to the back of the head. This is real life, but is it relevant?

Let's spread Joy…

Geplaatst door Sophie Parkin op Vrijdag 24 april 2020

I keep on coming back to that word; relevant. When I was swept up in how life used to be, the hamster wheel of keeping a business, including an art gallery going; I hadn’t stopped for a long time, certainly not to think about what is and isn’t relevant. Now I think about it almost every day.

The books I thought I would read in an orgy of indulgence – for that is how I saw lockdown like a greedy girl ‘oh good I’ll be able to read…everything!’ – half I have tossed to one side as irrelevant. I find myself going back to the classics – William James, RS Thomas, Seneca, Marcus Aurelius, Epictetus. Essays by Michel de Montaigne. Then searching for things to make me laugh, Dorothy Parker can be a little depressing but I return to Carson McCullers and Flannery O’Connor, A Good Man is Hard To Find, short stories. Black humour seems a little tasteless yet Francis Plug Writer in Residence by Paul Ewan still appeals to me and there’s comfort in Sue Townsend’s The Diaries of Adrian Mole.

There is not enough good writing that makes you howl with laughter. There is too much misery. The largest prize in literature should go to the books that make us laugh, anyone can bring you down with good writing like Karl Ove Knusgaard’s My Struggle but what about his poor kids! Lifting the spirits takes a gargantuan effort that belies its lightness of touch. That’s why there isn’t much comedy on the BBC. I expect it’s too damn difficult.

My mum, Molly Parkin a proud 88-year-old, has been locked in now for six weeks with me visiting for the last two once ever five days. She is full of beans, she laughs from the moment she gets up, to the moment she falls asleep. Last week her activities included putting some eggs onto boil, only to find Steve the fireman waking her up by pummelling the door down. She’d left them a bit too long and they were burning. She still laughed.

When my mother was five she had mastoid and was put into isolation. She expected to be taken by the angels but someone had other ideas. She regularly rings me up and says – ‘Where’s my special delivery chef?’ leaving me concerned that she has discovered Deliveroo, but she’s talking about me and Masterchef in one breath. I cook up a storm and expect it to last, but in one day she’s gobbled it all down. Home cooking, not shopping is the answer to a lot of love at this time. She once gave me the sage advice not to invite any paramours to dinner in my home if I wanted to be taken out to fancy restaurants, and I wasn’t entirely sure of the man.

’Once you get them in the back kitchen and start cooking for them, they’ll never want to go anywhere else.’ She was right. Trying to get my husband to take me out for dinner was like asking for Elizabeth Taylor’s diamond rings!

And what of love? How are you supposed to date? Are couples having sex like never before or in exactly the same way? I doubt with this uncertainty that there will be a baby boom, more time doesn’t always lead to inclination. So it has to be friendship, making each other laugh over the phone or with a WhatsApp message. And I’d just got some super sexy new underwear, damn – my timing is out not just on books. No point in preparing the fire that cannot be lit, let alone stoked for another 3 weeks – with government guidelines.

To laugh and be light in this heavy time is a gift that needs spreading. Forget the conspiracy theories.  Books recommended by members of Vouts include – The Colony Room as an e-book on Kindle (and all my teenage series The Life and Loves of Lily). David Sedaris – Dress Your Children in Corduroy and Denim. Diary of a Nobody by The Grossmith Bros. Pale Fire By Nabokov. A Confederacy of Dunces, John Kennedy Toole. A fraction of the Whole by Steve Toltz. Rude Britannia by Tim Fountain. The Thought Gang by Tibor Fischer. Augustus Carp Esq by Henry Howarth Bashford. Money by Martin Amis. Portnoy’s Complaint by Philip Roth. The Education of Hyman Kaplan by Leo Rosten. Spike Milligan, Anything by Jeffrey Bernard and My Last Breath by Luis Bunuel.

So meditation, acceptance of how it is, cooking with love, and laughter are my answer to getting out of this lockdown alive, What’s the laugh out loud funniest book you’ve ever read and reread during this time? Answers on a postcard…. maybe we can start a book club but only for books that make you laugh.  See you at Vout-o-Reenees.  @Voutoreenees_  @TheStashGallery_London.

The Culture Interview: John Claridge

1 Minute Read

Sophie Parkin questions remarkable photographer, John Claridge who was born in Plaistow. His new book East End shows a part of London that we have forgotten but he has not.

How old are you and how old do you feel?

My wife, Janet, sometimes thinks I act like a twelve-year-old, a little harsh I think, maybe fifteen? Okay, okay 71.

How old were you when you started taking pictures?

About eight. I guess it started when my Dad asked me why I wanted to win a plastic camera at the fair on Wanstead Flats. I didn’t know why. Then I said that I wanted to take this special day home with me. I was just fascinated by what this magic box could hold and possess. I still feel this way.

Who or what has been your greatest inspiration in image-making?

When I was 15, I saw the work of Walker Evans, Bill Brandt, Robert Doisneau, Andre Kertesz, Josef Sudek, Irving Penn, Eugene Smith, Paul Strand and Robert Frank.   As you grow up your eyes are being opened up all the time and seeing the work of great photographers allows that to happen right across the spectrum of passion within photography.

Of all the portraits you took, which was your favourite subject and why?

This is a very difficult question to answer. I’ve been very lucky to have spent time and to have met some very special people who all have their own individual persona.

There are three people who, for very different reasons, bring back fond memories.   One being Tommy Cooper whom I photographed in 1967, this was at Thames Television.  After I had finished shooting some pictures in colour, I said to Tommy I’d like to take some serious portraits of him for myself in black and white, to which he agreed. I also mentioned to him, “Do not make me laugh.”  Which was probably not a very clever thing to say. I got three or four rolls that were very serious, sad and deep. He then said, “This is serious!  Aaahh-aahh!”  That was it. By the time I had finished I had tears running down my cheeks, I was laughing so much. I must say I found him very obviously, funny, sad and charming.

In 1966, John Huston was in Rome having completed his latest film The Bible when Dennis Hackett commissioned Irma Kurtz and myself to travel to Rome to do a feature on him for Nova Magazine. Coincidently, Sophie Parkin’s Mum, Molly, was the Fashion Editor of the magazine at that time.  Over several days I shot pictures of him and then in the evenings, we would join him for dinner. Each night I would sit opposite him and he would tell me stories about Bogart (The Maltese Falcon, The African Queen etc) and also discuss cinematography and other photographers. He introduced me to Havana cigars. His secretary and PA at that time was a lovely lady called Gladys Hill who I used to call Auntie Glad. On several occasions, Auntie Glad would, with great affection, chastise me for encouraging Huston to drink too much.   Can you imagine that! It would be a couple of years later that I discovered that ‘Auntie Glad’ had written the screenplay for the film Reflections in A Golden Eye. So you never know…

For 14 years, I shared the lease of 47 Frith Street with Ronnie Scott and Pete King (Ronnie Scott’s Jazz Club). Ronnie and Pete had the club and the first floor and I had the two top floors, where I lived and had my studio. So every night I would go to sleep listening to jazz, which is great if you love jazz and I do. Anyway, in 1986 Chet Baker was playing at Ronnie Scott’s, we met and I asked to take his portrait. So we’re in my studio and I said to him “I have to tell you this. When I was 13, I bought an EP of yours called Winter Wonderland.” He lifted his head and said “Yes”, then talked about the line-up and for a few seconds was miles away with his memories and that was when I shot the picture. I don’t think magic pictures come along that often, but I think this was one of them.

What made you retire from the lucrative world of advertising?

I think when the fun started going out of the advertising business for me was when it began moving towards every creative decision seeming to be made by committee, which, for me, is the very opposite of producing an original piece of work. You might as well sell rock ‘ard tomatoes off a stall.

Personally, I feel I certainly lived through the golden age of advertising, working with great art directors, creative directors, designers, typographers, and writers. And believe it or not, some good advertising account people and clients who were not frightened to explore unknown territory and did not indulge in, as Basil Fawlty would say, the bleeding obvious.

The norm nowadays seems to me to be based on other criteria, that being of running scared and chasing the money. I would like to end with a quotation from Andrei Tarkovsky, “Modern mass culture, aimed at the ‘consumer’, the civilisation of prosthetics, is crippling people’s souls, setting up barriers between man and the crucial questions of his existence, his consciousness of himself as a spiritual being.”

You took so many photographs of the East End, how do you feel about its changing face?

As I’ve said many times before, my East End has gone, so for me, it’s very difficult to comment on an environment that is not mine. I understand the question but I’m not nostalgic or sentimental about its passing, but there again, maybe I am, but not for trivial reasons.

It’s not just the East End but many communities that are becoming more and more fragmented. Having said that, I’m sure there are still bastions within the East End and Soho etc, that continue to hold on to that integrity. I do wonder how long that special feeling can last with the amount of corporate greed that seems to exist.

I think I was lucky to have lived through a special time in the East End when good manners and looking after each other had a true value. Maybe what I’m trying to say is the East End could be a land of great violence and of great beauty.

How would you like to be remembered?

If someone could think of me in the same way as I did when looking at great photographs. Images that tore my soul apart, that would be okay. Or maybe, just a smile and a tear.

Bonuses of getting older?

I’ll let you know when I do.

Which photograph are you proudest?

I’m still looking.

When were you happiest?

I’m always happy when I take pictures. Mind you, I did have a good bottle of red last night and Janet thought I was very happy

John Claridge’s book East End  is published on 1 June by Spitalfields Life £25.


Opens 1st JUNE – July 21st 2016 at The Stash Gallery at VOUT-O- REENEE’S, The Crypt, 30 Prescot Street, London E1 8BB

There is a special offer pre-show discount on Claridge’s photographs from now until May 30th in the on-line shop at

Summing Up (on the death of my Father)

1 Minute Read

There are disadvantages, My lack of Algebra,

But how you could do the maths.

When adding up all this used time,

Equations disappear like a boy-racer on the run

Sums dawdle and toddle in a toyshop rhyme.

I would like to express some time as –

A = X 1 million.

Other times don‘t deserve any letter, from any alphabet,

Would indeed, indent into fractions of trillions of minus’ –

And that was my, your, a life I suppose.

Equating the fastness of time, to sound and light,

Extracts those summers, the disappearing nights.

Life’s productions multiplied

To appropriate pleasures,

The joy subtracted from pain

Is that equal to funs gain?

What did one accrue in all those years?

Of time wasted never made

Promises broken not saved.

The points that stack up from birth to death,

The medals, the prizes were they worth that sweat?

Television smiles, headline news

The disappointment in sizes,

The derision, and the surprises.

At least there were hands to hold in the end

Eh? 1 plus 1 equals love, invented

Laugh, fun and joy, cemented.

But for what, once you’ve gobbled up your lot?

Actually -That’s quite a bit at the end of the pot.

Sophie Parkin

Photo by Claire Lawrie

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