The Islington Art Circle: A Part of Canonbury Culture

 

The School Art Club

 

The School Art Club at Barnsbury Secondary School for Boys was initiated by Mr Frank Walton, the head of the Art Department at the request of about five boys who were very keen on art. It was an immediate success and 20 boys signed up as members, with the promise of additional recruits. Our activities in the art room began at four o’clock on Wednesdays and Fridays and it was plain to see that the keenness was quite contagious as the boys painted, drew or made anything they wanted. Their interesting work was displayed in the art room and was a source of pride to both pupils and master alike.

Ockie Road Ramblers
 





























































































































First Taste

SOME events remain etched in thought, sometimes active, often dormant.
They lie waiting to be recollected at a special moment.
For example, I have always supposed that lots of people take eating
lobster, or Italian food, or caviar, for granted. Not so in my case: I
was in my 40th year before I tasted lobster. My wife now makes great
Italian food, but caviar has yet to become part of my regular diet!

Perhaps man does not live by truffles alone, but recently one of those
distant memories surfaced: the time when I considered a pineapple, or
rather a small slice of it, rarer than a moon rock.
As youngsters, my friends and I usually spent Saturday mornings visiting
Ridley Road, or sometime Chapel Street markets, picking up wooden crates
to sell for firewood, or pickets for fences. One day, as we were leaving the
Ridley Road Market,, laden with the usual pile of crates, we heard a typical
Cockney voice carry over the hubbub of the crowded marketplace. “ Cum
on, nah, getcha pineapple ‘ Luvly pineapple, just like before the wore. Awl fresh.
A tanner a slice.”

At first, I was drawn to the monetary amount. What single item would
cost six whole pennies? It seemed a lot for a slice of anything.
Following the voice, we found on display slices of the palest, most
anaemic-looking substance any of us had every seen. The barrow owner eyed
us momentarily, then decided he might have a potential customer or two.
“Cum  on nah, lads. I bet none of yer ‘ ever tasted pineapple, ‘ave yer?” Our
heads shook in unison. “ Awl right then, ‘ere’s yer big charnce. Only a tanner, and
you can taste one of the fruits of ‘er Majesty’ Empire, all the way from Sahf Afica.” (sic)

We looked from the bloke's tanned, lined face and sharp eyes, content to let him
continue talking, then moved away. Wooden crates we knew about, but these
pineapple things were something else. We’d only heard of their existence.

Johnny, the sceptic, said they were probably fake, like the plaster
chickens Knapmann's the butcher in Balls Pond Road  put in his window to give
an appearance of prewar abundance. But curiosity piqued, we found ourselves back
at the stall. “'ullo boys, back agin, are we? I tell yer, you ain’ likely to every see a
pineapple for anuvver six years, if you don’ take yer charnces nah. Only  one ship came
in, and I bought the lot.”

Again, we withdrew. Six years? Now time had been added to economics. We
hurriedly searched our pockets and came up a penny short. Once more we
approached the barrow. “ Cum on nah, boys. Make up yer minds. Ya wanna piece
or not?”

“ Do ya 'ave a piece for fivepence?” said Terry, hand clutched tight around our
entire fortunes. The barker’ eyes glittered. “ I ain’ gonna make much of
a living like that, am I?” He looked at us all carefully, then screwed
up his face as though making a momentous decision. “Of course, every
piece is werf a tanner - lessee nah ...” and he carefully looked over
the spread of pineapple slices. “ere’s a nice piece, but I’d be losing money
on it, of course, if I let it go for less than the regular price.”
He seemed to be exploiting our weakness for the exotic. He made a “V” of
his thumb and index finger to cup his chin, pulling his mouth to one
side. Then, “ You boys haven’t done anything nort'ee lately, have you?” We
frantically shook our heads. “ Awl right then, seeing as you look like nice kids,
I’ll make a special allowance.” We counted the pennies into his hand, and they
disappeared into the black leather bag around his waist. Then, reaching back in
a ceremonious gesture, he handed over a slice of pale fruit on a piece of wax paper.

Bill, being the largest shareholder, had the honour of taking the slice.
He held it in his hand, and we all stared at it. “ Go on, then, Bill, see
what it tastes like.” Our rapt faces searched his. Would he like it or not?
Bill gingerly nipped a small piece from the stringy pulp and for a
moment, he registered nothing on his face. Then his lips puckered and he
screwed up his face. “Oooo it’s real tangy,” he said. All our faces followed
suit as we tasted, in turn, the soft fruit. That first taste of pineapple has
 lingered on the tip of my tongue and my  memory ever since, always to
be remembered and recalled.

So in the US, when my daughter returned from a shopping trip with a Kiwi fruit and
said she had paid 75 cents for the small fruit, my tolerance for such an
expenditure was intact. I remembered that grey day in London and the
sad-looking piece of pineapple lying there.

In these sophisticated days, now that I am partaking of mangoes, and
pomegranates, and papaya as part of my fruit fare, I wonder what all the
fuss was about an overpriced piece of pineapple. First tastes, like first loves and
first fruits, are never truly forgotten. They remain deep in our memories, often unthought
of and dormant until some special thought or person brings them to the surface.
But they never disappear.


© Copyright 2001 Roy H. Barnacle. All rights reserved.




                          
 Not that members of the Art Club were restricted in any way - indeed, Mr. Walton expected a diverse output of work ranging from conventional painting techniques to clay modelling and experimental media such as papier maché.
In 1960, when I was fifteen years old, Mr Walton encouraged any of his pupils in the school’s Art Club to join the I.A.C. This was an ideal opportunity to branch out from the school’s formal studies to an environment that provided a means of self-expression in a congenial atmosphere.
Barnsbury Secondary School for Boys 1965
                                     
                                                                                                                                                                                              
      Frank Walton
Ockendon's Trees
Not only did the boys execute their own works, but sometimes unique opportunities came their way such as when the school’s Drama Club required scenery painted for “Treasure Island”, one of the plays performed at the school. Much imagination and ingenuity was used when painting the props and backdrop, which took just over a week to complete.
A year or so after the Art Club’s formation, Mr. Walton decided that it would be advantageous for members of the club to meet and mix with other artists in the community. He then introduced us to the Islington Art Circle and to a whole new world of experience. The first exposure was submitting an entry for the I.A.C.’s Spring Exhibition held in the Central Library, Holloway Road, in May, 1961. I was honoured to represent the school when one of my paintings was exhibited at the show.
    Tree Gardens
    Our Street
    Pet's Corner
  

 

The Islington Art Circle
Barry J Page
Canada
August 2009
t was more than a group of individuals who wanted to express and practice their interest in art. It was also a fellowship club, the organization of which was presided over by husband and wife, George and Deb Bunting. George, an engineer by profession, was an easy-going, pipe smoking and puckish 'mein host'. His auburn close-cropped hair and goatee made him instantly recognizable, and his infectious chuckle and twinkling eyes endeared him to everyone. Deb was equally as gregarious and hovered around as the proverbial hostess welcoming all into their period Canonbury villa where the I.A.C. met for its art and club business sessions.
 Grange Grove seems to come to mind.  Typical of the large houses, a covered, columned portico and short flight of steps beckoned visitors to the substantial front door. Once inside the vestibule and central hallway, the expansive interior suggested a bygone age of stately ladies in crinolines and Regency tailored gentlemen.

One of the downstairs rooms was reserved for the regular Monday evening life drawing sittings. At these sessions, the I.A.C. invited models to pose in the nude for the
I know that the Bunting's house was within a relatively short walking distance from my home in Highbury Station Road through Canonbury Square and, although I cannot recall the exact location,
members to capture on canvas, board and paper. Each mose their own posture and remained in this position for a substantial length of time. Usually there was a break in the sitting then another session followed. At the end of the sitting a general discussion ensued as members circulated and critiqued each other’s work; then Deb threw open her house for refreshments that consisted mainly of cheese and wine, and other beverages.
The Islington Art Circle (I.A.C.) had been in existence for quite some time before I was introduced to the society. It was well entrenched as part of the Canonbury cultural scene and attracted like-minded artists from a wide radius.

 

                Central Library, Holloway Road

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The models varied: male and female, young and middle-aged, but all were of a good calibre and presented themselves with decorum. This was important as the essence was purely artistic and something I learned to respect. For a teenager confronted with the naked, curvaceous body of a mature woman, such respect was expected. There were, however, lighthearted moments such as one particular female model, whose entrance into the studio room was bizarre. The door would suddenly fly open and she would flamboyantly soar across the room in two or three bounds, launch onto the waiting sofa and drape herself over the upholstery like a dying swan. Whatever position she reclined in was the subject pose of the evening.

 

The wine and cheese parties, themselves, were relatively lavish given the setting and coterie of guests. Certainly the wine flowed and Deb, the good-natured hostess, flitted around ensuring that everyone was having a good time. George meandered through the rooms, puffing on his favourite brier, and welcomed all arrivals with a hearty handshake and a beaming smile. Despite appearing out of place in an adult’s surroundings, the three teenagers of Chris Bunting, Michael Stewart and myself blended in well and helped consume both the mountains of sandwiches and carafes of vino. We also happened to meet agreeable members of the opposite sex that helped to make memorable occasions of these soirées.

The I.A.C.’s venue for artists was also a social nucleus for Canonbury’s literati and the Buntings were well known providers of convivial wine and cheese parties. Despite being an underage drinker, my membership in the society was an open-sesame to the social functions. Additional to this, I had another passport of sorts whenever a party was in the offing. The Bunting’s son, Chris, attended my senior school and was able to forewarn me of any upcoming festivities at home.

 

 

         Chris Bunting
A major influence in the I.A.C. was its honorary president, the noted architect, Sir Basil Spence. In 1965, the I.A.C. organised a coach outing for its members to visit one of Sir Basil’s architectural masterpieces, the new Coventry Cathedral. I distinctly remember travelling on the M1 motorway, which at that time was virtually devoid of any traffic, and arriving outside the new, modern edifice, which was in complete juxtaposition to the ruins of the 12th century St. Michael’s cathedral shell and spire. The melding between the old and new was remarkable. This experience taught me a great deal about the complexities of architecture, which as another art form, blended well with the philosophies of the Islington Art Circle.

 

               Coventry Cathedral 1965