From the forthcoming publication
MEMOIRS OF A STREET SIGN
This page hard copy is in progress.
Chapter 17
Meeting my masters: Sign Writer Andrew Whitmore. and Richard Apps
I first met Andy my teacher in 1982. He had a studio in Clapham South on Nightingale Lane by the common’s edge. There he could be found in an old London stock, arched brickwork, coach house, set back under a huge horse chestnut and always looked like a great, dappled studio space as the road winds left down past the Youngs pub The Nightingale, with its famously etched windows, and onwards to the Hope and quaintish Wandsworth common. I knew places by the pubs not because I was a drinker but because of the lettering.
I used to drive through Nightingale Lane a lot, on the way to my (Wu Shu Kwan) ‘Kung Fu’ school. Often I’d see his beach buggy parked outside his workshop, and wondered ‘what was this dude doing in there?’ He looked quite a character, not London at all, quite ‘Catweasel’, with scraggy, sandy tone fuzzy hair and crazed, cheap, vinyl leather punk trousers, – the only vinyl liked was his scraggy drainpipes… and of course a ripped vest. Very punk-dash-hippy. The sun seemed to always shine down on him there secluded in that corner of the Conker tree edged park.
One day I saw him putting what looked like a sign panel in the back of his buggy. And as if to confirm it all, he had the tell-tale splashed paint down his trousers and I had enough to put two and two together: he must be a for-real sign writer.
So I had the hunch but felt a fair bit wary. Some days passed and I finally I acted on inspiration-impulse, and pulled my minivan into his drive and took a deep breath swinging out, deciding how best to not introduced myself. I was a nervous wreck crossing his threshold.
I walked into this cool dark double garage-stable, studio and there was Andy, with an oily woodbine hanging out of this mouth and a low key half glance as if to say ‘’WTF has fate blown through my door today?’.
Sitting on top of a row of plan chests forming a high bench. Cross legged, pixie-like atop a range of these chests, he was writing tickets, in his fabulously economic, demi bold, ‘slash script’ poster writers’ style – I remember he was painting with French blue ‘Plakka’ paint and zipping out beautiful swash stroked letters, (easy like he was flicking his cigarette or dipping a tea bag), it was so easy, mesmerizing to watch. I just felt compelled in that moment to ask him if he would teach me knowing of course that he likely wouldn’t, and if I could come and work with him.
‘’Well you better come in on Monday and give it a start son’’ he said.
I was shocked, stunned, delighted; absolutely over the moon and that started up part one of my sign writing experience, true sign writing experience and finding out that sign writing as an industry, as full of tricks secrets and techniques as it was interesting colorful, competitive characters on the end of the brush.
So we started by me watching him for hours. Just watching his crumply but big artisanal hands painting hundreds of tickets each day, well certainly dozens of tickets each day this beautiful stroke play and listening to music. And he never drank alcohol, he only smoked his cigarettes – my mental notes included: drinking lots of tea, made great tea and is that kind of simple caring guy – kind and sensitive, Elfin and quite fiery too! If I made any kind of mistake he let me know about it immediately and shuffle around the studio muttering and often just keeping himself in line!
Andy suffered polio when he was a kid and couldn’t manage up ladders, couldn’t manage to climb up scaffolding, so it was really convenient for me to go up there and start to do the work that he couldn’t do and my skills set also combined with his nicely, with my fearless desire to get out on the streets and ask anyone who looked like they needed a sign the question, and quite quickly I was winning new clients around Chelsea and Kings Rd. which he said, was his dream come true. And so Andy was delighted. His workshop lease was expiring and we moved down the way to Wandle workshops, Garrat Lane.
Our new workshop was set right on the mooring edge of the river Wandle, a stone’s throw from Young’s brewery, who we really admired on a number of levels: quality London Ales, The spectacular Dray horse deliveries, and their brand typography. So there was a mix of magic and inspiration there.
The sign writing on those Youngs pubs was absolutely first class.
‘’50 quid a letter they get paid…’’
We often talked about how difficult it was breaking into the brewery market and how Andy dearly wanted to do that but was quite fearful of that jump in skill sets. He had absolutely nothing to fear because his skills were so special and quite incredible.
I was then, with Steve Chamberlain ‘s support, quiet happy to draw up layouts and experiment with new styles and a lot of them were American styles American college stencils and slab serifed Rockwells, drop shadows, lots of fun stuff.
Changes, fading friendships, going solo
The combination of my interest in layouts and Andy’s incredible execution was really a good mix initially. It set us apart and we were making good headway. However, with rising rent costs in the new studio and having to support me, a young lad, along with the biting the pressure of a brief recessionary dip, the increased outgoings were starting to impact on Andy and his morale dipped also.
He was also in a difficult marriage as his wife was also mobility challenged and she was a lovely gal but let a bit of a bohemian lifestyle in so far as she indulged in a polygamy based relationship with Andy. Though he was absolutely dedicated to her it started to pulling him apart emotionally.
A lot of other things aside colluded and conspired, with my struggles with college, stressed by my father’s confrontational rejection of my needs, saw us parting ways after about a year.
I remember Andy was ill with kidney stones and away from the studio for a few weeks and in that time I took on the brush, and covered the work. I delivered everything to our clients and on his return he took that as a sign that I needed to spread my own wings and go my way, and told me it was now time for me to do that
Conversation was brief: ‘’I think these are beautiful Nick, they’re really beautiful… it’s time I think for you to go your own way – you don’t wanna be with me I’m going to hold you back’’ he said.
At that moment I was shocked and yet because I was so close to him and respected him completely, everything he said to me was an absolute carte blanche. No matter what the context whenever Andy said something to me, it was written in stone, it was an absolute and so I listened and never had an idea to say ‘’No Andy it’s important I stay here with you and make this work’’.
Which was what I was feeling in that moment. This lack of words haunts and saddens me. I wanted to stay with my mentor and friend… but I left like the little pup I was, simply because he, my master said so.
I came away from the studio back to the flat I was sharing with Maria my girlfriend, and just sat for about two days in complete silence – which for anyone who knows me is frankly impossible. But there I was. Still empty.
Empty-Full: A special influence
So here I sit forty-five years later still missing him. It will never change. But his legacy grows.
‘’What Andy gave me was much more than an insight into lettering and his incredible brush skills which by virtue of me mainly drooling and watching him all day long, absorbing skills that auto transmitted into my nervous system – unbeknown to me I was watching, and my capacity to learn was soaking up every move twist and turn of his brush, every flow and every flourish that his incredible hand made, and it wasn’t until years later when Tobias Newbigin said something about my technique (it was in the context of him confiding when he left my studio), he went on a journey (without me suggesting he made), to meet ‘everyone’ in sign writing around the UK – and he indeed met everyone, and he worked with them and he helped, and he learned much, carried on learning and he said there was no smoother technique out there, than I had on the brush.
‘’Tobi that’s amazing because what you’re watching, when you see me paint, is the hand of the man that taught me: Andrew Whitmore’’.
Be prepared
My first day in the studio and indeed, my first three months with Andy was all about preparing panels for his contract works that he was regularly producing, for his small but niche roster of clients.
Keens of Clapham and Wandsworth were Ford dealership that he would regularly create posters banners and signs for and I had a brand image of the Ford logo with simple Helvetica medium full titles and strap line text to draw up as a patter, most weeks at different sizes..
Well I had studied with Steve Chamberlain for a few months and become infatuated with Helvetica because in Helvetica there’s hundreds of gemstones hidden gems and beautiful details and if you blow up and enlarge that typeface that is the world’s most popular in your face typeface and probably the world’s most overlooked typeface for beauty and style. But if you look inside the details the counter shapes and in those letters you’ll find a lot of classic lettering in there, really classic shapes, exquisite shapes – I started to refine what I see now has been DNA and core characteristic of my career and current work, which is not just chalk up and bash sign writing: it’s having a completely detailed hard wired basis of design and architecture first, with a typographers obsessive interest in shape, balance, tension an expressive architecture of letters.
So from the outset I was coming from a completely different place than most other sign writers.
My personal life was pretty unsettled, being in a fairly long term relationship which I wasn’t fully committed to and yet I was in and out of this relationship for three or four years.
Maria my partner was looking for me to turn a corner, stop being such a ‘crazy artist’ and become a little bit more stable. This expectation was also echoed by my father, but it wasn’t echoed by Andy and for me that was an important message of support. It gave me an instinctive understanding of what I was doing and realise that I always had in the back of my mind, ringing in my ears a message that was saying, ‘No matter what it is you’re doing, if it feels right, you have to do it’.
As an artist you have to do this self checking routine constantly; constantly reminding yourself of the charter as the journey looms, constantly throwing up challenges and quite a lot of curved balls and creative stress.
You have to continually take risks in order to grow. This was a philosophy that was a guiding light and a compass, that was also a bit of a ‘Hotwire’ to an alarm system, a defense mechanism and at any point where I perceived it was threatened, the alarms would go off and I would usually have a big blow up, tantrum and just walk out the room. No matter where it was, no matter who it was with: anyone who threaten my creative liberty, which was my life blood, my core and something vulnerable – fundamental life practices so important to me than if anyone threatened them, they became hot-wired to my emotional survival neurology which triggered strong reactions. Many of these reactions were internalized and at times they shattered the peace and quiet of the surface. With Maria becoming closely ensconced with my father and his wife and developing a critical side stage presence, my life rapidly became a minefield.
That survival mechanism to me doesn’t seem like a big deal, because it seems very natural to me to be directly connected to emotional and intuitive impulse based acts, whether it be acts of creativity or acts of expression or practical ideas, random thoughts, peripheral ambitions, all of those important parts of the working mind to me, seemed to need nurturing feeding and supporting. And the fact that I was surrounded by lots of creative people who also felt that way, I was finding for example conversation with my father, who rejected the notion of being a professional artist, absolutely impossible.
Yet with Andy I was finding an entirely new healthy and fun experience. Here was a male figure in my life that I resonated with and loved. He was in a senior rank to me, a senior life achiever, a strong minded male significator, someone of whom I hugely respected. It was fantastically refreshing experience to be able to have an older male around me, that I truly trusted and respected, and most importantly, felt safe with. He was the first man and artist I felt emotionally nurtured by and approved.
And I think about this in the context of that the last time I saw Andy, on the spur, at around 2013, driving an open-backed truck through Battersea with his name on it. I hadn’t seen him in ten years. But as hard as I’ve tried to find him since it’s not happened I’ve not been able to find this man who was central to my early creative development and seed sowing life. But I will keep on trying.
It is something that’s come to the surface in writing a few journal pages each week, very quickly, while immersed in the process of writing; that it is so important for us all to enable those we have become separated from, to hear from us, or be able to find us – to return our friends back into our lives, and reconnect to us if they wish. I have realized how important it is to make contact with people that we really cared about as friends, family, loves, or whatever context… even those who may have been adversarial with us. It is as important as it is absent, to simply reconnect in a healthy way with them, to let them know, and to try to keep them closer in our lives, because our culture in the West, being so capitalist and confrontational, our lives in the grip of ‘white dominant’ culture, (that I keep going on about), keeps psychology whispering in our nurturing ear, to treasure our treasures, remember to remember, self-reflect. Yet this inner, gentle breeze, quiet compass, is continually overridden by the external world, the distracted mind, the brash ‘ego state’, to keep moving, keep going forward, go higher, go harder, don’t look back, have no regrets etc. etc.
Rather than holding I mean to embrace: simply share and build with cupped hands, rather than any kind of grip.
This is an uprooting, continual experience and destructive mantra we live by is a social norm. It is an experience that leaves people without any sense of belonging to who or where they’ve come from – who they are in a richer context, and how they have coped with things in the past. Very useful self reflections that we need to be encouraged to maintain throughout our lives in order to understand ourselves and each other.
It submerges people in the sea of great untruths! Leaves people feeling that anything to do with the past is a hindrance – a ball and chain. That the past can hold you back. That you should not need to do if you’re being successful in your present and future.
And this is a concept that’s completely flawed. It’s a disastrous concept that is now a global social norm.
And so, talking to my father brought me into direct contact with his disastrous concepts, that he relied upon in his mind. His constant state of being in the role of telling me and signposting what I should be doing, rather than asking me things, was failing us. Being curious about my life and how I was getting along. Offering interest or support was absent for my whole life with him.
He felt silenced by my ‘difference’ and listening to my story with a constant filter and irritation: and because he never in his relationship with me, realised the deep respect and importance of simply listening, he was unable to be of any help to me or hear me. He was only able to be a dictator, fight me and at best be unhelpful. And ultimately he came to reject my attempts to reconcile.
And so from his perspective his contribution and support was continually rejected and there we had our classic impasse.
And when people say ‘Communication is everything’ often that sounds confusing to most because many people feel communicating well is about saying the right thing all the time. Actually the key to communication is very simple: listening, hearing and not judging or trying to suggest fixes.
Uh boy… wait up… OK so?
So it struck me that my struggle with authority didn’t really exist. What I was struggling with was in one context not being listened to, which resonated in me as an outright rejection, because it didn’t acknowledge my point of view and show me due respect.
It’s one of the fundamental, positive gearings that happen when you listen to someone. Listening actively is very good work. By listening you automatically say a plethora of good things to to the person on so many levels: ‘I respect you. I’m yours and I’m gonna hear what you say… I’m going to consider what you say… you can talk to me all of those deeper resonant meanings.
Those special respectful contracts can then occur in the silent action of listening. So accepting listening is really good work, it’s also really good work for relationships. It’s really good universal work for society and it’s really good work for humanity and we’re never taught how to do it.
For example in this context with Andy, I was being taught by someone who has a highly directive style. And he was by no means going to mince his words. He would tell me in the plainest English imaginable that it was ‘’******* rubbish. It was wrong Nick you can’t do it like that, you have to do it like this’’.
So that was a very, very, potent relationship insofar as potentially it was explosive and yet that combustion never happened, simply because the meaning was about something we both shared, and he listened to me. Andy had established my trust, love and respect, and in return he could be himself. He often needed to direct me and teach me in the quickest possible way, in order to get work completed, by using correctly the new skills that he was giving me.
When I was in art school just a few months before, or earlier still while I was in secondary school, I would have a problem with teachers that failed to teach well. I had absolutely no problem with learning from teachers who passionately fell for the subject they were delivering and packaged that passion with two things; clear definitions and the ability to listen to the student. To attempt to answer any questions and dare to ask delving questions.
So out of that relationship between teacher and learner came explanations that worked. But many times, in my learning career, I sat in the classroom with a teacher who had failed to instill a culture of respect in his (or more uncommonly her) learning environment. And I have to say that very few younger women teachers have failed me, never quite so diligently as most of my male teachers, in my incredibly difficult experience as a student learner.
So, working with Andy was vilifying my ability to attend tasks, listen to instructions, gain knowledge, and develop that knowledge in ways that became useful to new and varied projects and contexts. In other words, we experienced growth in a practical context, and in an inspirational one. I learnt and we built success.
Not bad for two blokes and less than half a dozen ‘O’ levels between us.
We also liked ice cream. Nearly every day through summer and he would drive us to Kings Rd. in his beach buggy kit car and buy us knickerbocker glories.
Oh yes it this was big fun. We would head up to King’s Road at the least prompting whereupon the regular staff would nod us in, pride of place, wait on us and for some reason think the world of us.
So, these were really very good days. We painted with celebrated J. T. Keeps sign writing enamel. We finished at about 10:00 every night, having chopped sign panels by hand, with our 31 inch, Diston panel saws, painted them with huge Hamilton ‘Perfection’ brushes, sandpapered with 320/400 wet ‘n dry until they were flat as Welsh slate – coated them like mirrors and gone home tired but ecstatic.
One of the great loves of our life was Helvetica. Like I mentioned before it was an absolute obsession. We would discuss and pull apart the structure of Helvetica and then do it all again. We were often visited by sign writer by the name of Richard apps who would give Andy work to do that was studio based and small scale. I was 21 and a bit cheeky when it came to Richard. We would both of us Andy and I tease him a lot and yet always bring a hot cup of tea and share a bit of downtime in the studio.
Richard was a bit of a hippie and we didn’t really take him that seriously.
That was until we went out one day to check out one of his jobs that he mentioned – this one he was evidently very proud of. So we both arrived at a small mews in Belgravia, with a beautiful title painted on the entrance arch in the most astonishingly beautiful Roman letter, which had us absolutely Gob smacked.
‘’Did he do this?’’ I asked Andy, who was by now shuffling from foot to foot…. nibbling his roll up.
‘’Not half bad eh Nicko…’’ and duly set off to the buggy with a strange sheepish silence descending as we drove back to my place.
‘’See you tomorrow Nicko…’’
So the next time Richard came into our studio the kettle went on, there was no piss taking and the first thing I said to Richard was.
‘’That’s a fuckin’ lovely bit of sign writing Richard…’’ Andy shuffled about his desk.
I commented.
‘’Yeah it looked like it had been there for years and weren’t painted at all… embossed… so ‘cold’ (pure) and straight. It just looked like they’ve been carved in the surface there.
Richard looked quite lost for words. We all watched the kettle come to the boil.
From Andy’s steady hand I found myself renting a small but very lovely stable in Streatham in a small gated area, nicely hidden away from view at 41A Kirkstall Road. In the immediate months after going solo had been given a few contacts installing strap line text for Watneys Brewery, by Geoff Butler of Butler signs of West Norwood (who had been subcontracted by the famous Ted Ambridge signs as it transpired years later) from Watney’s Isleworth directly.
To cut a long story I went out with my ex-school chum Victor Frankson, in a blizzard, over to Isleworth to gild ‘Wines and Spirits’ and ‘Traditional Ales’ in a pub script with black shade.
Victor’s got wine bottle glasses for very acute long sight and I was battling with a hardy Transit van, Chiswick, snow ice and hail.
We were blasting down Isleworth road,
‘’Vic it’s in fucckun Isleworth Road… a big Watneys pub with no sign writing ffs help me out here!!’’
‘’There it is there Nick!!!’’
Great job we were there with about 2 hours before our deadline. Butler was on my case and the pressure was on. It was well below freezing as we swung trestles up and got ourselves ready to gild.
Cold snow caked one side of my face as the wind howled. It wouldn’t be the last time I gilded in a gale.
The job was coming together really fast and well and the publican came out for a chat.
‘’Howzit goin’ lads?!’’ came a heavy Irish accent which I kinda really liked and immediately got along with.
‘’Going good but f freezing…’’
‘’Coffee or tea lads??’’
So a few minutes later he set down coffees and stood back to admire his new sign.
‘’Woines an Spirits… hmmm I don’t think we sell woines at the bar yet sir?’’
‘’We ya f do now!!!’’ I retorted and we all had a good laugh.
‘’Ta be sure… moight make me a few extra shillings that… good idea…’’ He said chuckling away happily. He really liked his new gold leaf signwriting.
We were back home in my flat in Streatham within the hour, thawing out smashing mugs of tea and digestive biscuits and the phone rang.
‘’Where are you????’’ It was Butler going berserk.
‘’Just got back all done wtf you on about…??’’
‘’I’m at the bloody Beehive doing it now myself… put me in deep shit you did…!!!’’’
‘’Listen stop giving me shit, you never gave me an order so I made a human mistake, fuck off!’’ I looked across at Victor who’s jaw had dropped.
‘’Oh shit we did the wrong pub’’.
I don’t know why I told Geoff to F off it was really, just a Peckham school yard reaction. Months later I tried an apology that didn’t rinse as well as I’d hoped.
There we sat like chumps.
‘’Fuck it I’m phoning Watney’s I don’t want to be a subby anymore!!’’
I grabbed the telephone directory and found the number for the architects department in Isleworth. It was 2pm.
I rattled some story about meeting the HOD at a pub launch to get past the reception telephonist.
‘’Yes, I spoke with head of Architect last week about some sign gilding he needed… nice chap, think it was a Mike (there’s gotta be an architect in the building called Mike right??).
‘’Sorry we don’t have a Mike. We do have a Ron…?’’
‘’That’s it Ron… Mike was in (pause)… Ron yep that’s the man…’’ Victor bless him didn’t know what the fuck was going on, thought I was losing a grip I’m sure. He was a big quiet chunky lad, just sat across the big open lounge, both hands clasped around his mug blowing the steam off his tea. Looking, observing, silent.
‘’Just putting you through now…’’
I was being put through to the head man, Ron Bennet… apparently! Result!
‘’(Background: WTF’s going on at the Beehive!!!???) Yessss hello?!! Ron Bennett speaking, who’s this??’’ Sounded much too like Basil Fawlty for my liking.
Oh shit, here we go Nick Garrett, deep breath, bullshit your way through this one son… in the background Watney’s Isleworth were having a maelstrom day (and bear in mind it’s likely all my and Victor’s fault).
‘’Sounds like you’ve got your hands full…’’ I bottled it. ‘’I can call back another time no problem?’’ I said tentatively.
‘’No, no, go on… how can I help?’’
‘’I’m Nick Garrett, a signwriter… a really good one… and want to show you what I do’’ (Argh) I was so wrong to be doing this!! Vic was as still as he was 20 minutes ago. Frozen by snow and these mad class ‘A’, cheeky bastard moments!!
‘’Ok. When can you get here?!’’
‘’About an hour?’’
‘’Come to office 4 Block B’’.
Maelstrom Day
‘’I’d like to know who did that one!… (back facing me) I’ve got signwriters that don’t turn up at the job we need and other mystery signwriters doing the wrong one… (Glancing up at me) Do you know anything about all this??’’
‘’Absolutely nothing sir…’’
‘’You must be Nick Garrett’’ looking me over.
‘’There’s a box of letters over there needing gilding how much?’’
Andy always said they costed 50 quid a letter so?…
‘’Fifty pound a letter’’
‘’Fifty pounds!!!’ With a knowing look. ‘Go on then … I need them back by Friday, can you do that?’’
‘’Done.’’
So there I was loaded with 950 quid’s worth of work and working for one of the top men in the sign industry. All on the back of…
It was the beginning of a collaboration that lasted 2 years until Ron retired. I was his ace up his sleeve – someone he came to depend on to get jobs across the line that were in the balance.
A few months into our projects I called his office whereupon a newly appointed architect named ‘Mike’ did answer. The irony was not lost on me when he mentioned:
‘’Ah, hi Nick, I’ve heard a lot about you. We’ve all been told not to hire you without his proviso as you’re Ron’s special wing man’’.
While these elders and mentors gave me a stack of interesting projects and skill my relationship with my father was about to capsize. It boiled down to loyalties or lack of them.
When I was told not to rock the boat it struck me that all too often it’s said when the boat’s already turned over and the only way to right it up is indeed to rock it.