I met John French last year through his granddaughter
Emmelene. Her and I shared a wish to visit the beach for the scenery and food, but
most of all for how we feel at the end of our day. She took me to meet her
grandfather in Gorleston (just a little south of the once majestic Great
Yarmouth on the East Anglian coast). John has shared himself with different
careers, from ice cream man to designer and as a graphic designer, is nice to
meet someone who has seen the industry through its glory days. His eye for
design would be clear to anyone when seeing his home and appreciation for
beauty.
As we walked up a tall, narrow street, a queue of royal mail
red post vans began to form. We wondered why they were all in the same spot and
not dispersing, wondering if the post would be delivered in that area that day. As we stepped to the side of the path, knowing full well we wouldn’t
be able to get past for a little while longer, the 15 maybe even 20, Post vans
trailed up the lane. On the way to arriving at the top we had worked out it was
a parade, saw a coffin in the very first vehicle and a man with a smart top hat
leading the crowd of Royal Mail red Post vans.
We had arrived in Gorleston! Although for John French,
‘Gullston’. This made total sense later in our day.
Turning the corner and heading to French’s home we heard a
“Hello!” before we had even entered. Stepping into the place, the walls a
beaming, alluring yellow. This colour associated with the more pleasant things
in life, the colour that kindles joy and happiness.
We found John washing up his mugs and cutlery and asking how
we were, speaking looking out the window with wide, charismatic eyes. The sun
shining into the room, brought all conversation alive, and I couldn’t help but
notice the composure and lightness me and his granddaughter, Emmelene, felt. He
spoke about all the places he had been; the list was advanced, and said that
Norwich was his top place. I asked why? He said, “well because it’s home!”
Sitting down, with Ovaltine in our sweet, patterned mugs of
cats and daffodils, we continued to chat. John told us that he was born in 1941
and the war had ended when he was 4 years old, he remembered a bomb being
dropped on a road near his childhood home and a cat, frightened, ran into his
garden and became his cat; “we took him on! I don’t know what happened
to its family, they might’ve gotten all killed you see. But he was the best pet
you could ever have.” He then asked a daft rhetorical question, “Do you think I
like cats!” and let out the biggest laugh.
When speaking more on design, I found to no surprise that
John loves colour. Paul Klee was an artist he mentioned, and we both excitedly pounced
with what we like in his art. “You’re either affected by colour or you’re not.”
John said simply, and I couldn’t agree more.
“Now let me see, where's my folder” John said as he headed
to his bedroom. “Do you want to laugh? I am cracking up. That’s living by
yourself.” Emmelene and I looking at each other intrigued and curious as to
what John might say. “I imagine there's a nice lady in the bedroom called Linda,”
We both begin to laugh, “and so I go” *knock knock* “are you decent Linda?” The
three of us all giggling together. He continues to say “I do this every so
often, you’ve got to laugh with yourself, Its comforting. So I go in and I say
“Oh sorry Linda, you’re not dressed!” We all continue to enjoy his humour.
I had noticed with the many things around, my eyes were
jumping to see the CDs he had out and the drawings too, photographs of his
granddaughters (Emmelene with her sister) and torn-out newspaper pictures that
sparked something in John. I saw written words scribbled down that when I read out,
sounded so nice. These were the pieces of a simple lived-in loved life. John
French got out his dusty case of work from when he worked as a designer, and Emmelene
and I took them out and laid them down on the floor, on some newspaper. He said
he hadn’t gotten them out in the longest time and was thankful for all the
memories that came back, the times attached to his loved work. Not long after
filling his floor with his incredibly sophisticated, dazzling, beautiful work,
John said, “You’re making me feel famous!”, as he should.
Some of his designs were covers and posters inspired by
things he liked, an exhibition enjoyed became an exhibition sign, a jazz band appreciated
turned into a cover and his interest in bottles and mugs with the shapes they
own became one of his fond subjects. Of course, his colourful cats that were so
distinctively his, despite being a common subject drawn, stood out as something
new found. The paws drawn the size of fistfuls clasped, perhaps full of small
chocolates or sweetshop sweeties, the mixtures of pens giving the buzzing sensation
of testing out brand-new colours and shapes of the pen, as if Christmas morning
or a birthday. The quick strokes of the pen leaving coloured significance, the
change of direction like a test sheet of just ‘playing with my new pens,’ and
‘oooh, it can do this too!’ creates a characterful cat and even a cat that has
a bit of our childhood in it too.
John pointed out the things up on his wall, some of the
photos selected from newspapers on the back of doors. “You know, I like those
one of the two sisters, that's lovely. There's a doctor there, but I love that
one of the kids. I think that's really cute. That little kid, the blonde kid in
the middle, he's looking up at her. We were all children once. Rabbits are my
favourite as well, they’re beautiful. That family there too, I think it’s a
photo from a charity, Christianity Blind Mission. We’re all God’s children. I’m
not very religious really, I believe in certain things.”
John offered me one of his cat drawings, this particular one
with three cats in mugs mixed with bottles. It felt like I was handed an
original from a museum, like my fingers shouldn’t be on it or there had to be
at least some copies made before giving away. I’ve thought about this, how
artwork is treated. With John’s creativity, his work would have been enjoyed by
the many but because of knowing him it was enjoyed even more. When someone sees
a scribble, it’s most likely a scrap, but if the scribble is done by, let’s say
baby Suzie or little Charlie or my good friend or my granny (the list goes on),
then it is treasured almost no matter what it is. The scribble is stared at and
read as if a never-ending novel.
It was soon time to go, for his granddaughter and me to get
informed with all the gulls that John spoke about and find ourselves some fish
& chips! Before leaving, John loaned me some CDs because of our shared enthusiasm,
and we left his home with double hugs. I had Bob Dylan, Paul Simon, Creedence
Clearwater Revival, Nina Simone, The Beatles and Neil Diamond packed away in my
bag, as we closed the door on John and his jolly home. A favourite Nina Simone
song lyric he shared was ‘Human kindness is overflowing; I think It’s going to
rain today.’
