In my childhood there really were skeletons in the cupboard -and planetary systems, and clocks made with wooden cogs and all manner of diverse curiosities, experiments and hand-made wonders. Behind these cupboard doors, richly decorated with Old Master reproductions and divided into sections with carved moulding lay the encapsulation of my Father’s meaning in life - a relentless motivation to investigate, understand and enjoy art and nature, science and humanity, with true Renaissance spirit . The sharp tang of freshly planed wood and linseed oil was an ever-present essence in a painted world surrounded by hand-made furniture, sculpted figures and mysterious curiosities.
My Father often stated that he wished he had been born 300 years ago. In every aspect of his life (as far as can be achieved in the 20thC) he did indeed remain faithful to a life which seemed to marry the mechanical principles of Victorian industry with the creative spirit of Renaissance Man. He remained devoted to a life which rejected the ‘easy way out’ because he wanted to have as much direct contact with the process of creation as possible. He shunned power tools in favour of hand tools, the car in favour of the bicycle, the camera in favour of the pencil and brush.
Whether re-binding an antique book on the Natural World or carving out rooms in a sandstone cave, he rejoiced in the learning that these activities brought to him. The act of making was, for him, a labour of love. It was indeed through his industry that my brother, my sister and myself experienced his love. For what he was unable to offer us in terms of physical comfort, he made up for with, for example, detailed working toys made of wood. Or a home graciously transformed by his hand. This was his embrace.
Completely self-taught not only in painting but in many other disciplines, he began a career as a professional artist in 1963 when his office-job with Yale in London was seen to be a dead-end. He walked out into the open skies of the urban landscape and never turned back. The subject-matter was inexhaustible it seemed, and he was drawn into the Green Park Railings 'scene’ where artists touted their wares, as one means of selling their work. Here he managed to generate contacts with buyers from around the world and though family life was very hard, he did -with incredible patience and frugality- manage to provide a reasonably comfortable life for us.
Though he was quite eccentric, this was not the ‘crazy artist’ persona so fertile in the 1960’s but a quite professionally managed affair. This can be evidenced from the strict cataloguing and accounting in his many note-books where every transaction has been carefully documented and archived with added informative comments.
Just as we now record scenes photographically, so my father created watercolours, of uniform size (14 x 19 cm), of just about every street and alleyway in London. And when he moved to Bridgnorth in 1980, he continued in the same consistent vein. In the same way that his figure would appear on the corner of a street in Battersea, so it would appear on Castle Walk in Bridgnorth, fixed in concentration, oblivious to the hubbub around. With paper and home-made portable watercolour kit in hand as emblems of defiance in an increasingly technological world he would paint another urban landscape that he would methodically catalogue and file according to geographical location.
As a contrast to the paintings he produced for commercial gain -e.g.the Buckingham Palaces and Trafalgar Squares- his more sensitive work was usually of the humble main road or back-street, forgotten buildings and industrial canalscapes. I often felt that he bestowed a greater respect on these ‘humble’ subjects almost as a way of expressing a kind of poetic sensitivity to the everyday. Nevertheless, he managed to bridge these two worlds with extraordinary skill. There are two other aspects which he bridges as well. In the field of watercolour painting I have often seen, on the one hand, artists creating 'architectural painting' which captures the formal accuracy of buildings and on the other hand, the wilder ‘free’ painting which much personal expression and artistic flair. And artists usually seem to sit in one camp or the other. But in my Father’s work I am often finding that both of these elements seem to be acting together within the same work in harmony. I witness at once, the accuracy of observation combined with a free hand that demonstrates his absolute confidence with the medium. The sensitivity with which he depicts a misty Autumn street with solitary lamp-post glowing orange in the dusk speaks volumes about his humanity and respect for all things great or small. And this attitude was also reflected in other aspects of his life.
He set a consistent example of the wisdom of frugality by only taking or consuming as much as was necessary. This would sit well in the current climate of austerity. In fact he probably upcycled long before it had become a cause. And he was already ‘making and mending’ even in the seemingly affluent 60’s. Whether turning cardboard tubes into telescopes or creating a door- step mosaic from broken ceramics and glass, or a lampshade from the tin of an oil can, he certainly demonstrated both aesthetic and engineering resourcefulness. This inspired me to grow up believing in a wide realm of possibilities; Of the human ability to transform basic materials into something useful and at the same time- beautiful.
His love for the legacy of art and industry past led him to paint the buildings and streets of London which he suspected were tagged for demolition. This was his way of preserving their memory. If we look on the backs of these watercolours now we can sometimes see the words “SINCE DEMOLISHED” inscribed in bold capitals -suggesting that he must have returned to the location at a later date only to find with great sadness, that another valuable architectural masterpiece had been bulldozed into oblivion. The upside of this was that many libraries became interested in his work not just for their aesthetic value but also as a historical record in themselves. This resulted in his work being shown in local exhibitions, particularly in the Borough of Ealing in West London with much of his work was introduced into their historical archives where they still reside.
I remember my father’s overwhelming joy at being able to swan into a gallery or museum in London for free - something he never took for granted. “How amazing”, he would say “to be able to spend the whole day surrounded by all this creative energy; to be able to sit and draw and absorb all this marvel of human creativity- for free!”. He was referring as much to his appreciation of the buildings themselves as to the work they contained. He felt lifted and regenerated in the presence of such an atmosphere and was compelled to recreate this sense of the museum in his domestic environment.
Every house that that he took up residence in received the ‘Dracup treatment’ - with added arches, pillars, balustrades and moldings turned on his home-made lathe; marbling, graining, varnishing, stained-glass and more were all flourishes added to the architectural mix by his hand... 'in order to provide aesthetic interest'. In Railway Street, Bridgnorth the whole house was turned around –the staircase, literally - because it better suited the layout of the upper floor. And leaving no surface untouched, he continued with the walls – building an extra layer of bricks in every room in order to improve insulation from noise. And the ‘heavy engineering’ was not limited to the interior. Not satisfied with the perfunctory opening into the cliff in the back yard which came with the property and used for storage, he set about extending the opening- levelling the floor and eventually creating the current long underground hall with rooms off to the sides. In true Colditz style -a little every day but persistently - he chiselled away. This was undertaken with hand-tools, no less. His persistence in this respect was rewarded with extended living space (and noticeably stronger chest-muscles). Leaving nothing to waste- the abundance of sand, the natural by-product of all this carving, was mixed with cement and went into home-made moulds to make bricks that would become the construction material for Gothic-style vaulted arches. These were installed into the space to create the effect of appearing to support the ceiling from front to rear of the cave and in his mind, would provide the essential flourish.
Walking into the bathroom was like walking into a Captain Nemo film set. Just behind the door stood a huge copper boiler, 1m high, with bolted on cast-iron lion’s feet. A network of copper pipe work led to and from the boiler which sat on top of a conventional oversize gas-ring connected to the gas main. This simple idea proved most efficient and became the central-heating system for the whole house. Three taps sat at the end of my father’s bath- labelled ‘H’, ‘C’ and ‘R’, in other words- 'hot', 'cold' and 'rain'! Believing that rainwater was beneficial for the skin, he installed a storage-tank and filter which collected rain water from the roof and channelled it into the water system providing rain on tap.
As if to really demonstrate his ability to integrate the arts and sciences, more heavy engineering went into the creation of a near-vertical garden above the cave. By way of a ladder it was possible to access the four levels of terracing, oddly and asymmetrically designed so as to fully involve the climber in the experience -'it keeps you alert!'. Antony believed that asymmetry created more interest for the eye - providing visual challenge and involvement. Cast concrete, decorative features and moldings shared the daylight with lettuce, tomatoes, an apple tree and much other edible produce. A vertical kitchen-garden which, to my father’s delight, was once mistaken for a Roman Ruin in a local aerial survey. For this, he was most amused and I remember him saying 'I shan't tell them, you know...'
As I had witnessed in my childhood, he continued to weave his craft -both practical and mystical- throughout his life, regardless of whether or not it received attention, his motive sought no praise or honour- and many times, actually rejecting it. Apart from the practical functioning of his art sales he viewed publicity for its own sake as unnecessary attention-seeking. He was a principled man, of deep humility; a humanitarian devoted to the experience of learning for learning itself and art for art’s sake. And this is how he continued until his untimely struggle with a progressive lung-disease which gradually robbed him of that much-needed oxygen which he required so plentifully. Despite a move to Barmouth in Wales where he spent the last two years of his life and where he hoped the sea air would relieve him of his illness, nature had one more lesson to teach... That no matter what skills or genius we posses, no-one is excused from the final destination. As in his watercolours, where he brought the ostentatious in line with the humble he too succumbed to the ultimate levelling act, passing away in Dec 2002, aged 72 leaving an extensive legacy of work. With paintings still remaining in the chests of drawers he placed them in, still categorised in sections marked ‘Ealing’, ‘Westminster, ‘Bridgnorth High Town’,’ Wolverhampton High Street’ etc… Having taken on board the task of curator, I am only now properly releasing them once again into that air, that light - the humble light that, through his eyes, helps us see the ordinary day as extraordinary.
Dennis Dracup 2023
My Father often stated that he wished he had been born 300 years ago. In every aspect of his life (as far as can be achieved in the 20thC) he did indeed remain faithful to a life which seemed to marry the mechanical principles of Victorian industry with the creative spirit of Renaissance Man. He remained devoted to a life which rejected the ‘easy way out’ because he wanted to have as much direct contact with the process of creation as possible. He shunned power tools in favour of hand tools, the car in favour of the bicycle, the camera in favour of the pencil and brush.
Whether re-binding an antique book on the Natural World or carving out rooms in a sandstone cave, he rejoiced in the learning that these activities brought to him. The act of making was, for him, a labour of love. It was indeed through his industry that my brother, my sister and myself experienced his love. For what he was unable to offer us in terms of physical comfort, he made up for with, for example, detailed working toys made of wood. Or a home graciously transformed by his hand. This was his embrace.
Completely self-taught not only in painting but in many other disciplines, he began a career as a professional artist in 1963 when his office-job with Yale in London was seen to be a dead-end. He walked out into the open skies of the urban landscape and never turned back. The subject-matter was inexhaustible it seemed, and he was drawn into the Green Park Railings 'scene’ where artists touted their wares, as one means of selling their work. Here he managed to generate contacts with buyers from around the world and though family life was very hard, he did -with incredible patience and frugality- manage to provide a reasonably comfortable life for us.
Though he was quite eccentric, this was not the ‘crazy artist’ persona so fertile in the 1960’s but a quite professionally managed affair. This can be evidenced from the strict cataloguing and accounting in his many note-books where every transaction has been carefully documented and archived with added informative comments.
Just as we now record scenes photographically, so my father created watercolours, of uniform size (14 x 19 cm), of just about every street and alleyway in London. And when he moved to Bridgnorth in 1980, he continued in the same consistent vein. In the same way that his figure would appear on the corner of a street in Battersea, so it would appear on Castle Walk in Bridgnorth, fixed in concentration, oblivious to the hubbub around. With paper and home-made portable watercolour kit in hand as emblems of defiance in an increasingly technological world he would paint another urban landscape that he would methodically catalogue and file according to geographical location.
As a contrast to the paintings he produced for commercial gain -e.g.the Buckingham Palaces and Trafalgar Squares- his more sensitive work was usually of the humble main road or back-street, forgotten buildings and industrial canalscapes. I often felt that he bestowed a greater respect on these ‘humble’ subjects almost as a way of expressing a kind of poetic sensitivity to the everyday. Nevertheless, he managed to bridge these two worlds with extraordinary skill. There are two other aspects which he bridges as well. In the field of watercolour painting I have often seen, on the one hand, artists creating 'architectural painting' which captures the formal accuracy of buildings and on the other hand, the wilder ‘free’ painting which much personal expression and artistic flair. And artists usually seem to sit in one camp or the other. But in my Father’s work I am often finding that both of these elements seem to be acting together within the same work in harmony. I witness at once, the accuracy of observation combined with a free hand that demonstrates his absolute confidence with the medium. The sensitivity with which he depicts a misty Autumn street with solitary lamp-post glowing orange in the dusk speaks volumes about his humanity and respect for all things great or small. And this attitude was also reflected in other aspects of his life.
He set a consistent example of the wisdom of frugality by only taking or consuming as much as was necessary. This would sit well in the current climate of austerity. In fact he probably upcycled long before it had become a cause. And he was already ‘making and mending’ even in the seemingly affluent 60’s. Whether turning cardboard tubes into telescopes or creating a door- step mosaic from broken ceramics and glass, or a lampshade from the tin of an oil can, he certainly demonstrated both aesthetic and engineering resourcefulness. This inspired me to grow up believing in a wide realm of possibilities; Of the human ability to transform basic materials into something useful and at the same time- beautiful.
His love for the legacy of art and industry past led him to paint the buildings and streets of London which he suspected were tagged for demolition. This was his way of preserving their memory. If we look on the backs of these watercolours now we can sometimes see the words “SINCE DEMOLISHED” inscribed in bold capitals -suggesting that he must have returned to the location at a later date only to find with great sadness, that another valuable architectural masterpiece had been bulldozed into oblivion. The upside of this was that many libraries became interested in his work not just for their aesthetic value but also as a historical record in themselves. This resulted in his work being shown in local exhibitions, particularly in the Borough of Ealing in West London with much of his work was introduced into their historical archives where they still reside.
I remember my father’s overwhelming joy at being able to swan into a gallery or museum in London for free - something he never took for granted. “How amazing”, he would say “to be able to spend the whole day surrounded by all this creative energy; to be able to sit and draw and absorb all this marvel of human creativity- for free!”. He was referring as much to his appreciation of the buildings themselves as to the work they contained. He felt lifted and regenerated in the presence of such an atmosphere and was compelled to recreate this sense of the museum in his domestic environment.
Every house that that he took up residence in received the ‘Dracup treatment’ - with added arches, pillars, balustrades and moldings turned on his home-made lathe; marbling, graining, varnishing, stained-glass and more were all flourishes added to the architectural mix by his hand... 'in order to provide aesthetic interest'. In Railway Street, Bridgnorth the whole house was turned around –the staircase, literally - because it better suited the layout of the upper floor. And leaving no surface untouched, he continued with the walls – building an extra layer of bricks in every room in order to improve insulation from noise. And the ‘heavy engineering’ was not limited to the interior. Not satisfied with the perfunctory opening into the cliff in the back yard which came with the property and used for storage, he set about extending the opening- levelling the floor and eventually creating the current long underground hall with rooms off to the sides. In true Colditz style -a little every day but persistently - he chiselled away. This was undertaken with hand-tools, no less. His persistence in this respect was rewarded with extended living space (and noticeably stronger chest-muscles). Leaving nothing to waste- the abundance of sand, the natural by-product of all this carving, was mixed with cement and went into home-made moulds to make bricks that would become the construction material for Gothic-style vaulted arches. These were installed into the space to create the effect of appearing to support the ceiling from front to rear of the cave and in his mind, would provide the essential flourish.
Walking into the bathroom was like walking into a Captain Nemo film set. Just behind the door stood a huge copper boiler, 1m high, with bolted on cast-iron lion’s feet. A network of copper pipe work led to and from the boiler which sat on top of a conventional oversize gas-ring connected to the gas main. This simple idea proved most efficient and became the central-heating system for the whole house. Three taps sat at the end of my father’s bath- labelled ‘H’, ‘C’ and ‘R’, in other words- 'hot', 'cold' and 'rain'! Believing that rainwater was beneficial for the skin, he installed a storage-tank and filter which collected rain water from the roof and channelled it into the water system providing rain on tap.
As if to really demonstrate his ability to integrate the arts and sciences, more heavy engineering went into the creation of a near-vertical garden above the cave. By way of a ladder it was possible to access the four levels of terracing, oddly and asymmetrically designed so as to fully involve the climber in the experience -'it keeps you alert!'. Antony believed that asymmetry created more interest for the eye - providing visual challenge and involvement. Cast concrete, decorative features and moldings shared the daylight with lettuce, tomatoes, an apple tree and much other edible produce. A vertical kitchen-garden which, to my father’s delight, was once mistaken for a Roman Ruin in a local aerial survey. For this, he was most amused and I remember him saying 'I shan't tell them, you know...'
As I had witnessed in my childhood, he continued to weave his craft -both practical and mystical- throughout his life, regardless of whether or not it received attention, his motive sought no praise or honour- and many times, actually rejecting it. Apart from the practical functioning of his art sales he viewed publicity for its own sake as unnecessary attention-seeking. He was a principled man, of deep humility; a humanitarian devoted to the experience of learning for learning itself and art for art’s sake. And this is how he continued until his untimely struggle with a progressive lung-disease which gradually robbed him of that much-needed oxygen which he required so plentifully. Despite a move to Barmouth in Wales where he spent the last two years of his life and where he hoped the sea air would relieve him of his illness, nature had one more lesson to teach... That no matter what skills or genius we posses, no-one is excused from the final destination. As in his watercolours, where he brought the ostentatious in line with the humble he too succumbed to the ultimate levelling act, passing away in Dec 2002, aged 72 leaving an extensive legacy of work. With paintings still remaining in the chests of drawers he placed them in, still categorised in sections marked ‘Ealing’, ‘Westminster, ‘Bridgnorth High Town’,’ Wolverhampton High Street’ etc… Having taken on board the task of curator, I am only now properly releasing them once again into that air, that light - the humble light that, through his eyes, helps us see the ordinary day as extraordinary.
Dennis Dracup 2023