Martin Bradley

p Cold Night, 1963 Gouache on paper 16 x 26.5 inches © Martin Bradley, Photograph © England & Co

Martin Bradley (1946-7): An unconventional Pauline

Michael Simmons (1946-1952) shares his experiences of a remarkable school friend.

Martin and I joined 3b in the London branch of Colet Court in September 1944. There was an unpleasant culture of bullying at the time and as the only new boys in the class we were very much thrown together as “new bugs.” Martin was much older and worldly wise than the rest of us. Even then, it was obvious that he had a special talent as an artist He entertained us with his pen and ink strip cartoons complete with dialogue in speech bubbles.

He used to come over in the school holidays to spend time with me in Wembley. He lived in nearby Greenford with his guardian. He was learning Mandarin Chinese and we became friendly with the sons of a Chinese diplomat whose home backed on to the same playing field as ours. We used to cook rice in the fields and do unmentionable things to butterflies. Mandarin was the common language and even I learned to speak and write a little.

We both moved up to five alpha in the senior school but it was obvious that Martin’s days were numbered. His complete lack of discipline did not fit the culture of St Paul’s at the time. In art classes with Mr Burn (Master 1946-72), he would be sitting at the back studying Chinese. In other

lessons, he would be producing marvellous and sophisticated art. I remember how wretched he looked in his CCF uniform. It was no surprise that he did not turn up for the summer term in 1947. My route to school took me along Hammersmith Road past Rowton House, an inexpensive hostel for single men. I was accosted by Martin. He was dressed in a heavy-knit, blue seaman’s sweater. He told me that he had quarrelled with his guardian and run away to be a cabin boy at sea. He needed half a crown for the night’s stay at Rowton House, which I was able to give him. My first lesson of the day was with Pat Cotter (1917-23 and Master 1928-65). He started off:

“You’ll never guess who I just saw in the street: Martin Bradley. I gave him half a crown for a night’s stay at Rowton House.” He then continued with the same story that Martin had told me.

Over the years, I did think occasionally about Martin and wondered what happened to him. I was idly leafing through the Sunday Times Colour Supplement when my eye was caught by some very colourful modern art in a style that I remembered from many years before. The English painter, Martin Bradley, now resident in Paris, was having an exhibition at the Gimpel Gallery in London. I duly went along but Martin was not there. I left my business card and a note for him. I thought no more about it.

A few years later, I was working in my office when I received a phone call out of the blue: “Michael, it’s Martin Bradley. I’m staying at Hazlitt’s Hotel in Soho. Come and have a drink.” I was wondering what to expect. In walked a white haired but robust looking Martin with his Japanese wife, Tatsuko. He was working in Paris but living in Bruges. He was thinking of relocating to England and needed advice on Tatsuko’s immigration status. She spoke no English but we had Italian as a common language.

“You know, Martin, I often thought of you. I reckoned that by now you would be dead, in jail or famous.”

“Well, all three! When I was living in Soho in the 50s and 60s, I was known as the English Rimbaud and drinking two bottles of whisky a day. I was hanging out with Dylan Thomas, Brendan Behan, John Osborne and the other angry young men. I served in the Spanish Foreign Legion before I deserted they put me in prison and I suppose now I’m famous.”

Martin was being relatively modest. In France particularly he was known as a great artist. I learned later that he had held more than 130 solo exhibitions worldwide and that he had works in the permanent collections in the Tate and the Museum of Modern Art in New York as well as many others, not to mention some famous private collectors.

“By the way, I owe you this,” he said producing 25p from the pocket of his jeans. A few months later, I was in Belgium on business and I arranged to visit Martin in Bruges. He lived in a rather featureless suburb and I realised that I did not have a complete address. I did not need to worry as the taxi dropped me outside an ordinary bungalow but with a perfect Japanese garden, Tatsuko’s work. I was made very welcome and left with several characteristic works of his art. Both of us were far too busy to remain in contact and where is Martin now if indeed he is still alive? He would be 89. I made contact with the gallery that represents him in London. I was told that he has given up painting and retreated to a monastery in Japan. He converted many years ago to Buddhism and Japanese is one of at least 10 languages that he speaks fluently.

In his Wikipedia entry and elsewhere, Martin always refers to his time at St Paul’s. I think that he can be classified as a proud if extremely unconventional OP. 

 Washing in the River, 1958. Oil on canvas 28 x 36 inches © Martin Bradley, Photograph © England & Co

“When I was living in Soho in the 50s and 60s, I was known as the English Rimbaud and drinking two bottles of whisky a day. I was hanging out with Dylan Thomas, Brendan Behan, John Osborne and the other angry young men”