Howard Tangye
2004, Charings X Road, Central Saint Martins. I’d enrolled, as a student in menswear and it was there that I first saw Howard, head of womenswear. He was an ex-student of the university too, from 1970-1974.
Howard started teaching there around 1980. He was a Drawing Tutor teaching Life and Figurative classes until his new role in womenswear in 1998. He continued to influence many students who were going out into the industry until 2014. Howard is now a full time artist.
Long before I knew his position at the school - the impression he made on me was and still is - undeniable. I can see him now - His clothes loosely elegant in black hues, Glasses resting upon his nose, gentle kind eyes and the shoes; lace ups with a rounded toe.
Seeing his work for the first time made an indelible mark on me that would last the entirety of my education, life and love for claiming ones distinctive style in the arts. His drawings, frequently compared to that of Egon Schiele, carry something extremely unique and sensitive to Howard, spoke to me because of his understanding the importance of the way clothes hang on a body and the use of colours he applies to the paper.
Fast-forward nine years Howard asked me to sit for him. I did not need encouraging. The following, an excerpt from my diary later that evening:
‘You go to my head' Chet Baker through the speakers in the background, morning sun rewarding the room with brilliant light, oil crayons contacting paper with scratching sounds, constant observant eyes exchange glances from subject to easel, cluttered utensils placed on the table in a neat mess, colours for days, amongst my stillness.
A year passes sitting for Howard and I hint, maybe more than a few times, that It would be an honour to take his portrait to share a mutual appreciation for his work and himself. Something Howard is known to feel apprehensive about. Eventually he agreed to sit for me, I jumped at the opportunity.
When you first enter the home of Howard Tangye, you are welcomed with tangyble textures! The textures I remember of him during my days at CSM.
There is an old British postal bag used as a hessian mat which sits perfectly in a groove, made originally for a doormat, replacing it. Simply framed drawings of his own are hanging along the hallway. The walls leading up the stairs and around his house are hand painted and varnished in the richest of colours one would only expect to find in Chefchaouen or Jaipur’s Pink City.
There are three large windows directly opposite you when walking into his studio upstairs that shine brilliant white light towards you, leaving only the outlines of an easel and a broad plan chest covered in cloth draped over the edges. Materials lie atop. Inside the drawers there are years of tireless drawings on loose paper, accumulating by the month, just endless hours of immortalized subjects recorded with honest deliberate lines.
The paints and crayons are left in a messy like pile but somehow have an order, ready to be picked up for the next drawing. They lie awaiting his assured touch. Brushes naturally spaced evenly, sitting in an old marmalade jar imitating the shape of an Asian handheld fan, old postcards from lifelong friends are tacked onto his wooden cupboards bedecking the already beautifully aged rough wood.