The Victorian Photographic Society That Tried To Preserve ‘Old London’
Alfred Marks was not just a photographer; he was a visionary. Born in the mid-19th century, Marks witnessed the dramatic changes that industrialisation brought to London. Streetscapes that had stood for centuries were being razed, replaced by modern infrastructure and new architectural styles. Sensing the urgency, Marks set out to preserve the disappearing face of London through the burgeoning art of photography.
Many modern urban residents can relate to the sentiment of seeing a cherished building demolished. It's a common experience to walk by a familiar structure, only to discover it's slated for destruction, prompting feelings of nostalgia for the changing cityscape. Capturing a photo of the building before the inevitable rise of a new development has become a customary practice.
Similarly, in the 1870s, Marks felt a similar impulse, albeit without the convenience of an iPhone. Instead, he relied on the resources of his time: professional photographers, durable carbon-based ink, and, most significantly, a city teeming with potential subjects, buildings that faced the same uncertain future as the Oxford Arms.
In the following 11 years, Marks, serving as both the founder and secretary of the Society for Photographing Relics of Old London, coordinated the photographic documentation of numerous buildings such as churches, inns, schools, hospitals, and houses. His selections not only narrate the tale of preservation in London but also shed light on our current practices.
During the Victorian era, there was a rapid acceleration in various aspects, such as the rate of transformation. The Industrial Revolution introduced fresh technologies and modes of transportation, as well as novel philosophies, priorities, and perspectives on time and space. Geographer Kenneth Foote, in a publication on the Society, highlighted how many Londoners experienced these changes during that period “were held in tension between excitement about progress, and alarm over change at the expense of long-lived traditions.”
In the early 1980s, while residing in Austin, Texas, Foote began to explore SPROL in his writing. He observed that his neighbors often expressed nostalgia for their city by focusing on specific buildings undergoing changes. “Every time I talked with people who had been there for a long time, they’d say, ‘Austin isn’t what it used to be! Since they closed the Armadillo World Headquarters, it just hasn’t been the same.’” Foote says.
“There was a sense of nostalgia for this great past that was getting lost from the cityscape.”
The same was true in Victorian London, Foote explains: People may have loved the new transport opportunities such as trains, but some—like Marks—also missed the coaches, and the coaching inns.
Marks was in a perfect position to feel nostalgic about the Oxford Arms. Being a scholar specialising in antiques and with a father who worked as a coach builder, his strong connection to the Oxford Arms was understandable. Upon learning about the impending demolition of the building, Marks gathered funds from a small group of friends. He enlisted the services of Alfred and John Bool, a renowned photography duo recognised for their landscape work, to capture images of the Arms. Subsequently, Marks began reaching out to like-minded individuals who shared his sentiments and might be interested in purchasing the photographs.“Should any readers … interested in London antiquities desire to join the subscription, I shall be happy to hear from them,” he announced in the London Times.
According to Foote, the Society initiated one of the earliest projects to utilise photography for documenting endangered buildings. What made it unique was that the photographs were intended to be gathered, similar to fine art pieces. Each photo was produced using the costly carbon printing method to guarantee their long-lasting quality. In 1875, the initial collection of photographs featured six distinct perspectives of the Oxford Arms, showcasing various areas such as the entrance, yard, and galleries. The following year, a second series concentrated on historic houses and inns close to Wynch Street and Drury Lane. By 1878, Marks had increased his output speed, raising the number of photos produced annually from six to 12. Subsequently, he started composing brief descriptions of the buildings, printing them alongside the photographs and distributing them to subscribers.
“The project became much bigger than he originally intended,” says Chitra Ramalingam, the Assistant Curator of Photography at the Yale Center for British Art, which exhibited SPROL’s photographs in 2016. Nevertheless, Marks was in charge of the operations, deciding on the buildings to prioritize and the specific details to emphasize. (Contrary to its name, there is no proof that the Society convened in person or consisted of any actual members apart from Marks.) Marks focused his efforts on preserving buildings that he believed were significant representations of England's national character, according to Ramalingam. His writings extensively mention royalty, prominent figures, literature, legends, and nursery rhymes. For instance, he suggests that poet Ben Jonson might have been involved in the construction of Lincoln’s Inn, as shown in photo 12. The mansion on Leadenhall Street, illustrated in photo 20, was known for its grand staircase, cedar-panelled floors, and luxurious decorations.
Marks provided detailed instructions to the Bools, as well as to Henry and Thomas James Dixon, who he brought in to replace them in 1879. This level of guidance meant that every photograph became a joint effort between Marks and the photographer, according to Ramalingam. Some of his preferences resulted in unconventional images. Ramalingam particularly admires Number 17 from the collection, showcasing St. Bartholomew the Great church.
“It’s actually of an alley behind the church,” she says. “The photographer has climbed up to what must have been a really awkward perch, and is taking [the photo] looking down. You see this view of intersecting planes—this series of angles that slices through the alley. It looks incredibly modern.” Equally significant, Ramalingam emphasizes what Marks decided not to emphasise. The Society referred to these structures as "relics," and the images depict them accordingly. People are seldom seen, and those who are present were likely deliberately positioned to show size. (The photographs’ long exposures meant that “you wouldn’t be able to get a candid shot of someone, a kid outside a doorway, if you didn’t say, ‘Hey kid, stand still,’” Ramalingam says.) This decision highlights specific parts of history while overlooking others. Take, for instance, the Oxford Arms, which had served as a tenement for approximately seven years before it was scheduled for demolition. At the time when the Society arrived to capture the building in photographs, the residents were already in the process of being relocated. While Marks may have been saying goodbye to a cherished structure, they were also bidding farewell to their home.
Despite the fact that there was an increasing tradition of documentary photography in the country during that period, which included entire books dedicated to portraying the lives of impoverished Londoners—“that is definitely not what is happening in this series,” says Ramalingam. “[Marks] doesn’t want these buildings photographed as slums.” In his subsequent writing on the Arms, he only briefly touched upon this phase of its history. Rather, he emphasised a specific Earl who frequented the place and highlighted the challenges of manoeuvring a nine-horse coach around the tight street corner.
However, upon closer inspection of the photographs, subtle signs of life can be observed: laundry draped over the banisters of the Arms, and vacant plant pots resting on a windowsill. “For a viewer now, those are some of the most interesting details in the picture,” Ramalingam says. “But Marks seems to want you to look right past them.” In 1886, Marks dissolved his Society, 11 years after its establishment. By then, he had published 120 photographs in 12 collections and had achieved some commercial prosperity by selling more than 100 subscriptions. “It is not suggested that the subject has been exhausted,” he wrote at the time, “but it is hoped that the work may be regarded as fairly complete within the lines at first marked out.”
Although many of his subjects were gone, some had gained more permanent protection. “From the 1870s onward, [preservation] laws became tighter and tighter,” says Foote. In 1894, the reformer Charles Robert Ashbee embarked on the first Survey of London, aiming to achieve a comprehensive architectural account of the city. By the turn of the century, Foote writes, “it was clear that the principles of conservation were well formed.” In 1985, while working on his own article, Foote walked around checking on the buildings in the photo series. “Around half of them were gone,” he says, but several dozen remained—and remain still—including Lincoln’s Inn, St. Bartholomew the Great, and Great St. Helens, pictured above. “Some of the sites were very striking,” he says. “It’s almost as though a person could step into that same scene and take a photograph today.” Just as Marks would have liked it.
The Victorian Photographic Society, guided by Alfred Marks, was more than a collective of photographers—it was a beacon of historical preservation. Their work continues to shine a light on the beauty and significance of ‘Old London,’ reminding us of the timeless value of capturing the past.
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