Nudes in the sitting room: Queer Britain, the UK’s first dedicated national LGBTQ+ museum, launched in the summer of 2022 on a mission to present a visual orgasm of rich and complex histories. The Queer Britain archive, housed within Bishopsgate Institute, weaves past lives and present voices. Headed by Joseph Galliano, former editor of GT (Gay Times) the co-founder and CEO is definitely fit for the job. He’s smart. Sharp. On it.
It’s my hope that curators working within Queer Britain will not edit out the brave and vivid imagery of photographers such as Mike Arlen, John Barrington, Michele Martinoli, Ashley Savage and the ‘alt’ street and club culture imagery of Ted Polhemus (clubland creatures on parade), Gavin Watson (cute and vulnerable skins) and Derek Ridgers (Goths galore and tattooed trade, making an exhibition of themselves). All too often, the raw and real is sanitised, for fear of pressing the wrong institutional buttons, upsetting the suits. Bowing to all-important corporate sponsors and so-called influencers in this woke age is a yawn. PC can FO.
Mike Arlen is a great example of a photographer whose body of work spans decades, files at risk of staying within stored-away air-tight boxes unless there is a sharp focus upon visuals that a man put his entire life into being put out there. Arlen, based in the sodomite territory of London’s Earl’s Court from early youth, stalking ‘straights’ rather than the prissy models via Gavin Robinson’s Model Agency or Nevs, managed a strategic advertising approach in a range of ways, netting those who weren’t on the scene unless looking to go pro’, turn a trick. Although by no means not the first photographer of naked men, Arlen didn’t hide behind the guise of health and bodybuilding.
After years of success as a PR for the Carnaby Street fashion designer John Stephen, Arlen’s period as a fashion and music world photographer swerved to the role of cab driver for ten years . The man travelled all over the capital, savouring hotspots, handing out the occasional business card to a good-looking charmer, laying bait. It’s a period of time he is reticent to disclose details of, before the launch of his own magazine. Arlen’s work is about the tunnel vision of obsession, possession. So much so, that his self-funded, self-designed, self-published 80s magazine entitled Mike Arlen’s Guys became a top-selling top-shelf staple.Copies now sell at around fifty pounds per copy, with the first batch of five gaining much more on eBay.
‘Attention to de-tail has always been my ob-sess-ion. I ne-ver thought I’d work with male nudes for more than a dec-ade.’ Hey, it’s the way the dialogue is delivered.
The idea of collecting Mike’s work began in 2011, when I visited Wetherby Mansions alongside Earl’s Court Square to sit on a sofa that so many from the worlds of fashion, pop, rock, film and theatre would spread their DNA, one way or another. So too, adventurous kinksters eager for an introduction to a predatory gent in search of company. Encouraged by photographer and collector John McKay (who now owns the John Barrington archive) my visits from Kirkcudbrightshire in South West Scotland to London became seasonal affairs, then monthly, fortnightly, weekly. I stopped reading books. Stopped watching films. Everything became Arlen and what he produced using a Mamiya RB67, rolls and rolls of film. That room. That sofa. Those fixtures and fittings that I recognised from so many editions of his published work.
The younger you are, the more likely you are to call such a stage set the living room, as two thirds of millennials do. But the older you are, the more likely you are to call it the sitting room. Those who are middle-aged, hands up, are most likely to call it the lounge. Back home in Scotland, I longed to sit on that SW5 sofa, mood lighting that verges on bordello, New Orleans jazz CDs at quite a volume. Yh, it was therein, slowly, I began to wade through the vaults as a voice from another time, another England, transported me to another world.
Mike Arlen. Photographer. Pornographer. A pioneer, specialising in British male physique. Tuned in to the stimuli many a fetishist craves, the man continues to be a visionary, long after his commercial work in the name of Mike McGrath emerged, pumping out visuals for the pop, rock and lifestyle editorial of the 60s, most notably within Boyfriend, Woman’s Own and She magazines. Arlen’s medium format B&W negatives and colour transparencies are all meticulously archived. Spotless. Contact sheets are annotated, pointing to Arlen’s personal taste and sense of what might hit the mark for his valued gents.
Mike Arlen, somehow Music Hall. Vaudeville and VPU, (Vulnerable Prisoners Unit.) A charming man, real character, conducting a lucrative, long-term, Earl’s Court based operation. Arlen, London SW5, catering to pre-Internet needs, hosting wild parties frequented by many a thug with an infectious smile. Positioning oneself as a photographer can gain a certain access. Needs discussion.
Masturbation. Wanking. Jerking off. Knocking one out. DIY. Imagine Arlen’s audience, in need of relief. A pornographer’s aim is simple. Imagine the stage management, lighting just so. Stiff drink. Body lotion. Oil. Lube. Whatever. Cock ring. Nipple clamps. Little brown bottle. Poppers. (Brand names such as Rush, Liquid Gold, Jungle Juice, Quick Silver.) Maybe a sandalwood joss stick or fat joint to suck on. Perhaps a real-feel silicone dildo or two. (S, M, L, XL, XXL. Take your pick.) Think you get the general idea.
Tick of the clock. Fingertips. Shuffle of glossy pages, scattered in a precise semi-circle. Dizzying male physique of Brit lads in sessions that he dreamed up titles for. A cast of soldiers, sailors, airmen, workmen, footballers, leather guys, skinhead boyz, all sporting ludicrous fetish wear, documented from every angle. Medium format constructions, efficient erections, teasing and torturing through air. That well-positioned top-shelf self-published wank mag, Mike Arlen’s Guys, hidden away under many a comfy mattress, concealed, back of a wardrobe, sock drawer, far end of a cellar, potting shed. Volume after volume, piled high. Man-sized Kleenex to hand?
Whilst serial killer Dennis Nilsen was haunting gay venues, serial thriller Mike Arlen was stalking pubs frequented by ‘straights’ as photographic subjects who could be viewed via the two-way mirror fitted into the sitting room door as they slipped into a jock. O yes.
‘0207 373 1107.’
That number. Mike, manning the phone. His ads were everywhere. For years. Decades. Gentlemen callers, wanting to see more, the ‘special’ shots. Tucked-away picture sets, ready to serve at twenty pounds a pop. Schh. Cock-crazy punters, seeking a discreet introduction to those netted models. Schh. Not a word.
‘Young man, what would you like to drink?’
Only the faintest reaction to my question. Instead, the monologue began.
‘I had the big advantage of having a 95% perfect mother, Molly, who ran the busiest pub in Woolwich, South London, but loved show business and from five years of age, once a week, took me into the West End to see a film in the afternoon and a play or musical in the evening.’
Quite an opening sentence. I’d been hoping for a reply to my question about penile fixation, sexual compulsion, addiction.
‘At the age of ten, I was reading a theatrical paper, The Stage. I started acting classes with a teacher who advertised in that publication, which put me on a certain course. At eleven I was sent to the BBC to audition for radio plays at Broadcasting House. By the age of fifteen, I was a celebrity journalist. Actors told me how to fluke it with agents and editors. So much was done on the phone.’
I’d been hoping for insights about the choice of models, such as Trevor Lewis, Joe Hill. Hush-hush anecdotes, that’s what I was there for, especially about someone who went into the 80s as a DJ, another as a fashion designer, a film director and the looker who went on to be big in the first wave of punk, Gene October (John O’Hara) of the band Chelsea.
‘My biggest challenge as a writer was being asked to write a life story about Cliff Richard, who had absolutely nothing to say.’
The truth will always surface.
‘Dirk Bogarde? On screen, he was the epitome of sincerity and humility. To meet, he was the most arrogant man in Britain. That was a bit of a shock to my system.’
I wasn’t really interested to hear tales of Dirk, or Long John Baldry. ‘I wanted insights into the round-the-corner rent scene of The Boltons, Colherne, Soho’s Golden Lion. Nada.’
‘And then there was Reg Dwight, who went on to change his name to Elton John, as did Bowie, David Jones as he was then, who came up the stairs and through the door to be photographed wearing a brown suit. I had to shake my head and say no in disbelief. “Young man…” I said, “…you need colour!” Yes, really.’
I didn’t (and still don’t) want to hear about the manager of the Beatles, his time at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art, or his tragic OD. Didn’t want to hear about musicians with The Searchers, Pink Floyd, Moody Blues. No. Nor Lionel Bart. God no. I wanted to hear about the restaurant / club opposite number 23, The Masquerade. Plus the disco at the top end of Earl’s Court Road, The Sombrero. Nothing. Not a dickie bird word. And then…
‘In the late seventies, I produced some editorial of pictures of two guys in swimwear. A German magazine editor saw these shots, tracked down my phone number, seeking to buy the German rights. “And do you have any nudes of these guys?” Male nudes were commonplace in Germany at the time. I said, “I’ve never taken any, but I’ll get one of the models back to see what I can do.” The first guy, I took him to a farm and had him cradling lambs, with cows and sheep in the background. I thought, I’ve got to put these models into settings that interest me. And there was a magazine, a new nude male magazine in Britain called Zipper that had just been launched. My shots also went into Zipper and I got a lot of letters from both sexes saying, “Love your pictures, but my fantasy is guys undressing from uniforms of any kind.” So, to please them, I used more uniforms than any photographer in the world. But then it reached the stage that I’d been through every uniform I could find.’
Hm. More to my liking. And then he’s off again, pretty much repeating… word for word… anything and everything about Brian Epstein..
‘Brian. Epstein. A very pleasant guy. I was very sorry for him because he had in common the same as another celebrity show business friend of mine, Lionel Bart, who wrote the musical Oliver. Fear. Guilt. They both grew up in Jewish homes where they dare not mention the word homosexuality. They were both problem people because of this. Lionel drank a bottle of brandy a day and it was whiskey for Brian, who was initially desperate to get into show business as an actor. Most of the people who came from the pop world in Liverpool were from very humble origins. Epstein came from wealthy parents. Off he went to RADA. In the opening weeks the teacher repeatedly set challenging tasks. “I want the class to learn this speech tonight and come in tomorrow and deliver it to the class.” Well, Epstein was such a shy person that he gave up acting aspirations and went straight back to Liverpool. That’s when the parents said, “Well, you’ll have to run one of our shops.” That’s how he met The Beatles and fancying John Lennon helped. As straight as John Lennon was, he was very amused that Epstein fancied him. They used to go off on the occasional holiday in Spain or somewhere together. And the other guys in The Beatles kept encouraging him. “Stay with him because he sounds a promising manager.”
Uh-huh.
‘And of course, finally it worked. When I met Brian, it was in the later ’60s and ’70s. We had a restaurant opposite in a basement called The Masquerade, which was also a disco, and it served food ’til 3am. A lot of people in the pop world used to go there late to eat. And I would get phone calls con-stant-ly, “Are you at home tonight?” So at least twice a week, this sitting room had a dozen or more people. Plus Lionel Bart was entertaining American celebrities in show business who were coming to London and he wanted to drag them around to me. A rather chubby female vocalist calling herself Mama Cass (from The Mamas & The Papas) waddled here one night and fancied one of my models. This was all before male nudes, this was when I was shooting fashion photography. Lionel Bart followed me to the kitchen, because there was a stunning young man here called Nigel and Lionel winked, saying, “Is Nigel staying the night with you?” I said, “No, he’s just a friend.” Lionel singsonged, “Mama fancies him.” I said, “Well, he’s fundamentally straight. Tell you what, I’ll go and whisper in his ear, “Could you cope with Mama Cass?” because she was a big woman. He said, “With a struggle.” A lot of the pop world were in my life and most of them I liked. The only one I didn’t was the singer Rod Stewart, who caused me a lot of exhaustion on a couple of occasions, but I only tell those stories to friends over lunch or dinner tables.’
Mike, Michael, McGrath, Arlen — a complex man tangle. Always a gentleman unless he goes into wicked devil mode and bitch.
When I would attempt to steer Mike away from his loop with a question about the interior of that room, the piles of books, vinyl, his choice of lamps, rugs, the casting couch or the big disease with the little name, think capital letters, Mike would almost scream, ‘Nobody has ever asked me that question before,’ or, on a mission to humiliate, ‘You are asking me questions that nobody would want to read the answers to.’
Photographs (c) Mike Arlen
Words by Peter Paul Hartnett
Mike Arlen
23 Wetherby Mansions
Earl’s Court Square
London
SW5 9BH
mikearlen@btopenworld.com
0207 373 1107
Queer Britain2 Granary Square
King’s Cross
London
N1C 4BH
Wed – Sun
12:00 – 18:00
