Folgate street is a quiet reprieve from the Liverpool Station chaos of working types and bums. Midway down the cobblestone street you can very often find yourself walking alone.
Like most things in London the buildings and brick homes are old. But behind the black door at 18 Folgate Street you'll find the past recreated right before your eyes. This is
Dennis Severs' House a "Still Life Drama" where by entering the door of the house you enter a painting, a recreated life of a 18th Century weavers family, the Jervis's.
Or so told the small man who answered my ring of the doorbell. He squeezed through a crack in the door and stepped onto the second step of the stoop so that he was only a forehead taller than me. He was wearing a neck scarf a leather vest and, dare I say, a satchel (glorified fanny pack). There was something about this fellow's familiarity with his satchel that told me this outfit was not put on for the museum's benefit.
Holding the door behind him, Satchel told me in a whisper that I wasn't to talk while walking through the house. That I wasn't to touch anything and to mind the candles, because they were real, to watch myself on the narrow stairs because it was dark.
I payed my 8pounds and in I went.
Sever painstakingly recreated every room, every nook and cranny to fit a mood of 18th C London. As Satchel told me, it should feel as though some member of the Jervis family has just left, that you are constantly just missing the person behind the action.
Alright...I can play along.
Sure enough, in the first room to the right of the entrance way, I find a dinning room littered with tea cups (half full), a quill pen and paper, a napkin strewn haphazardly and a half-nibbled biscuit. There were (live) birds twittering about in cages hanging near the window. The room was lit mostly by natural light from the windows and a few candles around the table. The ceilings were low and the wood floor, painted a charcoal gray, wained and groaned with each step.
The house was quiet although there were as many as 15 people wandering around at their leisure up and down the four flights of stairs. It was dark, just as Satchel had warned, but quite cozy and smelled of burning wood and must.
So I tried to let my imagination go. From the dining room it looked as though whoever was eating left in a rush. And if I stood still I could hear a recording of voices - two men - mulling over the heat and house repairs. I had to admit that the half eaten biscuit looked delicious and the glob of strawberry jam fantastically real.
Each room revealed a new scene and, sometimes, a new scent. On the second floor a miniature Christmas tree decorated the hallway and gave off the familiar scents of the season - particularly cloves and citrus.
In the bedroom of the lady of the house, the bed was unmade (and incredibly short) and the plush cushions had bum indents. I liked this guy's style. There was lipstick on the rim of a floral tea cup and a bonnet (the same as the one in the painting above the fireplace) hanging on a chair back.
It was fantastic if just for the detail. Sometimes while in one room you could peer into another as though looking at another painting. On the second floor I did just that and was surprised to see a man lounging on a loveseat in the corner and a woman crouched down taking (blast!) photos of something on a dresser. I was immediately peeved for Satchel because of his ardent, though whispered rules: "No Touching" and "No Photography." I gave them the stink-eye from behind the picture frame.
Every so often there was a typed up sign placed among the littered tabletops. I think it was meant to remind you of the house's purpose but I found it arresting and accusatory. It read something like "Don't you GET it yet? Either you see it or you don't"
Hey now. There's no need for this kind of tone, random piece of paper. I like to think I have quite an active imagination and I was quite enjoying myself wandering through these creepy half-lived-in rooms until something like THAT came along and brought me back into the real world. I wondered if the sign knew what it was talking about.
And besides, I felt the house was a little confused itself. While some rooms were dedicated to the recreation of a life of the Jervis's, other rooms were doing something entirely different.
I walked into one dark room at the back to find a mess of overturned chairs and broken glasses. I was told by another aggressive piece of paper in the corner that this scene was to mimic the one in the painting above the lit fireplace. And it was, for sure, nicely done Sever, but what gives? What happened to this family I'm supposed to find?
And then the strangest part was in the attic where the Jervis's, in hard times, took in a family of boarders. Their room was a fantastic replica of what I'd imagine to be poor, sad London. The whole family shares on bed covered in some sort of dirty burlap. They've got a pot over the weakly lit stove where there are some charred green veggies poking out of the top. The room smelled more musty rank than inviting but it was still brilliant.
But turning the corner I found a room in shambles, the after effects of bombs. But the room, according to a piece of paper in the corner, was that of Ebeneizer Scrooge. The paper told me that his shoes were left in the corner and his cane is still leaning against the faded red armchair.
Um. OK.
And closer to the fireplace is a wee baby chair for tiny tim (I didn't know he was meant to be the size of a doll). One of his braces was left on the floor. Strange.
I mean interesting, but stick with the program, house!
I actually went online to check it out again and the site has a more clear understanding of what the house is about: Whether you see it or you don't - the house's ten rooms harbour ten 'spells' that engage the visitor's imagination in moods that dominated the periods between 1724 and 1914. Your senses are your guide.
Well that makes a bit more sense. I blame Satchel for the confusion. I think his neck scarf was on too tight.
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