Kate's response to the postcards

I find it awkward to respond directly to any of the postcards, as I couldn’t possible answer directly for Audrey, but there were a number of them that got me thinking…..

Postcard no 3 ‘Would you have wanted all of us to read/view your personal items like this?’

Postcard no 9 ‘What would you like us to do with your collection? Keep them, display them, xxxx them, or dispose of them?’

Postcard no 17 ‘How do you feel about having your sketchbooks, art and letters preserved for ever in a medical library?

Before handing over the material, the family did think hard about all of this. Unfortunately, we can never know if Audrey would approve or not to her sketch books, paintings, account books, scrapbooks and diaries being on show. It might well depend on her mood. A lot of the time, Audrey was, in her way, high with life and at times full of humour and always interested in and passionate about her current focuses (politics, arts, popular culture). My impression is that she would generally only be in a low mood when sectioned or on medication (both of which she disliked). An intense conversation (no small talk with Audrey) could lead to overwhelming, infectious, eye-watering laughter, or to firmly stated opinions, that would shut down further debate. In terms of the Wellcome archive, she might well and we hope that she would have been delighted at the recognition, maybe finding this outcome profoundly funny. On the downside, Audrey had significant trust issues, and certainly tended to be very suspicious of large, established institutions. I hope that she would appreciate the total lack of censorship; no one is judging her and the Trust is allowing Audrey’s full story, work and views to be aired. Audrey always said it exactly how she thought. And the archive does that for her.

Postcard 18 ‘You make me laugh. Where did you get your sense of humour?’

She shared her brilliant humour with her amazing mother!

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It was fascinating and rewarding to read the output of postcards from the Wellcome engagement session into Audrey’s archive last month. Not a week goes by that I don’t think of the donation to the Wellcome with pleasure and satisfaction. But the postcards were somehow unsettling. I couldn’t instantly put my finger on quite what led to the discomfort. That the Wellcome Trust took the materials from Audrey’s flat is a delight and continues to give all the family a sense of doing the right thing by Audrey and of a kind of fulfilment on her behalf. That, hidden away for so long, there is a now recognition of Audrey’s life and talents is terrific. There seemed little we could do for her when she was alive, bar monitoring her and helping her practically from a distance: in death, we hope that we may have done the right thing by her. But we can never truly know of course.

My brother Steve and I were overwhelmed when, after Audrey died in 2013, we entered the flat where Audrey had been living virtually as a recluse since 1989. We couldn’t bring ourselves to even consider that the extraordinary collection of books and paintings unearthed from the damp dusty property could be thrown in a skip. But what to do? We discussed holding an exhibition, or trying to write an article about Audrey… a book, a memorial? Neither of us had the time nor the curatorial experience, nor the contacts or money to carry any of this out. Then we discovered the Wellcome Trust and the Trust discovered Audrey. It felt like a miracle at the time.

My discomfort with the postcards? The postcards start ‘Dear Audrey’; freshly piqued interest in a fascinating archive. By contrast, my Mum wrote a letter every week to Audrey after their mother died in 1989 until Audrey’s death in 2013. ‘Dear Audrey’, they would begin; years of sisterly duty and family concern. Audrey rarely answered. Those who delve into the archive see the output. The family, and particularly my Mum, Audrey’s sister, had to live with the sometimes tumultuous and often difficult and emotional underbelly. Audrey’s behaviour could be unpredictable and at times antisocial. Up in Yorkshire, my parents would field calls from worried or disgruntled neighbours and local authorities and would periodically be required to drop everything to drive down to London, where Audrey lived with her mother.

Family in Leeds, 1964, Audrey back row 2nd from right in glasses

‘Dear Audrey’….. Audrey could change the atmosphere in a room. For me, as a child, at Christmas and at family occasions, Audrey was unpredictable; sometimes bottled up and withdrawn and other times strident and volubly opinionated (she gave amazing presents I should add). Her behaviour could turn the day. in the early 90’s, I bumped into Audrey in the Abbey National on Clapham High Street where she was shouting angrily, violently at the manager and had to be forcibly ushered out onto the pavement. In the early 2000’s, I stopped at some traffic lights in South London and watched an elderly and apparently homeless lady wearing slippers and eccentric clothing, carrying stuffed plastic bags, shuffle across the road in front of me, only to realise it was Audrey. I was there in 2013 when the police discovered her decayed body lying across the threshold of her maisonette.

It is not in any way the family’s wish to inhibit any access or use of the archive. We are enjoying standing back and watching the Audrey archive taking on a life of its own. However, I would like to shine a gentle light onto the other side of mental illness; onto the long-reaching effects diseases of the mind can have on the extended family. I just felt that it might add a little context, and be therapeutic on my side, to air another side to the story.

Dear Auntie Audrey from Stephen

Dear Auntie Audrey, I can't help wondering what you would think of all the fuss. No one ever saw your scrapbooks while you were alive and now they are almost public property. The way people respond to them tells me that there could be even more attention in the future. What do you think of that? It's a discussion we have had as a family and of course there is no real answer since you are no longer here to give your opinion. A few thoughts have guided me: you were not averse to sharing your opinions and creations, both through your diligent letter-writing and your attempts to exhibit your artwork; the voice in your writing is consistently careful and persuasive as if written for an audience; as more people read your words, I see how well they respond to your view of the world. None of those thoughts gives us explicit permission to share your work, I know. I can only say I hope you would have appreciated the attention your unique worldview is now getting. Some of the postcards from the Wellcome Trust ask the same question. I could reply that my Mum, your sister, who stood by you, however difficult it was, as you struggled with your mental health, believes that your mother would have been delighted that the work is finally being seen. When we, your niece and nephew, discovered your massive collection which filled the maisonette in Clapham, we were drawn into the world you so diligently recorded. The scrapbooks of packaging, which you began to curate after a health visitor asked you to keep track of your diet, captured our imagination. I can't tell whether you enjoyed the task you set yourself, but it's clear you saw beauty, not only in the subjects in your hundreds of sketchbooks, but also in objects the rest of us see as mundane. ‘Intense colours’ you wrote next to a chocolate wrapper in a collage. You were serious about your tireless documentation, letter writing and campaigning and I imagine you dedicating as much time to it as many do to their careers. Readers of your work react to your dedication, but also to your playfulness and sense of humour. As a kid I enjoyed visiting you and Nana in London; you loved TV comedy and encouraged my interest in current affairs and the arts. Mum has told me about your youthful passions for tennis and cricket, opera and jazz, Tolstoy and Pepys. So I don't know if you would be pleased that the collection of diaries, scrapbooks and sketches which you preserved in every corner of your flat is seeing the light of day. Your vision of the world, moulded in part by your mental illness, nonetheless speaks to us. In my Mum’s words, you could ‘laugh like a drain’ which is what I hope you're doing at the belated recognition you are getting. Lots of love, Stephen