In 1956 a young married couple, Ann and Simon Broadbent, drove down Crooms Hill in London, a street described by German émigré art historian Nikolaus Pevsner as ‘the pride of domestic architecture in Greenwich’. According to family tradition, as they descended towards the town centre, they spotted a handsome house sporting a ‘for sale’ sign and instantly decided to purchase it. Despite the estate agent’s frosty response to their confidence, buy it they did, and moved in later that year. So began Ann Broadbent’s remarkable relationship with her home – part interior-design project, part artwork, part performance – which continued for the next 67 years.
Within the walls of this double-fronted, early 18th-century house, Ann exercised her particular gift for bringing things together in surprising juxtaposition. Whether in the art of découpage, patchwork, her many volumes of scrapbooks or the house itself, she made each whole vastly more than the sum of its parts.
The origin of an individual’s aesthetic is elusive, but it is tempting to connect the visual poetry and wit of the interiors Ann created with the astute student who studied English at Oxford, and to see in the découpaged screens, tabletops and fridge door the young office assistant whose job it was to collate press cuttings. The scrapbooks she compiled over decades bear testimony to her sensitivity to place – photographs of houses lived in by family and friends record the stage sets for personal lives – and the numerous pages devoted to No. 14 make it clear that the house had equal status as a family member.
Ann always had an eye for the theatrical. Her wedding to Simon in 1952 was documented in the press, largely because she had let it be known that the bride would be carrying a fan once owned by Marie Antoinette’s lady-in-waiting – an entirely fictitious provenance. Her domestic stagecraft expressed itself in the creation of striking backdrops, such as the black-and-gold bathroom with mirrored surfaces, the orange-and-gold-damask dining room with golden striped ceiling, or the olive-green bedroom with bright white paintwork. On these she layered inventive displays: objects ranked several deep on sideboards and walls peppered with images and objects. The elements are often of varied status and quality: authentic early 18th-century reverse glass prints hang alongside images of 19th-century samplers cut from auction catalogues then framed, and icons made from postcards glued to a convincing chunk of wood and varnished. Through sleight of hand, they gel into an impressive ensemble. One of Ann’s near neighbours in later years was designer and opera impresario Adam Pollock CBE (WoI April 2000). He recalls: ‘So much of Ann’s decoration reminds me of what bright women, who wanted grandeur, did after the war.’
Ann understood well the power of first impressions, a priority perfectly matched by the house’s impressive double-height hallway that occupies over a quarter of the main block. Here she deployed red flock wallpaper, tapestries, plaster busts of Caesar and Marcus Agrippa and a flamboyant arrangement of handmade red paper blooms that have flowered on the staircase for over half a century. Above the ensemble hangs the original decorative plasterwork ceiling, abundant with gilded fruit, lit by a chandelier sourced from Portobello Road in 1966. Its origin is noted in one of the scrapbooks where she documented the house’s appearance in various media, from Sunday colour supplements to porn films. Even when the eye might be drawn by something louche, Ann’s annotations record the facts: which room is being pictured and how much specific items cost.
Key to Ann’s style was an aesthetic of abundance, teetering on excess. In her maximalist kitchen, the walls above the countertops are covered in a yellow-and-blue faux-tile wallpaper, encrusted with blue-and-white ceramics; a vintage sign and a classical bust add texture. Opposite, the wall bristles with miscellaneous bits and bobs: a framed tapestry, gilded initials, 19th-century engravings, trays turned into pictures through the addition of a poster covered in self-adhesive vinyl, corn dollies, love spoons and plastic crustacea. In contrast to this mix, the groupings of objects on many of the window embrasures are themed by colour and by material. But they too are characterised by generosity, this time to the passers-by whom Ann was always eager to welcome in from the street if they expressed the slightest interest.
Playfulness is an unexpected but essential element. Ann had a serious intellect, being well versed in literature and history and having a gift for writing as well as making, but she was never staid. The drawing-room portraits comprise a host of invented ancestors, each a canvas of unremarkable quality rescued from obscurity and given new life by being inscribed with spurious family names and connections. Further jollity is injected by the painted cardboard animals that roam the rooms – a tiger, lion, cheetah, flamingo and giraffe have all been sighted over the years. Humour is a rare quality in an interior, but it was something that many of Ann’s visitors recorded in their letters to her after her renowned parties, referring to ‘the art gallery and palace of fun that is also your house’ and declaring that they had never enjoyed ‘the glory and fun of interiors’ so much.
Ann’s sources were as varied as her spoils. When she arrived in Greenwich, there were still several antique shops: Spread Eagle Antiques, run by Dick Moy, was a favourite haunt, and she was a regular at Lots Road Auction in Chelsea. She had a particular interest in historic costumes, which she remodelled to great effect. Her passion for fabric was manifest in the patchwork cushions and rugs she made, as well as running up her own curtains and undertaking all her own upholstery. She was equally keen on skip-hunting, never missing the opportunity to transform someone’s rubbish into one of No. 14’s valued heirlooms. For contemporary items, including lamps and fabric, she favoured the exuberant designs of Casa Pupo. Ann’s visual extravagance belied the frugality that underpinned everything she did. She was always on the lookout for a bargain or, even better, something completely gratis.
The result was highly original and full of atmosphere, exceedingly intentional but never contrived. Ann united a respect for the 18th century with a passion for artistic curiosities of the Victorian age, all delivered with decidedly modern flair. It comes as no surprise to hear she took a special interest in Dennis Severs’s house at 18 Folgate Street (WoI March 2022), where he began his project of historical imagination and artifice in 1979, some 20 years after she had embarked on her own. Tellingly, Ann typed up and kept in a scrapbook a quotation from John Pearson’s Facades (1978) discussing the writer Osbert Sitwell: ‘He had a magpie instinct for Victoriana, in itself a half century ahead of its time – which made him collect whatever caught his fancy: ships in spun glass, pictures made of shells, wax flower arrangements under elaborate glass domes – small pretty things abounded, the house was a temple of that now-forgotten style called the amusing.’ Similarly, Ann’s house was a palace of ingenuity and an ephemeral wonder.
The Ann Broadbent Collection is on auction from 28 August 2024. Details: wimbledonauctions.co.uk
Sign up for our bi-weekly newsletter, and be the first to receive exclusive stories like this one, direct to your inbox
