I think his work should be better known.
Leslie Candappa – The Elevator Pitch
1953 he arrived from Ceylon
Ceylon (as it was then) was a tropical paradise. Or perhaps not. My Father couldn't see a future there. So a boat, a suitcase, and cold welcome in a grey, smoggy, brick and bomb-site London, still knackered from the six year long war. It was a place where he knew no-one. But it was a place where he could start again. Or maybe just start.
He became an artist in London
He came to study architecture. And to become an architect. But he never qualified. He got distracted by art, and life, and the struggle to provide for a family. The art he got distracted, and inspired, by was abstract art. That wouldn't be a smart career move now. In 1953 – when most people's idea of art was Constable or Turner – it was
He came to study architecture. And to become an architect. But he never qualified. He got distracted by art, and life, and the struggle to provide for a family. The art he got distracted, and inspired, by was abstract art. That wouldn't be a smart career move now. In 1953 – when most people's idea of art was Constable or Turner – it was madness. But it was new, and now, and exciting. And so what if only a few people understood what the hell it was all about. He painted, he drew, he sculpted. He lived and breathed his art. And at one point the 'breathing' bit almost killed him. He explored, he expressed, he created. Because, it turns out, the art was in him, and he had to let it out.
He was fucking awesome
He was fucking awesome
I know. I shouldn't swear. But what can I tell you, he was. Within 5 years of arriving in London, knowing no-one, and never having really painted before, his work had been exhibited in London, Paris, Dublin, West Germany and the Smithsonian in Washington. So, yes, I am biased when I say he was a great artist. But I might just be right.
That's the short tour over.
But if you've got time, there's more.
A lot more. Just keep scrolling through this website for a deeper dive. And all I can tell you is that I'll try to make the telling of the story as interesting as I can. Both in content, and in form – an approach, I guess, I got from my Father.
I mean, for example, what kind of idiot tries to relaunch an unfairly forgotten great artist via a series of free articles on Substack? Find out here:
https://myfatherwasagreatartist.substack.com/p/my-father-was-a-great-artist-i-think?r=5oamo
P.S. Something else I also got from my Father was this birthday card. In 1968.
The artist, preparing for an exhibition, in 1961.
Three galleries where my Father exhibited. (A 2026 remix).
The New Vision Centre Gallery
My Father had shows here in '58, '60 and '62. The gallery, run by the visionary South African-born, though Huddersfield-raised, Dennis Bowen. He championed artists from the Commonwealth when very few of the established galleries would give them the time of day. He and my Father went on to work together organising The Commonwealth Biennale of Abstract Art at the Commonwealth Institute in Kensington in 1963. And, apparently, Dennis was a man with a lot of opinions that he didn't mind sharing. These days the site of The New Vision Centre Gallery is a Gail's coffee shop. Last week I went in to check out their offerings. And, if you order a cinnamon pastry, and look down on it from above, its swirling pattern is very reminiscent of the circular motif my Father often used in his work. Coincidence? Yeah, right.
The Rawinsky Gallery
My Father had an exhibition here in 1962, in a street just behind Carnaby Street. And today, just along from the gallery's location, there is a plaque that commemorates 'Vince Man's Shop' – Britain's first menswear boutique in 1954. Its clientele, at first mainly the gay and the bohemian, soon expanded to Londoners bored of the austere, sober and, frankly, dull, norms of what men were supposed to wear. So The Rawinsky Gallery was right in the centre of what became Swinging London. 10 Newburgh Street is now where the fabulous Mark Powell sells the sharpest of suits, to the most stylish of folk. And the man's an absolute gent. I think my father would have loved both him, and his clothes. Not that he had much money to spend on looking good back then. Yet, somehow, he still managed it.
The Grabowski Gallery
The Grabowski Gallery was in Chelsea on Sloane Avenue opposite the ultra stylish Michelin House. It was founded by the Polish emigre Mateusz Grabowski who escaped occupied Poland in 1940 to serve in the Polish Armed Forces based in the UK. After the war, he set up a successful pharmacy business which meant he could pursue his love of art. Hence his gallery that pioneered work of new artists like Pauline Boty, Aubrey Williams, Bridget Riley and David Hockney. My Father had an exhibition at The Grabowski in 1961. These days the site is occupied by a high-end clothes brand specialising in leisure wear. When I visited the shop I got talking to the manager, who's from Ukraine. Four years ago he too escaped a war. First by going to Poland, with his young family, and then on to London. London – the city with a proud, and generous, history of welcoming people from other parts of the world. Like it welcomed my Father. Admittedly, the welcome could be a little unwelcoming at times, but when you're an immigrant you find a way to make it work. And, I would argue, both you, and the city, are richer for the experience.