At home with HOLLY JOHNSON
Holly collects things. It was just a few odds and ends in the Liverpool days when he was trying to be an actor and didn’t have much money, but since he’s moved to London with Frankie Goes To Hollywood his new flat’s been filling up rather fast. There’s medals, mirrors, masks, hats, walking sticks … Jacqueline Hedley gets the guided tour. Mike Putland takes the photos.
“Come in and have a look. Isn’t there just a slight difference between this and Toxteth?”
Which of are, of course. You’re invited into a cool suite of rooms with high ceilings and mostly white painted, objets d’art and old bits of furniture. Apart from the fact that there’s a kettle boiling over in the kitchen, it’s the kind pf effortlessly stylish town residence which you’d expect to belong to some affluent art dealer. Which is also the case. The bloke who owns the flat buys and sells prints, pictures and furniture and rents out the two other bedrooms—
“We only meet for work,” he says between endless cups of coffee. “I think it’s disgusting to stick together the whole time. Each of us has his own private life.”
And Holly’s, you can’t help but feel, is a rather exclusive one. When he’s home (“not often”), he plays records, reads stuff on history and philosophy and rummages around in his collection of odds and ends. There’s the papier mache actor’s masks from Liverpool (left over from the time be was trying to do drama) plus piles of paraphernalia acquired “since I had money—
“Well, he brings me luck. And he makes the place seem like home.”