Molly Parkin, artist, fashion designer, broadcaster, and writer, died at 93. She ranked among Wales’ most vivid figures.
She came into the world in Pontycymer. She lived the Swinging Sixties with bold flair and her own bold look.
She made her mark as an abstract painter. Later came wins as a top London fashion editor.
Parkin quit alcohol in her 50s. She saw her wild side as a cheer for life.
She shaped fashion pages at Nova and Harpers & Queen. In 1971, she won honors in that job at the Sunday Times.
She wrote 10 comic erotica books and two memoir sets. Chat shows loved her as a guest.
Twice married—to art dealer Michael Parkin and painter Patrick Hughes—she chased lovers too. Blues man Bo Diddley. Writer John Mortimer. Above all, actor James Robertson Justice. She said no to Louis Armstrong. Pals ran to Francis Bacon, Andy Warhol, and George Melly.
Her two years with Justice shaped her deep. He became the love of her life.
This hit during his peak fame. He starred as gruff Sir Lancelot Spratt in 1950s Doctor movies. His own hungers ran wild. Stories say he once outdrank Ernest Hemingway.
I was 22, he was 52, Parkin said on BBC’s Desert Island Discs.
My dad just died. I saw James’s hands, his skin like Dad’s. Why pick a man old as my father? Still, he cracked me up.
Born Molly Noyle Thomas in February 1932, she grew up in Garw Valley amid preachers, teachers, and miners.
Both parents battled booze. Later, she shared how Dad hurt her until World War Two pulled her away.
Grandpa served as deacon. Mom played organ at the Presbyterian chapel.
Life felt thick with faith, she remembered.
Church three times each Sunday, plus weekdays. We lived up a mountain. God felt near, right over the ridge.
No walking pub-side of the street for me.
Mom shone as valley beauty, with piercing navy eyes and fire to match.
She could have ruled as concert pianist. Nerves failed her. Looks brought heavy hopes. Psych wards marked our girlhood.
Locked in the front room, she’d hammer Beethoven, doors shut tight. Concerts still stir storms in me.
Grandma sparked her art and words. Closest kin by far.
Gifts won her a spot at Goldsmiths College of Art at 17. By 22, she joined Chelsea Arts Club.
Married at 25, she painted at home. Cash poured in big. Yellow Rolls-Royce. Chelsea house.
That path opened her fashion shop. Hats, bags. Even a restaurant.
Booze turned trouble with magazine work.
Everyone drank, like in that Mad Men show, she said.
It spun wild. News jobs made pub runs feel right.
Painters skipped that haze.
Mid-1980s brought her low. One dawn, she woke in a Smithfield gutter after market pub drinks.
She slept two days. Then Grandma’s voice rang clear. Time to quit.
No more drink, smokes. Faith bloomed fresh.
No regrets here. Mom and Dad drank heavy. It runs in us, she told BBC.
Grandma set my path. Now I grandparent with grace.
Boozy mom hurts any kid. But my girls Sarah and Sophie? Tight as can be. I fixed the old pains. No grudges left.
Bankrupt at last, she ended days in a World’s End council flat. Chelsea’s edge. Paintbrush and pen stayed busy. Even music words.
A 2017 show on King’s Road looked back at her art.
Pure Welsh valley stock, with Romany veins, she said.
Celts roam free. Fifty-four homes in grown-up years. Luck followed. I chased big souls, lovers most. Lessons everywhere.
Daughter Sophie shared the news. Molly Parkin, wild soul, has left the stage.
