It’s a curious place, Mare Street. It’s the home of Hackney Town Hall, Hackney Empire, and unknown to most who live there, a little place called The Viktor Wynd Museum of Curiosities, Fine Art and Natural History.
From the outside, the place could be mistaken for a small, insignificant, shop front. A bloodied, plastic arm though reaches across the counter, and a friendly hipster takes out his headphones to say hello. I explain that I’ve won a ticket for free entry to the museum, which includes complimentary tea and cake.
The puzzled look I receive tells me otherwise. Apparently they don’t do tea. Or cake.
I’ve barely reached the bottom of the unusually narrow spiral staircase when I’m greeted by a gentleman who is quick to throw a boa constrictor over my shoulders.
Today the museum is playing host to a petting zoo, to which zoologist Tim Maynard has brought along his army of exotic reptiles, amphibians and bugs for a “weekend mini break”. I am introduced to Lola the bearded dragon, Gismo the chameleon and Tess the tarantula. I keep particular distance from Tess.
Tim tells me he’s had hundreds of visitors to the petting zoo. “Tarantulas are more popular than you think,” he says. “There must be 20-30,000 kept as pets in the UK, and that’s a conservative estimate.”
Wary of Sam the snake’s increasingly strong grip around my neck, I unwind him from my shoulders and politely hand him back to a smiling Tim. I decide to take a look around the rest of the museum. A one-eyed doll rests against a mummified cat, and next-door a mannequin wears a red sequin suit, and bizarre and provocative paintings hang from the walls.
By this point a young couple have arrived at the petting zoo. The chap seems rather pleased with his unusual choice of date venue, but it swiftly becomes obvious he has competition in the form of Gismo the chameleon. I wonder which of the two she’ll be taking home.
The four of us bond over the lizard’s continued failed attempts to escape his box on the table. So what of Viktor himself? I ask, feeling as though I’ve suitably toured the inner workings of Mr Wynd’s mind.
“He’s something of an enigma,” says Tim, who claims he’s a close friend of Mr Wynd. “He’s a difficult person to talk to.”
24 hours after my insight into his world of taxidermy, shrunken heads and assorted oddities, and I have Mr Wynd on the end of the line.
“Hello,” he picks up. A much higher voice than I was expecting.
“I like tarantulas,” Viktor tells me, with great seriousness. “The petting zoo is a wonderful opportunity for people to get to know them better. I think they’re wonderful ambassadors for their species.”
He remains awfully formal for a man talking about spiders, stuffed animals and erotica.
“The main problem we’ve got with the museum is that people just don’t know it’s here,” he goes on. “It’s supposed to be a secret and we can’t have everyone, but we do need to let local people know that we’re there.”
The conversation seems to be flowing quite nicely, so I decide to try my luck. I test the water and ask a personal question. “Is Viktor Wynd your real name?” I probe.
“It’s quite a nice sunny day at the moment, what’s it like with you?” he retaliates immediately.
As I suspected. I ask why he avoids disclosing personal information.
“There’s no reason why I should, is there?” he replies, defensively. “I’m not the Prime Minister. It’s irrelevant, there’s enough of me in the museum.”
As I bid him goodbye I wonder whether I’ve really learnt anything more about the mysterious Mr Wynd. He certainly is a curious, curious man indeed.
