A Lifetime of Light: One Man’s Glowing Obsession with Neon Signs
When most people think of neon signs, they picture seedy bars, Vegas casinos, or the dusty corners of roadside America. But for me, they’ve always meant something more—something electric, something alive.
I’m George, 78 years old and still chasing the glow. My fascination with neon signs began in 1957, standing slack-jawed outside the Stardust Hotel in Las Vegas. I’d never seen colour like it. That humming buzz, the hypnotic flicker—it was magic trapped in glass. That moment sparked an obsession that would carry me across the world and back again.
I’ve travelled from the glitzy strips of Tokyo to the moody cabarets of Berlin, all to witness the world’s most iconic neon artistry. I’ve eaten ramen under the glow of Shinjuku lights, sipped coffee beneath the Moulin Rouge flicker, and even tracked down what’s left of Times Square’s once-blazing skyline.
But it was in France where my obsession turned personal.
Meeting the Master of Light
In 1968, during a trip to Paris, I stumbled upon a small lighting shop tucked behind Rue des Archives. Inside was a man named André, an elderly gent with horn-rimmed glasses and nicotine-stained fingers. Turns out, André had worked directly with Georges Claude—the very man who brought neon lighting to commercial life back in 1910.
Over Gauloises and espresso, André told me stories that don’t exist in history books. How Claude nearly abandoned the project after a failed demo in Marseille. How they had to hand-blow each tube with surgical precision. How American roadside culture made the invention famous, but it was born in Parisian basements.
I still carry a photo of André and me outside his shop—two aging romantics, bonded by gas and glass.
My Collection: A Museum of Misfits
I’ve amassed quite a collection over the years. From a flickering “Open 24 Hours” diner sign salvaged from Detroit, to a cheeky “Foxy Lady” neon sign I won at a pub quiz in Soho back in the '90s (yes, I still have the receipt). My garage looks like a Raymond Chandler fever dream—walls lined with vintage tubes, transformers, and hand-painted glass.
There’s something intimate about neon. Unlike modern LEDs, neon signs breathe. They hum. They misbehave. You don’t just install a neon sign—you look after it, like a temperamental pet.
The Comeback of Neon
People think neon died out, replaced by soulless LED panels and slick touchscreen billboards. But look around. Neon’s back. Not just in hipster cocktail bars or ironic tattoo parlours—but in high-end interior design, luxury retail, even gallery installations.
I’ve seen sites like Smithers of Stamford (which I only discovered recently via a blog about retro lighting) bringing that vintage buzz to a whole new generation. They're not just slapping gas into tubes—they’re crafting statements. Their Foxy Lady sign, in particular, gave me a kick—almost identical to mine, but with a sleeker twist. That sign belongs in a film noir scene or a Soho speakeasy.
What Neon Taught Me
I’ve learnt more about life from neon than I have from books. You need the right pressure. You need the right voltage. And sometimes, the most beautiful results come from unstable elements. Neon’s not perfect. It flickers. It fails. But when it works—it sings.
So if you’re wondering whether neon is worth the fuss, take it from a stubborn old fool who’s spent 60 years under its glow—it’s not just light. It’s art. It’s history. It’s bloody poetry.
One Last Glow
My hands are a bit shakier now. I can’t bend glass like I used to. But I’ve passed the bug on to my grandson, Charlie. He’s 23, studying design, already talking about building his own sign shop. I gave him the Foxy Lady sign last year. Told him: “Keep her buzzing. She’s got stories to tell.”
So if you ever find yourself in a dusty garage, face-to-face with a glowing red fox, raise a glass to the old bloke who wouldn’t stop chasing the light.
She’s still buzzing.
And so am I.