Decades before Key West became an accidental haven for iguanas, the island was populated by another breed of lizard: engaging bright-colored critters of all sizes, some sporting paws as big as dinner plates, with long tails and protruding eyes.
As well as vividly patterned bodies, many of these lizards had names — odd names like Southernmost Sam and the Little Sicilian. They turned up in random spots around town, eliciting smiles instead of the grumbles or shrieks that accompany present-day iguana encounters.
I first spotted the strange lizards more than 40 years ago, while pedaling my bike past the Guild Hall Gallery on Duval Street, enjoying the day’s lovely laid-back vibe.
Luckily traffic on Duval was light, because when I glanced up at the gallery’s second-story windows, I saw something so unusual I practically fell off my bike.
Lizards were perched on the glass inside the three long windows, and they were not normal lizards. They were big — very big — and motionless, as though pausing to reconnoiter before crawling farther up the windowpanes. One of them even seemed to be wearing clothes.
Having recently sold my first few magazine articles, I envisioned myself a budding super-journalist like Lois Lane. Clearly, it was my duty to pursue this potential story. So I parked my bike in front of the Guild Hall Gallery and ventured inside — and discovered the world of Judi Bradford.
Judi was unquestionably one of Key West’s “cool kids” and a force in the arts community, which made her pretty intimidating to a wannabe journalist. However, her friendly air and wry sense of humor quickly won me over, despite the posse of odd creatures that populated her space at Guild Hall.
Most of them, like those in the gallery windows, were lizards. Soft-sculpture renditions of Key West’s ever-present geckos, they were made of colorful patterned fabric and ranged from about a foot long to well over five feet. Some were dressed in outfits including bikinis and tutus. Some were unfinished, with a long-fibered stuffing spilling out of their unsewn seams.
Too overwhelmed by the gaggle of lizards to dream up a coherent question about them, I began the impromptu interview by asking about the stuffing.
It was called fluff, Judi informed me.
“I get it from a fluff supplier in New York,” she added, as though dealing with a “fluff supplier” was perfectly normal. “My fluff truck comes every 10 days.”
Maybe Lois Lane could have kept a straight face upon hearing that, but I couldn’t. Giggles led to friendship, and one of the small lizards went home with me.
Eventually I did write a profile of Judi for a local paper, featuring her well-earned nickname of the Lizard Lady; her penchant for creating cartoons or T-shirts to commemorate bizarre local happenings; her ability to peddle her wares while pedaling her bicycle; and her fantastic fabric creations that included a life-size representation of Marilyn Kellner, known to all as the island’s famed “Cookie Lady,” who sold sweet treats at the nightly Mallory Square Sunset Celebration.
In 1982, when Key West symbolically seceded from the United States to form the independent Conch Republic, it was Bradford who made the first Conch Republic T-shirts. A few years later, her 12-inch “Lucky Lizards” — which she was then successfully wholesaling — were proclaimed the republic’s official mascots.
Bradford went on to become the longtime coordinator of Key West’s annual Fantasy Fest parade, and earned renown for vivid paintings that captured her subjects with flowing minimal brush strokes.
And me? Several years ago I found myself on busy North Roosevelt Boulevard, directing traffic while my animal-loving husband risked his life to save a large iguana trapped in the northbound lane. Dodging cars and ignoring the shouts of angry drivers, I recalled Judi’s lizards … and smiled.
