Japan left a vivid imprint on me as a child. We moved there in 1955 when I was young—my father stationed near Hiroshima with the Australian troops. It wasn’t until much later, when a journalist asked me to reflect, that I realized how much those early years had influenced me. I looked around and saw the red lacquer, red nail polish, red keys—it had all been there for decades. Japan had quietly shaped my aesthetic without me knowing.
Growing up in Geelong, I had dreams of studying interior design, but I was turned away because I hadn’t done maths. They offered me a secretarial course instead. I took it, hated it, but to this day I can type very fast. I worked in a gallery, then someone said, “Bobby, why don’t you open a shop?” That’s how Bobby May began in 1967. I was twenty, selling Swedish glassware and Copco cookware. People predicted I’d close within months. Instead, I ran with it until it was time to move to Melbourne in 1971.
There, I found a role with Trade Action, part of Handicraft Asia. I didn’t have Myer training, but I had my own business experience, and that counted. A few months in, I was off to Russia. I had always been fascinated by Russian history. When I arrived in Moscow and opened the window to see the Kremlin and Red Square, I was awestruck. That trip was transformative, not frightening, just deeply absorbing. We took trains, shared rooms, wandered Leningrad. It made returning to Melbourne feel like coming back with new eyes.
I was lucky to work under Bob Webb, who encouraged ideas. One day, I pitched opening a special store. He said, “Where?” I said, “High Street, Armadale.” That became Myriad. We added cafés, fashion jewellery, and even plants to our stores in the ‘70s—long before it became standard retail practice.
John came into the picture in 1972. We had a few dates, I went to Greece, and he followed me. We ended up staying in Europe for over eight years. When we returned, I joined David Jones while John took on renovation and decorating work. Together, we launched Herman and Herman in 1990 in Richmond. It started as a wholesaler to the design industry. When customers began knocking on the windows, we let them in. Retail found us.
Richmond then was all warehouses; we were the first homewares store there. Over time, we grew—containers turned into more containers. We sourced from the Philippines, where local artisans worked with vines and natural materials unavailable in Australia. Anything that could be made locally, we had made. We weren’t just selling objects; we were curating stories. Every item was displayed with intention, and our in-store café created a space for people to linger and imagine the pieces in their own homes.
We valued original design fiercely. We’d never tolerate copies and always championed the work of artisans. Our visual merchandisers were extraordinary. We could hang a painting above a bar and sell the artwork because people could picture it in their space. Everything was styled, but nothing competed. It just belonged.
After 25 years in our Richmond location, we devised a cautious exit plan. Then came the surprise offer on the property—too good to refuse. We fast-tracked everything, sold every item, and walked away with our name, our dignity, and a website that still receives weekly messages.
Now, John paints. He picked up a brush just before his 80th birthday and never looked back. What began with a YouTube course turned into serious classes and exhibitions. He sees ripples in ponds, textures in leaves—details that the rest of us overlook. His work has astonished even him.
I’ve been slower to restart, though I’ve got a thousand slides from Japan and plans to turn them into a book. Maybe not for sale—maybe just for family and friends. I dabble in Japanese calligraphy too. We’re still invited to incredible events through our design networks, and we make time for talks, exhibitions, and dinners that keep us connected.
We were lucky. Lucky to sell when we did, lucky to have worked with brilliant people, and lucky to have built something that people still remember. But more than luck, it was passion, vision, and the willingness to take risks—again and again.