For all the profoundly overarching features of 2020 common to all of us, for every single one of us, we have to travel our own road day to day. With this in mind, this past week I’ve been given to consider significant events in my own life in the year past. What’s related below is limited to three that are of prima facie albeit entirely personal significance but my gentle readers most of whom have come to know me over the years might find the doing of this relevant to their own lives, and consequently spark their own, hopefully productive, introspection.

June 28, 2020- Keith and I mark 40 years together

It is hard to overstate the importance of this in my own life, to say nothing of the naked fact that, save my own mortal span, nothing is of longer duration. I joke that, if we decided to call it a day, our mutual affairs would be so difficult to unwind that Keith McCullar and I find it easier to just soldier on. And that’s always what it is- a joke not to be taken one whit seriously. When we met and within weeks plighted our troth, gay relationships were typically measured in weeks, not years- and were yet in many jurisdictions outright illegal- but for myself, it never seemed that we’d be anything but a permanency. Of course, we’ve had some trying times but not recently, and in hindsight, those very few times were brief and ultimately had little effect on either singly, or more importantly, both of us together. Though our relationship was legally sanctioned in 2013, it is the earlier date we both of us continue to mark.

July 25, 2020- Keith’s 60th birthday

For the few of you arithmetically inclined, you’ve now worked out that Keith was 19, on the cusp of 20, when we got together. He should pen this, by rights, as perhaps he should have at least contributed something to the prior entry above, but, well, I’ve got the keys to the blog posts. So of course this represents my opinion entirely, and my opinion is, there is no one I know who’s character and probity, strong in the beginning, has remained so steadfast. Not quirky, not erratic, but always the same. Mind you, that’s not to say dull, because certainly within our own relationship, Keith remains- what shall we say?- a live wire. He has strong opinions, but expresses them to me, fits of anger, but generally expresses them to me- or more typically ‘at’ me the result of some kind of error, egregious or otherwise, I’ve committed. My gentle readers might be surprised, I say this with tongue firmly in cheek, to find that some consider my ego at times inflated, which inflation results in some occasional episodes of self-importance and pomposity. It is a job Keith has taken on gladly, and to my benefit, gleefully serves as the deflator man. Neither of us is less than complex in our personalities, but it is Keith who functions to keep us both at a level where we can at least occasionally interface with those possessed of shall we say simpler mien. In the main though, and this from the start, there’s been laughter, and though Keith has never been able to tell a joke, he can make me laugh quicker than anyone can. Mind you, those few who’ve seen Keith’s anger directed at them, and there are very few, will never forget it.

September 17, 2020- the death of Ann Chappell

My mother’s death a few months ago was expected, having been diagnosed a couple of months prior with a type of bone cancer. Her wish was to not receive treatment, with the ultimate consequence. Mother had lived her own life on her own terms up to the end, and in her own home. My father died five and a half years earlier- similarly, largely in good health until his short final illness. My mother though did not repine, but enjoyed herself the last few years, with innumerable trips to see her grandchildren, great grandchildren, and friends near and far. I can’t honestly say her death left me bereft in any measurable degree, and this may be my inheritance from her- a well-centred practicality in accepting that death is ultimately what waits for all of us and if we can enjoy our lives up to the end, what more could we want?

These three are briefly told and doubtless the global pandemic and political upheaval in this country must perforce color these events. Not sure how in any material way, however, but for travel that was postponed or condensed social interaction, but everything of significance occurred anyway. I doubt whether not traveling to London or Rome or Honolulu, or having a smaller funeral, all external factors that shouldn’t have, and in my opinion didn’t, function to make anything for me this past year any less important.

‘….and I fall asleep counting my blessings.’ So the Irving Berlin song goes, made famous by Bing Crosby in the movie ‘White Christmas.’ I watched it the other day on one of the 1,000 or so cable channels that have been our mainstay during the COVID crisis. I forgot but was reminded of the funniest part of the movie- the low drag duet of Bing and Danny Kaye singing ‘Sisters’, but that’s a consideration for another blog post.

What’s more germane, though, is the first scene of the movie, in wartime with the soldiers in a forward position at risk of bombardment. It made me think of how when I would in better times complain about various and sundry to one of my best friends, a wise old bird of 101, her rejoinder has frequently been ‘Well, it isn’t wartime.’ And so I would then pull back from the emotional brink, and as Bing sang it, count my blessings.

However, that trope that has stood me so well for so many years doesn’t work anymore, because it is wartime, and against something we can’t see or yet with complete effectiveness fight against, but is every bit as devastating as cannon fire or an aerial bombardment. Where one had only to see the deathly grim statistics on the news reports to know this is so, very nearly all of us now has tragic first or second hand knowledge.

It astonishes me, though, that so very many people do not, however, seem to care and insist on being horrendously bad citizens. When the COVID epidemic first came upon us, and not yet recognized as a pandemic, health care experts advocated for the wearing of surgical masks, not so much, as they said at the time, for protecting oneself from the inhalation of the virus laden droplets exhaled by others, but more effectively to keep one’s possibly infectious droplets to oneself.

And nothing has really changed- wearing a mask is the quintessence of good and responsible citizenship. And, along with social distancing and staying within one’s bubble, is simple to accomplish.

Grievously astonishing, that so many people have so often since the start of this spurned best practice in favor of- what? Stupidity masking itself as some kind of selfishly wrongheaded expression of personal rights. But for every person who every time they should fails to wear a mask and/or practice social distancing, the question is begged- what about the rights of the rest of us? Another old friend, himself likewise a wise old bird well into his 90’s, mouthed the pithiest statement in this regard when he said ‘My rights end where yours begin.’ Neither you nor I have any right to ignore the right of anyone else to stay healthy.

So where does that leave us over the holiday season? Not a hoax, not an expression of partisanship, but a real live war that can be won.

Just at this time, well, at any time really, it is a pleasant respite from the rough and tumble to remember someone who’s presence always spoke gentlemanliness. Such a one was David Easton, the extraordinary interior designer who died last week at 83. Gentlemanly, and always urbane. Gentlemanly, and always professional. Superbly talented? That goes without saying.

Mr. Easton was one of our first clients, walking into our original gallery on Jackson Square, attracted by a late Georgian painted and gilt sideboard- unusual, as he told me at the time, ‘instead of some plain old brown thing.’ Brown it was not, and while David was pleasant, I confess I was a bit officious, detailing the terms and conditions under which we’d ship the piece to New York- which, by the way, was all fine with him. And, the transaction which did involve client approval before final payment, went off on schedule and without a hitch.

It is something for which I will always be grateful, dealing with David Easton on a professional level, that he set the bar for business like practice, to say nothing of civility, within a trade that seems inordinately peopled by those who are- how shall I say this?- a bit less than ept.

Professional, but that’s not to diminish his talent. One has only to look at the room in which his original purchase from us, the painted sideboard, was placed. An extraordinary and enduring testimony to his artistry is the use made of it in an exquisite duplex apartment at 10 Gracie Square. Enduring as well, as the owners enjoyed a many decades long relationship with David Easton, in a business where, in the best of times, tempers can fray.

A few years after our first meeting, I was on a panel with David Easton, hosted by The Magazine Antiques and moderated by its late editor, the redoubtable Allison Ledes, at the D & D Building in New York. The subject was the use of antiques in contemporary interiors, and along with my friend in the London trade Jeremy Garfield-Davies, I argued for the use of period material as statement pieces in any interior scheme, even if that scheme was overwhelmingly contemporary. This sounds suspiciously self-serving, but I’ll admit, I do run a commercial enterprise and if my presentation ran to something of a sales pitch- well, mea culpa. David Easton, though, showed several slides of recent projects where, he said, he’d blended in a bit more contemporary material than he might have a few years before, but he also made the deathless statement ‘Good design is always good design.’ And so it is- disparate material, though of different periods, tend to articulate with each other when the design of both is of fine quality.

And it is a panoply of fine qualities that composed David Easton’s character that I’ll always remember and be grateful for. He will certainly be missed.

A headline in yesterday’s Guardian read:

‘Save jobs and sell the Hockney? The dilemma laying bare inequality in the arts.’

The paper’s cultural affairs writer Charlotte Higgins goes on to discuss the ability of the Royal Opera House to sell a David Hockney portrait of its onetime director David Webster in order to fund daily operations. Her general tenor is something like this- that the opera house has something of this value to sell when so many other failing albeit less vaunted institutions don’t renders the opera house as bad. And that, of course, the Hockney will sell for an uber price and disappear from view into the clutches of a super-rich collector, that’s even more bad.

Hmmm…

You know, for myself I like high culture of the type that the Royal Opera House represents. Am I an elitist, a social climber, someone trying to, in the words of another era, ape my betters? No- I like what I like, and can think of very few other times I’ve had as much enjoyment than by watching a performance at Covent Garden, even squashed into one of the wildly uncomfortable seats in the stalls, and queueing for a small, lukewarm drink in one of the appropriately named crush bars, or having my nostrils assaulted by the smell of damp woolen clothing too long awaiting dry cleaning whilst in line at the cloakroom.

Who would ever think the Royal Opera House would be on the ropes? Or the Metropolitan Museum in New York? And the list goes on inexorably and worldwide- and, let’s not forget, this is a juggernaut though hugely exacerbated by the COVID pandemic, was already well underway beforehand. The arts and culture generally, high and low, have had an increasingly tough slog for years. The internet and 1,000 channel TV and global fixation on handheld devices will continue to erode an interest in cultural institutions when the COVID pandemic is an unpleasant memory.

As my last blog entry argued for the sale of a Jackson Pollack painting to keep the doors open and the lights on at a small survey art museum, I would plump even more strongly for the Royal Opera House to sell a Hockney painting, an object that is hardly central to what it is the opera house does.

That not every regional opera house or performance venue has something of similar value to sell to keep the wolf from the door- well, what can I say? In a better world than this, all arts organizations would be well-funded and succeeding based on grassroots support of their various constituencies, with that support topped up by right-thinking, enlightened governments.

But that’s not going to happen any time soon, or certainly not soon enough to stave off the closure of the likes of the Royal Opera House. Charlotte Higgins in her Guardian article writes about how, once cultural artifacts are sold off and gone, they are gone for good. She’s right, of course, but even more’s the pity if, for want of a sale of a small, adjunct component in the form of a Hockney painting, the Royal Opera House itself were gone for good.

The Wall Street Journal has yesterday published the following incendiary headline:

‘ Art Museum Sells its Soul’

The accompanying article goes on to discuss in heated terms what the writer characterizes as the morally flawed decision on the part of the Everson Museum of Art in Syracuse to sell a Jackson Pollock painting, to fund other acquisitions of greater diversity. Of course, with most cultural institutions world wide and not just in upstate New York already on the ropes well before they began to feel the crushing bottom line effects of the COVID-19 pandemic, one would assume that their ostensible goal masks their real objective- raising money to fund a huge cash shortfall in support of ongoing operations. Put another way- to stave off bankruptcy and closure.

Though the author of the Wall Street Journal article may not agree, I think the sale of the Pollock, if it can do some good to keep the museum afloat, is a good idea. I am not familiar with the Everson Museum and what its collections consists of, but frankly, an isolated ab ex work in what is otherwise a survey art museum would hardly have the effect of undermining an understanding of what remains on the walls, or in the museum’s back room. Too often, museums will retain a single work that, important in itself, does not really articulate with the balance of its collection. And, of course, that it might have been part, or perhaps all, of the benefaction of some local grandee whose generosity is woefully tempered by the limitations placed on the museum by the benefactor’s deed of gift further complicates matters- matters now so dire which no donor or curator or acquisitions committee could have foreseen at the time the gift was accepted.

In earlier times- and those earlier times were not so long ago- it was standard practice to place severe restrictions on the sale of works of art. The general rationale was to insure a level of sustained financial discipline within the beneficiary museum, assuring thereby the permanent and ongoing public acknowledgment of a donor’s generosity. Consequently, a museum’s permanent collection acquired sacred cow status, and could not be sold to support its operating budget. Or as I heard it put rather pointedly, to fund the lavish salaries paid to curators. As someone who’s had some exposure from inside the museum world, I’ve never yet seen any museum curator or director who didn’t absolutely, positively earn every cent they were paid, and most of them are paid peanuts- and fewer of those peanuts all the time. The Honolulu Museum of Art, for instance, had long had as a perk for the director use during their tenure of a marvelous Ossipoff designed home. That house has now been sold to support operations, and the director, with no increase in pay, now obligated to pay for their own housing.

Then, too, not all acquisitions, and certainly not all donations, are of, shall we say, museum quality. For every work in any given museum’s galleries, there can be many fold that number languishing in the vaults. Tate Britain and Tate Modern rotate works in and out of their galleries, but mostly, what’s in the vaults are generally subpar that in their occupation serve no purpose other than to gather dust. We’ve been treated to several TV shows in recent years featuring the likes of celebrity dealer Philip Mould and aristocratic art historian Bendor Grosvenor, sussing out treasures amongst these, but for every treasure, there are thousands, indeed tens of thousands that no one would now or ever consider as in any way important.

Other than, possibly, to the museum that now possesses them and could, in these times, use them as a source of revenue to keep the lights burning- or rather, to be able to turn them back on at some time in the hoped-for and not too distant future.

Frankly, I would consider this as an oppotrune time for some general weeding of museum’s collections, including works by artists- including Jackson Pollock- well established in the canon. One needs to bear in mind that not all artists, even those in what might be considered the first rank, generally produced masterworks. Then, too, there are works whose time has passed. I doubt too many museums could stay open even in good times if their holdings ran to Victorian era pictures with a moral message, in the manner of Luke Fildes, arguably the most famously popular painter at the turn of the last century.

But is the sale of a single painting, or any group of paintings or other works of art, selling its soul as the Wall Street Journal headline has it? I shouldn’t think so, as beyond the ability to stay open the soul of a public museum is its dynamism and the lively relationship it maintains with its constituency. The time when any museum could operate in a near vacuum, providing access only to connoisseurs or the great and good who perhaps fancied themselves as connoisseurs has long passed. The subheading in the Wall Street Journal article characterizes the sale of the Pollock painting as a betrayal of the public trust. It seems to me the forced closure of the museum when the sale of one of its artworks could have forestalled it is much more a betrayal.