Work & Play
Work
I am an early riser; always have been. I get up at 6AM every morning; sometimes earlier. At Cranbrook, I would get up, cross the street and go up to my office. I would write out my schedule for the day; dictate letters, memos and whatever; and leave notes ‘to do’ on staff desks. An hour later, I would leave the office and walk or cycle; around Kingswood Lake, through the woods and along the paths. I would return to Saarinen House; shower and dress ready for the day. By 8.30AM, I was back in the office; the staff addressing the various tasks and issues that I had left them. The winter snows would interfere with my walks but a path was always cleared early to my office.
My daily schedule was written out every morning on a yellow pad; never to exceed one page. I believe that President Reagan said that his staff should always fit any memo to him on one page. I felt the same about my daily schedule. To this day, I continue this practice; first started when I began teaching, a lifetime ago. At the Corcoran, I did the yellow pad schedule, memos and dictation early; first, I had to drive to work. With the DC traffic, the yellow pad was on the passenger seat, ready for me to make notes. Later, hand held dictation machines with small tapes were used on my travels; cursed by the secretarial staff.
Nowadays, I still rise at 6AM; as does Agnes but I am not allowed to talk, difficult for me! I work at my computer, on daily correspondence; Agnes reads the morning paper with her coffee. After an hour, we take our morning walk; my schedule remains consistent, even my naps. Every day, I take an early afternoon nap. I did so when I was working! After lunch, usually a business affair, I would nap. At the Corcoran, where I used the original board for my office, I would close the tall doors and nap. Sometimes, I would nap in a chair or stretch out on the boardroom table; no one dare disturb me! My naps could be for twenty minutes, sometimes longer; a short nap would suffice. At Cranbrook, I had the luxury of crossing the street and stretching out on my bed. I can take a nap anywhere and do. The Army taught me to do that; in those days, I could sleep standing up!
The cell phone was not available in my working career; not sure how I would have dealt with that. I am a non stop talker; the normal phone, always at my ear, seemed enough for me. Naturally, my staff was always relieved to see me leave the office; silence prevailed. I not only talk but do so loudly; may be as I was an army sergeant?! Voice projection is no problem for me; a microphone rarely needed but the decibels are high. How many times have I been told, often sight unseen, “Would know that voice anywhere”?!
Other than dictation machines, another device appeared that I used to the surprise of staff. While at the Corcoran, I had to go to New York; in those days I used Amtrak with its newly introduced express service. I was taken to the station by staff; as usual, I was issuing last minute instructions and tasks. On the train, I saw that pay phones had been installed in the club car and could be used by travelers. I waited until the train had gone thru Baltimore, giving my staff time to get back to the office. I phoned my secretary. At first she was dumbfounded, having put me aboard the train; how could I be speaking to her? When I told her about the train phone, she was aghast. She thought that she had three hours without my voice, bellowing demands; no more!
Later at Cranbrook, a similar experience occurred. I was to fly across country to California. I was taken to the airport by car; as usual staff taking notes and discussing issues. After take off, an announcement was made that, for the first time flying, phone service would be available. With the use of a credit card, the phone installed in front of passengers could be activated and used. I waited a while, remembered a few issues that needed further discussion; I phoned the office. The response from my secretary was of surprise, then shock. She was incredulous and horrified that, from a plane cruising at 30,000’, I could phone her!
The yellow pad remains as the mainstay of my daily schedule and the tasks ‘to do’. I write these out in distinctive print, my personal handwriting. I put an ‘o’ before each task; once done, I put a cross thru that ‘o’. These yellow pads became known to many; one of my many idiosyncrasies.
In April 2008, Agnes and I were visiting Manhattan and were at the Museum of Modern Art. The installation was taking place of a major retrospective of the work of Martin Puryear; a sculptor that I know and admire. We watched the installation from a distance; respectful of what was involved. I saw John Elderfield, the chief curator at MOMA; he had been a student at Leeds University when I was teaching at Leeds College of Art. Indeed, his professor was Eric Cameron, my next door neighbor in the village of Horsforth. Eric moved to Guelph University in Canada. In the early seventies, he invited me to do a joint show, with John Elderfield, of our paintings. Later, John visited me at the Corcoran where I had become Director.
As we were about to leave MOMA, John happened to turn and rushed over; embracing me warmly. He seemed so relieved and explained that early that morning, he was walking on Fifth Avenue. We had not seen one another for some years; he thought he recognized that tall, bearded figure. I was wearing a long raincoat and big brimmed hat. John shook his head, thinking it can’t be Roy; he began to worry that he was seeing people from his past. Without hat and hearing my voice, he was most relieved that it was me! John went on to say that, recently; he recalled that visit to my Corcoran office. At that time, he noted the yellow pad of my daily doings; he could not understand why anyone would need to do this. Since becoming a curator, he admitted that a yellow pad was an indispensable part of his daily routine; just like me! We laughed at our shared obsession.
To organize the day is important for anyone; in the museum profession such organization is a necessity. From director to curator, every museum professional has a multitude of tasks and responsibilities. In the past, I have written and lectured on these problems: budgets, trustees, volunteers, politicians, patrons, journalists, critics, artists, membership, attendance, tours, lighting, heating, climate control, security, conservation, acquisitions, exhibitions, catalogs, invitations, posters, education, labeling, technology, insurance, transportation, events, lectures, receptions, fund raisers and much else.
Meetings with staff, artists, colleagues and committees can consume the day. I remember the advice given to me as fledgling director: “Try to make meetings particularly mundane or unimportant ones occur in the afternoon.” The morning is the best time for real work; not listening to people. As a morning person, that is when I am at my best. To spend valuable time in conversation or committee seemed wasteful. Whenever appropriate, I would delegate a staff member to represent me or the Academy. My meetings were normally scheduled for afternoons; if at all. The exception was the monthly faculty / staff meetings that occurred in the morning; this meeting was an important forum for sharing information, activities and achievements.
Ironically, I ended up chairing many meetings; some for the State of Michigan, others professional and national committees. I was chairman of Design Michigan and for the Commission of Art in Public Places for Michigan. At a national level, for many years, I chaired the Education Committee of the Association of Art Museum Directors and, among other committees, served as chair of The Museum Program Panel for NEA. As chair, I believed in an agenda which reflected the purpose of the meeting. Most important, I felt a meeting should have goals; be about issues that were to be resolved. Meetings should have a definitive time allotted rather than being open ended. Otherwise, a meeting can be meaningless; fulfilling the definition of a committee as “a group of people who set out to design a car and ended up with a camel.”?! As chair, I directed meetings with the intention of gaining a consensus; making informed and, hopefully, intelligent decisions.
I must admit that I am not a good listener; particularly when my mind is made up, which was usually the case. A young curator, in absolute frustration, complained that, “Once his mind is made up, I could sit in front of Roy, douse myself with gasoline, apply a light and he would not take notice!” She was probably right. Another curator noted that once my arms were folded, “Roy has made up his mind; further discussion is useless!” Of course, I did talk to students and staff, tried to find out the issues; get information. By nature, I am curious; I like people and like to talk. However, I distrust committees and meetings that become forums for frustration. I detest disruptive diatribe.
By temperament, I am impatient; known for outbursts of anger. With my loud voice and powerful presence, such outbursts were to be feared; fortunately, few and far between. As a boss, I suppose I was demanding. I asked no more of my staff (and students) than I was willing to give myself: that was hard work. By nature, I am a workaholic. People always are telling me how they envy the energy I have. The terms “energetic” and “enthusiastic” have used when describing me; I hope I am. Sometimes, I think that my childhood days in the Blitz may have affected me; I was grateful for surviving. As a child, I remember coming out of the air raid shelter, thinking that the morning light looked so good. I do to this day. The dawn is the beginning not only of a new day but an opportunity. As I get older, I am ever more thankful for each day; an opportunity and a gift.
My sense of humor serves me well and always has. Again, as a child, I remember coming home after a heavy bombing. The windows had been blown out and soot, fallen in to the fireplace, filled the living room. I reassured my mother that we wouldn’t need the chimney sweep. I can think of endless hilarious moments throughout my life. When taken out of context, the humor is lost and means little; at the time so funny? I do believe in the truism: “Cry and you cry alone; laugh and the world laughs with you”!
Being an only child, by nature, I was shy and introvert; until becoming an art student at the age of sixteen. I realized that I had to fend for myself, to speak out. I did and became President of the Student Council. I learnt that the loudest voice gets heard; not necessarily the wisest. At an early age, blowing one’s own trumpet is a necessary evil; no one else will spare their breath to do so? Later, achievements speak for themselves? I was always speaking. Ironically, one of the many things that I learnt in the Army was voice projection. Being trained as sergeants, we were lined opposite one another, across the vastness of a barracks square. We had to bellow orders to one another and be heard or else. I made sure that I was heard and have done so ever since?!
Born in Wales, I do have an accent; unfortunately, a city accent. The Welsh can speak in a lilting language but not this lad from Cardiff. Mine is the harsh city accent of the hard “a”; in recent years, often mistaken for an Australian accent. Most unfortunate as, in our national pastime and passion of rugby football, the Aussies are the bitter rivals of the Welsh. When I first came to America, forty years ago, my Welsh accent may have been more pronounced; whatever, I did sound different. In Britain, the people have dialects; in this country, we have accents, mine was distinct. One of my first lectures was in Tuscaloosa at the University of Alabama. After my presentation, a lovely Southern lady came to me and gushed, “I didn’t understand a word you said, but I loved the way you said it.”?!
Speaking and voice projection seem to come naturally; may be the Welsh in me? My favorite poet is Dylan Thomas. To hear recordings of him reading his poems on radio is a distant memory; to read his writings today remain a delight. His famous work, a radio play for voices, “Under Milk Wood” was set in the mythical village of Llareggub; which is ‘Bugger all’ spelt backwards! “A Child’s Christmas in Wales’ is a short story that is part of my life; as is the autobiographical book “Portrait of the Artist as a Young Dog”. Dylan Thomas was born in Swansea, South Wales; not far from my native Cardiff. He died in 1953 in New York at the age of 39. I was in college and idolized the poet; saddened by his death at a young age. The Welsh painter, Alfred Janes, knew Dylan well and told many a tale of their times together; Janes painted three portraits of the poet. Thomas’s stories of his lecture tours in America reflected my own experiences in the States; a decade later. I did not drink as much; unlike the legendary poet. The Welsh actor Richard Burton, another great drinker and storyteller, was also an artiste I admired; another great voice.
When lecturing, I need neither notes nor microphone. However, I soon found out that my American audience did; may be as reassurance? I began to put notes on the lectern but never read them; occasionally flicked the pages. The microphone was there but not on; like the lectern notes, seemingly giving me credibility in the eyes of the American audience. Early on, I realized another big difference between the USA and UK. In Britain, the word is everything, as are pronunciation and projection. Not so in the USA, with many different languages; numbers become the shared commonality. The number “1” means the same in every language; numbers and stats became the universal language, whether in finance or sports. In England, the saying goes “It is not to win but to play the game”. In America, winning is all, as are stats; from baseball to football, many statistics for teams, players and hot dogs sold?! Soon after coming to this great country, I understood and embraced this difference. I had played and watched soccer in the old country; a game could be decided by one goal or, more often, end in a goalless draw. Unacceptable in football here; where yardage gained, passes attempted and completed, time of possession and endless stats mean almost as much as the score, the more points the better? In an interview, I described the NFL games as “chess with muscles”; strategy being as important as stats, almost?!
Again, I learnt quickly to include stats and numbers and dates in my lectures; like the mike and notes, giving me credibility in the eyes of my audience. My lectures are on art and I use slides. I do give other speeches, like keynote addresses or after dinner talks, but prefer my visual presentations. For years, I have used slides, many which I used to take myself, Nowadays, the power point is the preferred method of presentation; anything seems possible in this digital world. I wonder how much longer, the lecture or lecturer will be necessary; I hope forever, of course!
During my career, as I have said, I was dependent on my staff; particularly my secretary and assistants. At Cranbrook, Roberta Stewart became my secretary in 1979; she was made my assistant soon after. She was with me for 15 years. During that time she proved to be most reliable, conscientious, capable and, most important, could keep my life and work in strict confidence. I trusted her absolutely and she never failed me; for that I am forever grateful. The same could be could be said for my other staff; but Roberta took care of more than my responsibilities as President of the Academy and Director of the Museum. She coordinated my professional activities and travels; typed reports and articles; took care of my personal affairs. Roberta recorded and wrote out the minutes for many meetings, including staff/faculty and the Board of Governors. Her ability to record minutes was uncanny; she sat but, not knowing shorthand, she made notes. I remember one board member admiring Roberta’s ability, seemingly, to just sit thru meetings and then produce the finest minutes; too true! Another admirable attribute was to find a file or letter instantly; also to remember names. In all this, she had a quiet, always pleasant, demeanor. Happy to sit at her desk, listening to radio soaps, Roberta fulfilled her multitude of tasks and many responsibilities. She related to people well. Roberta was most supportive of my endeavors, many achieved because of her assistance and commitment.
Once dictated, in to my recorder, my letters were typed out by Roberta and were rarely, if ever, changed. In fact, I trusted her to sign my letters. She got good enough with her version of my signature that I let her sign my personal checks. When I retired, the bank then questioned my own signature, that I had written myself?! Other than letters, I could dictate reports and administrative memos but not articles nor catalog introductions. I wrote those out by hand, as ever, on the yellow pad; Roberta would then type up. Today, when writing, I use the computer; either a Voice Recognition system or the keypad. When I was at school in Wales, we were not taught to type; I never acquired that skill. Nowadays, my one finger typing has got fast enough for my purposes.
Roberta is a dear friend; at times, I think of her as a daughter. To this day, Agnes and I feel that she is family; indeed, we are part of hers. When we were working together, Roberta shared in the belief that at Cranbrook, “we worked hard and played hard”.
Play
As I was leaving Cranbrook, in late ’94, the students gave me a surprise party at the student lounge. That night, they named the lounge in my honor: “Slade’s Bar”! Wearing masks that were a photo of my face, they were jubilant as was I. After all, I had spent enough time there to justify the honor: socializing, playing pool and dancing. The lounge was in the basement of the dorm next to Saarinen House; all too close. However much we partied, however late, I was always up at dawn and in the office; my morning schedule unaffected. Not the case with Roberta who, at times, would weakly phone to whisper that she was on ‘her life raft’! Best not to go to further on reminisces of the bar; suffice to say that I played pool well, threw darts even better and danced the night away.
From museum receptions to alumni reunions, there was entertaining and cultivating; for our events encouraged goodwill and support. The Guy Fawkes Ball has been described and, with Brolly Day, was a successful fun and fund raiser. The Annual Auction was hard work but the night of the auction was fun. Bob Yares played an invaluable role in these events, working closely with the students. Bob was always ready to party; or to organize a party.
In 1983, for my Fiftieth Birthday, he excelled himself. That weekend, I was relaxing at my cottage on Harsens Island. In the distance, coming down the freighter channel of the St Clair River, I saw a ferry boat. Strange as no ferries come that way, the boat got closer. Suddenly, the ferry veered towards the cottage, stopped at the sea wall and dropped its loading ramp. Like a ‘D Day’ landing, my entire staff and faculty, with wives and children, disembarked on to the lawn! Rarely have I been so surprised! What a party!
Another surprise party was for the 1987 celebration of my 10 years at Cranbrook. Early in the evening, a formal reception had been held at Booth House; afterwards, I was taken in a limo, supposedly for dinner. On this occasion, my beloved mother played a role as she told me how pleased we could have a quiet dinner together. Image my surprise when we arrived at a Disco in Pontiac; housed in a converted theatre. A perfect place to arrive with crowds cheering in the vestibule and a slide show of my life appearing on the huge screen! This happening was organized by Bob Yares and Agnes Fleckenstein; I was incredulous! We partied the night away!
Another annual affair was the Boxing Day party. Every Christmas, we decorated a tree in Saarinen House; a perfect setting for a party. Eliel Saarinen’s parties and martinis were legendary; we carried on the tradition. Students were invited, on the last day of the fall semester, to stop by for ‘punch and cookies’. The next evening, there was the Christmas party for staff, faculty, wives and children. The day after Christmas, Boxing Day, was our favorite party, a tradition from the old country that seemed right at Cranbrook. Friends were invited for Bloody Mary’s and pork pies, sausage rolls and scotch eggs; very British. With the tree lit, the fire blazing, snow on the ground; the party became immensely popular with our many friends. Included in the gathering were members of the Board of Governors, artists and patrons. Over the years, our friends would bring their children, now grown up but home for the holidays. Agnes had her two sons and daughter (now my family) home and, for them, the party became a reunion. Happy days!
(SI 07/25/08)