What’s in a name?

 

I have been asked to write an article about the production of my publishing magnum opus, The Dictionary of Art (1996, 34 volumes) for Oxford University Press, the current publisher of the dictionary to mark its 30^th anniversary.

 

This exercise has provoked many memories. During the long and laborious task of assembling in a rational and clear order the entire history of art around the globe, editors sought ways to make the task seem lighter.

 

One stratagem was to hold parties. I recall a fancy-dress party for which we all dressed up in costumes that reflected our speciality or role. For example, one young desk editor had herself encased in aluminium foil to convert herself into a pair of scissors (cutting over-length text). One year the Scots among us (joined by those who had studied in Scotland) cooked a Burns day lunch of haggis and mashed swede, accompanied by a wee dram and recitals of the poet’s works, including a bawdy piece entitled One inch shall please a lady, for which we Sassenachs were given a glossary so that we should not miss the point. The poem was recited by a young woman who has since become a historian of Renaissance Italian gardens.

 

Editors sought amusement in the texts they edited, noting strange/amusing names they came across in texts: one of my favourites was a Croatian contributor, Urban Couch. Another was Professor Richard Brilliant, an excellent name for a career in art history, a discipline in which reputation counts for much. The names were displayed on a wall in our office at 112 Strand, but, unfortunately, we failed to keep a. record of them all.

 

Some 200 miles to the north, in the offices of our typesetter, Pindar Limited, colleagues who spent a decade keying our text, kept an eye open for amusing facts. The result was a dictionary of death, classified into chapters according to the way people died. Alberto Greco (1915-1965) an Argentinian died in Barcelona in curious circumstances: "He committed suicide with barbiturates in a room bursting with sanitary appliances." A search in what is no known as Groveart Online (OUP has kindly given me a temporary license while I write my article) suggests that suicide was not an uncommon way for artists to end their lives (and careers, of course). One of the more dramatic was the deat of Dezsó Czigány (1883-1937), a Hungarian painter. In a psychotic fit he first murdered his parents and then killed himself in 1937. The Mughal ruler Humayuun died when he tumbled down the stairs to his library in 1556. The unfortunate Léopold-Emile Reutlinger (b Callao, Peru, 17 March 1863; d Paris, 16 March 1937) caught a typesetter’s eye, not for the way he died, but for the event that ended his career: he “stopped working in 1930 when he lost an eye in an accident with a champagne cork.” Our typesetting colleagues proudly presented us with a copy of their work when their task was finished*.

 

Perhaps the most redolent name in The Dictionary of Art was, you guessed it, a Mexican one: Diego María Concepción Juan Nepomuceno Estanislao de la Rivera y Barrientos Acosta y Rodríguez. Quite how he fitted it into his passport, I do not know.  María and Concepción suggest that the parents of this godless Commmunist/Trotskyist painter were devout Catholics. Nepomuceno is the Spanish rendition of St. John of Nepomuk, executed by King Wenceslaus IV of Bohemia for refusing to divulge the queen’s confessions. The monarch appears not to have been a particularly good King Wenceslaus, but his name apparently lives on in a video game, Kingdom Come: Deliverance. The derivation of Estanislao means to be or to remain famous, a challenge which Diego certainly met. The name also referred to Saint Stanislav of Cracow, martyred for opposing the cruelty of king Bołeslaw the Cruel of Poland. Fortunately, historians of Mexican art know the great muralist simply as Diego, so nobody needs to remember his full name to identify him.

Diego Rivera's house in San Ángel. The large glass windows on the second floor light his studio.

There are, of course, many connections to Diego in Mexico City, and not just his murals. One of Diego’s friends was Juan O’Gorman, an architect and painter perhaps most famous for his enormous mosaic decoration of the library of the National Autonomous University of Mexico. O’Gorman was a modernist in the style of Le Corbusier. In 1930-1932 he built separate (but connected by a footbridge) houses, in San Ángel, a southern suburb of Mexico City, for Rivera and Frida Kahlo, and a house for himself and his parents. The Rivera and Kahlo homes included studio spaces: Rivera died in his studio in 1957. Visitors can see the tiny bed (he was a short man) in which he died.

Frida Kahlo's house in San Ángel. The exterior stairs of the O'Gorman house are in the foreground.

Kahlo's house showing the bridge that connected Diego's house with hers.

 

Another connection to Rivera and Kahlo is the Dolores Olmedo Museum in Xochimilco, another southern neighbourhood. Olmedo was a muse (and probable lover) of Rivera. She made her home in the hacienda de la Noria, a colonial building that incorporated the late 16^th-century chapel of San Juan Evangelista Tzomolco. Olmedo’s former home houses the largest collection of paintings of Rivera and Kahlo, and of Rivera’s first wife, the Russian painter Angelina Beloff. However, the museum has been closed since 2020. Proposals to relocate the collection to the Parque Aztlán in Chapultepec Park proved extremely controversial and the museum is still closed, although it may reopen in 2026.

The Dolores Olmedo Museum

The Dolores Olmedo Museum

 

*Note: Gleeson, B. et al: The Pindar Book of Death: a compilation of curious and unusual ways in which artists have met their end (Scarborough: Pindar Ltd, limited edition, 1992-1995).

80 Years Ago

 Today, Friday 15 August 2025, the UK formally commemorated the 80^th anniversary of VJ (Victory in Japan) day – the Emperor Hirohito formally signed Japan’s surrender on 15 August 1945. Ron Waddams, my father-in-law, then in Rangoon, had received news of the surrender of the Empire of Japan on Friday 10 August 1945.

A summary map produced after the surrender by Ron's unit (apologies for the amateur photograph).

Ron was drafted into the Royal Artillery, serving in Britain, until on 30 September 1942 he was transferred to the army’s map-making school in Ruabon, Wales. On 23 February 1943 his unit of the Royal Engineers sailed from Greenock in Scotland, via Dakar, Freetown, Capetown and Durban, to India, arriving at Bombay 11 June 1943. In May 1945 Ron and his British and Indian colleagues crossed into Burma. 

Ron Waddams, self-portrait in his Burma uniform, oil on canvas.

 

Two days after learning that fighting in Asia had ended, Ron wrote to his parents. His letter follows:

1601540 Sgt. R. Waddmas R.E.

61 Ind Reproduction Group I.E.

S.E.A.C.

August 12.1945

Dear Mum and Dad,

By the time this letter reaches you the world will be at peace. The first new I heard of the Japanese wish to surrender was on Friday evening [August 10]. My first reaction was one of jubilation, in fact we all went a bit crazy. It was so sudden. I had not expected it to end until later in the year

            The remainder of Friday evening was passed riotously, with whiskey, rum and gin … it is perhaps needless to say that I got drunk. We had the drinks out on the balcony of our house. Our dance band was there to keep things at a lively pitch, and it wasn’t long before some of us younger ones were dancing around. My clothes were soaked with perspiration. There was of course much singing as well. I remember of one our lieutenants singing ‘Don’t ‘Ang my’ Arry’¹ and among other vocals I had to give the refrain from ‘Popeye’. It was about the maddest booze-up I have had, but of course we couldn’t let such an occasion pass without an extra-special celebration. I was told later that it wound up about three in the morning. At the time, I was unaware of this as I had faded out to the lavatory an hour before. Later, I was found asleep in the aforementioned retreat. I managed to stagger back to my bed under my own power, where I was sick and had a grinding head. I had made the unfortunate mistake of mixing my drinks, a thing I never usually do, and I paid dearly for it afterwards. I spent the whole day on my bed, but recovered sufficiently in the evening to take a short stroll. Now I am back to normal practically.

            At the moment we are expecting confirmation of the leave to come through tomorrow. I don’t think the official day of peace will give rise to another celebration. It will be rather a stale peace, as I think everybody’s already celebrated it. I don’t know whether it is the same in England.

            I expect that you are even more happy than I am, and you’ll be asking how soon shall I be home. Now that the initial exuberance has passed over, I can view the future seriously. I am not going to build up any false hopes for you. The chance of my returning to England by Christmas is remote. I will be reasonable and estimate I will be home in January or February². You will realize what a terrific task the transportation of men back to England will be, and of course men will still be required out here to continue administrative and garrison duties. I consider myself in a fortunate position … I can imagine myself back among you in the old surrounding, going to dances and concerts, and all the rest of it. Before, all this. Was too far in the distant future to ever contemplate. As I hinted in a previous letter, I shall be in civilian clothes by my next birthday. In a few months time I shall be able to tell you the exact date of my release.

            The following months of waiting will be very trying. I shall try to keep my mind occupied with my reading and writing, and hope the time will pass as quickly as it has in the past. I hope too that you will be patient; it’s only a matter of months now…

            I am enclosing my photograph. I feel that I should put my spoke in and say that I have no intention of carving off the fungi [moustache].

Reference my request for editions of New Writing, I have just acquired editions Nos. 18 and 20, so please don’t buy these numbers.

Just this week I sent one of my short stories to John O’London’s. I had intended sending another to Lilliput but since the advent of peace, I do not think war stories will be acceptable for some years to come, so I intend to keep my original plan of compiling a book of such stories.³

Until Friday my week was a quiet one. I read and write a little, and had not found it necessary to go out. But this afternoon I was tempted out by a recorded orchestral concert. It was held in the only cinema left intact. The cinema recording apparatus was used and was excellent. The main work was a violin concerto by Beethoven.

I have managed to borrow a turntable gramophone on which I have tried out my symphony. I thought it exceedingly pleasant.

I shall have to abandon my plan of taking a French course, as I don’t have time to complete it. I hope to be able to study it when I return, though I realize that I shall be cramped for time to do all the things I want to do. I shall never know boredom anyhow.

My best wishes to the family with my fondest thoughts for the peaceful future which lies ahead of us.

Sincerest love from,

Ron

A page of photos taken by Ron in Imphal, now in the Indian state of Manipur, February 1945.

The view from Ron's tent, Imphal, 1945.

 

 

Publications collected by Ron. Finale is a booklet that commeorates the travels of his unit. The Christmas Programme was produced in Comilla, now in Bangladesh. The menu was: 

Roast duck, roast potatoes, peas, carrots, savoury stuffing. Sauce: Worcestershire, Heinz

Dessert: Christmas pudding, cream, preserves. Cheese. Mince pies. Rolls.

 

 

Notes:

1. The lyrics are as follows:

Don't 'ang my 'arry, don't 'ang him please,
'E's nothin' but a poor boy, on 'is knees.
'E didn't mean no 'arm, you see,
'E was just tryin' to 'elp, like me. 

The baker's boy, 'e asked 'im 'elp,
To carry a loaf, that was quite a shelf.
'E tripped and fell, the loaf it flew,
And 'it the baker, right in 'is shoe.

The baker, 'e was mad, you see,
And said 'e'd 'ang my 'arry, for all to see.
But 'e didn't mean to cause no pain,
'E was just a clumsy lad, in the rain.

So please don't 'ang my 'arry, I pray,
Let 'im go free, and 'ave 'is day.
'E's all I 'ave, my only love,
Sent from the heavens, from up above.

So please don't 'ang 'im, let 'im go,
'E's a good lad at 'eart, you know.
'E's not a criminal, not a thug,
Just a young man, with a clumsy lug.

So please don't 'ang 'im, let 'im go,
'E's a good lad at 'eart, you know.
'E's not a criminal, not a thug,
Just a young man, with a clumsy lug.

2. Ron’s ship home arrived in Liverpool on 18 June 1946. On 22 June 1946 he met Betty Charrosin at the National Gallery. On 20 October 1953 Betty gave birth to a daughter, Janet, now Janet Jacobs. 

3. Ron did not achieve his ambition to become a writer, although he had bought a portable typewriter in the market in Rangoon, perhaps with a future in mind. He had also neem designing Christmas cards, while in Burma, for a publisher in London. When he returned to London, he worked briefly for his father at the printer Emery Walker. He became a successful graphic designer.

Ron's Rangoon typewriter.

 

 

A poetic soul

I was once told during a management course that most employers have no idea of the talents of their staff. Perhaps publishing is unusual in attracting a large number of people of varied and unsuspected talents. Unfortunately, I have been reminded of this by the funerals that I have begun to attend over the last few years.

 

I recently “attended” online the funeral of Alastair Gordon, who had been the international sales director of Macmillan Press (the academic division of Macmillan Publishers) with whom I worked for a number of years. Alastair was a genial colleague, but my books were a difficult sell for him because reference works were very expensive, and I was unwilling to give overseas booksellers the high discounts that were customary. Nevertheless, Alastair did his best, and we were on very friendly terms.

 

I learned more about Alastair in our retirement at occasional reunion lunches, usually in Winchester. He and his wife owned a house in a tiny town, Sant Martí de Barcedana, in the Catalan Pyrenees, so we shared an interest in matters Hispanic. He was learning Catalan and was a keen walker on routes once traversed by Spanish shepherds with their flock of transhuman animals.

Sant Martí de Barcedana (photo by Gustau Erill i Pinyot)

What I learned from his funeral was that Alastair was fond of memorizing poetry. Another friend from Macmillan days, Jim Papworth, read verses selected by Alastair of a Longfellow translation of the Coplas a la Muerte de su padre (Couplets on the death of his father) of Jorge Manrique (c.1440-1479). Here are the verses that Jim read:

 

Let from its dream the soul awaken,

And reason mark with open eyes

The scene unfolding,

How lightly life away is taken,

How cometh Death in stealthy guise,

At last beholding;

 

What swiftness hath the flight of pleasure

That, once attained, seems nothing more

Than respite cold;

How fain is memory to measure

Each latter day inferior

To those of old.

 

Beholding how each instant flies

So swift, that, as we count, ‘tis gone

Beyond recover.

Let us resolve to be more wise

Thank stake our future lot upon

What soon is over.

 

Let none be self-deluding, none,

Imagining some longer stay

For his own treasure

Than what today he sees undone;

For everything must pass away

In equal measure.

 

Our lives are fated as the rivers

That gather downward to the sea

We know as Death;

And yonder every flood delivers

The pride and pomp of seigniory

That forfeiteth;

 

Yonder the rivers in their splendor;

Yonder the streams of modest worth,

The rills beside them;

Till there all equal they surrender;

And so with those who toil on earth

And those who guide them.

 

Longfellow’s version, is not, of course, a faithful translation – that would not have been poetry. The six verses and 36 lines versions selected by Alastair are three verses and 35 lines in Manrique’s original. Here are Manrique’s three verses with my own un-poetic translation:

 

Recuerde el alma dormida,                 Let the sleeping soul recall,
avive el seso y despierte                     The brain stir and awake
contemplando                                     Contemplating
cómo se pasa la vida,                          How life passes,
cómo se viene la Muerte                     How Death comes
tan callando;                                       So silently;
cuán presto se va el placer;                 How fast pleasure flees;
cómo después de acordado                 How later, when recalled,
da dolor;                                              It pains;
cómo a nuestro parecer                       How we esteem
cualquiera tiempo pasado                   Any time past
fue mejor.                                            As better.

                                                                       

Pues si vemos lo presente                   For, if we see the present                   
cómo en un punto se es ido                As if it were merely a point, it is gone
y acabado,                                           And done with,
si juzgamos sabiamente,                     If we judge wisely,
daremos lo no venido                         We will see that the future
por pasado.                                          Is already past.
No se engañe nadie, no,                      No, let nobody be deceived,
pensando que ha de durar                   Thinking that what is to come
lo que espera                                       Will last
más que duró lo que vio,                    More than lasted what we saw already,
pues que todo ha de pasar                   For everything is to pass
por tal manera.                                    In like manner

 

Nuestras vidas son los ríos                 Our lives are rivers
que van a dar en la mar,                      That flow to the sea
que es el morir:                                   That is death;
allí van los señoríos,                           Thus pass all dominions
derechos a se acabar                           Straightway to end
y consumir;                                         And be consumed;
allí los ríos caudales,                          There go great rivers,
allí los otros medianos                        There the lesser streams
y más chicos;                                      And the least;
y llegados, son iguales                        And on arrival all are equal,
los que viven por sus manos               Those who live by their labour
y los ricos.                                           And the rich

 

Manrique’s father, Rodrigo Manrique de Lara (1406-1476), Count Paredes de Nava and Grand Master of the Order de Santiago, was famed for his feats of arms in the Reconquista against the Moors, as verse XXIX tells us:

 

No dexó grandes thesoros                  He left no great treasures

ni alcançó grandes riquezas                Nor did he earn great riches

ni baxillas,                                           Nor great wealth

mas hizo guerra a los moros               But he made war on the Moors

ganando sus fortalezas                       Seizing their fortresses

y sus villas;                                          And their villas;

y en las lides que venció,                    And in the battles that he won

muchos moros y cavallos                    Many Moors and horses

se perdieron,                                       Were lost,

y en este oficio ganó                           And these deeds won him

las rentas y los vasallos                       The rents and vassals

que le dieron.                                      That they gave him.

 

Fortunately, the Longfellow verses that Alastair chose for his friends and family to mark the end of his life were a much more apt selection than verse XXIX. Those verses reminded me of one of my own favourite Spanish poems, Antonio Machado’s “Caminante, son tus huellas”, the translation here from a video that includes a reading by Emilio Aponte Sierra, a Colombian refugee in Florida (https://scalar.fas.harvard.edu/resources-for-loss/caminante-no-hay-camino-by-antonio-machado-contributed-by-jerry-sevillano-2021):

 

Caminante, no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar.
Al andar se hace el camino,
y al volver la vista atrás
se ve la senda que nunca
se ha de volver a pisar.
Caminante, no hay camino
sino estelas en la mar.


Traveler, your footprints
are the only road, nothing else.
Traveler, there is no road;
you make your own path as you walk.
As you walk, you make your own road,
and when you look back
you see the path
you will never travel again.
Traveler, there is no road;
only a ship's wake on the sea.

 

Alastair’s wake speaks of a kind, thoughtful man of wide interests and a fondness for fine verse. A rather better record of a life than that of Rodrigo Manrique de Lara.