Richard Wollheim: a personal memoir
By Graham McFee, Former Vice President of the British Society of Aesthetics, Professor of Philosophy, University of Brighton.
The death of Richard Wollheim is sad and untimely news for philosophy, and for the British Society of Aesthetics, but also for many individuals who will count the world a poorer place for his loss. In that light, this piece recounts some of the detail of my personal memories of Richard. He had a profound effect on my philosophical development, but this text is not chiefly about Richard’ s philosophy. Rather, it simply reports as faithfully as memory permits some events from my life and Richard’ s part in them, and some stories he recounted along the way.
I first met Richard at the Joint Session of the Mind Association and the Aristotelian Society in Manchester in 1974. He was there primarily to chair a symposium on Freud’ s work, I was there as my first entré e into the world of professional philosophy, to begin networking and such like, having just been appointed here in Sussex. My opportunity to make contact with him was provided by the fact that my then research supervisor had, in turn, completed his doctoral research under Richard’ s supervision. Our meeting was entirely cordial, although having pointed out that I had recently been reading
Art and Its Objects, I may have offered some jejune criticisms of it. Richard took all of this in good part and, with a generosity I later found characteristic, offered to read any works in aesthetics I might produce, when I expressed my intention to write in that field.
In the following months, I am sure his postbag was rarely free of some offering or other of mine. Now, I know some journal editors who have complained that Richard did not always deliver promised reviews — at least on time. But he was unfailing in responding to my efforts. So for a couple of years he commented in detail on numerous manuscripts and typescripts that I sent. At a certain point, I realised that he was, effectively, supervising my research out of the goodness of his heart. So I decided to formalise the arrangement — then he moved from being my philosophical grandfather (as my previous supervisor’ s supervisor) to a more direct relation, when I enrolled at UCL for what turned out to be a PhD, under his supervision.
My time at UCL is ripe with stories of Richard’ s activities, and especially his support of independence. For instance, when, in the final thesis, I spoke of him as my stalking-horse, this was virtually exact; but, at every stage, he encouraged my disagreements with his views. A story I have reported before concerns the way in which, when I showed up at supervision-sessions not having done the agreed work on my thesis topic but with a good question about Freud, he was content to discuss that for two hours, without chastising me — I do not assume he failed to notice this ploy! Instead, he was willing to indulge me to this degree.
Not everything went smoothly during that time; I remember being taken on one side for a gentle comment on the sartorial appropriateness of the tee-shirt that I had had made with the slogan “ Wollheim rules” . I was given to understand that it probably had no place in his lectures, and certainly not in the front row. And I realise now that he might well have found this off-putting; I recall his recounting how, in a lecture on Adrian Stokes, he feared he was repeatedly showing just the same two slides to the audience — but would not look at the screen lest his anxiety be communicated. Yet, in general, this time was marked by his support of my fledging endeavours, both ‘ on and off the pitch’ of my work for the PhD.
The connection of Richard’ s work to that of Stokes is well documented (for example in Carolyn Wilde’ s piece on him in the Cooper
Companion to Aesthetics, 1992), but the personal relations of Stokes to the Wollheim family is perhaps less well known. Stokes was a lover of ballet who, hearing that Diaghilev’ s Ballet Russe was in financial trouble, offered to donate his modest capital. He was dissuaded from doing so, and — as he subsequently lived primarily from this money — was grateful to the impresario who had advised him — Richard’ s father!
That also provided the answer to a question that had perplexed me; namely, how could anyone achieve Richard’ s degree of sensitivity and erudition concerning the arts? The answer lay — as someone of his psychoanalytic inclination might expect — in his family circumstances; that his father had been the English impresario to Ballet Russe. In a world in which Stravinsky and Picasso might be in one’ s living-room, it must be easier than in other circumstances for a suitably sensitive spectator to acquire suitable understanding, and to keep a grip on modernity in art.
About this time, in the very late 1970s, the mergers that resulted (ultimately) in the formation of the University of Brighton were taking place; as a consequence, lecturers were required to re-apply for their own jobs, but also encouraged to apply for others they felt qualified to do. I applied for a senior position, with no real hope of getting it; Richard supplied a reference. On the heels of that request came another — the closeness must have irked Richard, as he wrote, “ I recommend McFee for this and any other jobs” . (I wish I still had that letter of reference, of which my stunned Head of School showed me that part. And, of course, Richard did write to Brighton for me again, not least in support of my application for the chair.
Although he offered detailed comments on everything I wrote as his student — in a characteristic spiky hand, with every “ a” looking like an alpha — it was difficult to take a view of what he thought of my research; he certainly never told me. But there was evidence all around that he thought at least tolerably well of my work; he was happy to ask me to fill in for him on some occasions — whether this was because he thought me worthy or because I was willing to do it, he did not inform me, no doubt thinking it too vulgar.
Others have asked me about the place of F. H. Bradley in Richard’ s thinking, given the book on Bradley; I can honestly say that Bradley’ s name never crossed his lips while I was his student — although we did discuss him later, both in the context of Richard’ s lecture “ The Good Self and the Bad Self” (reprinted in
The Mind and Its Depths, 1993) and resulting from his contribution to a conference on Bradley’ s philosophy (organised by the father of the current Secretary of the Society). One characteristic visible in those discussions was the closeness with which Richard knew some of Bradley’ s writing — as he points out in the “ The Good Self … ” (p. 40), many readers of Bradley’ s
Ethical Studies consider only one of its essays, and then not very carefully. But I take that to be more properly a remark by the editor of the Oxford edition of
Ethical Studies than the author of the book on Bradley, although both are Richard.
Ultimately, I completed a thesis, and a date for the viva was arranged. Just before the agreed date, Richard was due to read a paper to the Society’ s annual conference, then held in London. Although I could not attend the conference as a whole, I went to Richard’ s paper (no doubt hoping to impress him with my diligence); and, afterwards, commented that we would meet later that week. He looked at me nonplused. “ My viva” , I prompted. He nodded, and duly arrived at the viva. It was only later that I learned that, although formally invited to attend, supervisors in the University of London did not routinely go to these events — and especially busy professors did not! In the event, Richard left the business to the examiners he had selected, Malcolm Budd and Bob Sharpe, saying nothing except to offer me his congratulations when they told me that I would be recommended for the award. But he came nevertheless; and primarily (I think) because he knew I would appreciate his being there.
A little later I invited him to give a talk in Brighton, where the context suggested some ideas from his recently published
The Thread of Life (1984). He readily agreed and arrived not only with his paper but also clutching under his arm the newly-completed page-proofs of
Painting as an Art (1987). As I showed him round the Department, introducing him to various colleagues, he twice misplaced the paper for that night’ s talk, but the precious bundle never left his side. Or, more exactly, it never ceased to be clutched under his arm. Here, it is worthy reminding ourselves of the method Richard recommends for the study of paintings; “ it often took the first hour or so in front of a painting for stray associations or motivated misperceptions to settle down, and it was only then, with the same amount of time or more to spend looking at it, that the picture could be relied upon to disclose itself as it was” (
Painting as an Art, p. 8). Given this level of investment of time, it is easy to see why the outcome would have been precious to him — and now, having the book before us, why it should be precious to us too.
Richard’ s commitment to philosophical matters was always in the forefront of his preoccupations with art. He describes his own concerns in two places; in the collection of lectures and essays
On Art and the Mind (1973) he speaks of those themes as “ old interests” (p. ix), linking the philosophical, the artistic and a concern with the psychological (conceived in terms of a psychoanalytically-inclined psychology). And I am sure the last two of these are the areas for which he will be remembered in the history of philosophy. But, in
Painting as an Art (1987), he speaks clearly of “ two of the commitments by which I steer; the love of painting and loyalty to socialism” (p. 357). In fact, some of Richard’ s earliest writings reflect these commitments more explicitly (for instance, his pamphlet
Socialism and Culture [1961]). And it is important to recall that the work that first made him famous (“ Wollheim’ s paradox” ) concerns equality and the democratic. As Danto said in his obituary (
Guardian, Wednesday, 5th November, 2003 p. 27), however, at the centre of all Richard’ s philosophical preoccupations were his passions; and those passions certainly included art and socialism. What holds this reflection firmly in my mind is sitting with Richard in 1997, in Utrecht (there for a conference on the Philosophy of Richard Wollheim), and discussing — as the Labour Party came to power — his friendships with and insights into the past figures of that party.
Another conference in Utrecht provides another personal memory. Richard’ s paper was scheduled for after dinner, a dinner at which Paul Crowther and I had bought a bottle of wine, and consumed about half of it. We proposed taking the remainder to the session, and drinking it surreptitiously in the back row. But, rather than behave like the naughty schoolboys we doubtless resembled, we approached Richard with our problem. He saw no problem with us drinking the wine — but only if we also gave him a glass. We did and a merry session was had by all.
I saw much less of Richard socially once he moved to the USA. My last social meeting with him — that is, putting aside those occasions when we met at conferences and such like — was when my wife and I drove to his house in Berkeley in 1995. We arrived there with the intention that she should drop me off and return later. But in the garden we met Richard’ s wife, Mary Day (he always called her “ Day” ), who insisted that we both go into the house. I was greeted, not with any comment about his being glad to see me or any question about the state of my health, but with the question, “ Do you know how to put a cartridge into this printer?” . So Mary, my wife Myrene, and Richard proceeded to have an interesting discussion about, as I recall, the fostering of greyhounds that had retired from racing while I struggled manfully to get the printer working. I had reverted to an earlier role, as the post-graduate student who would of course be able to take care of such practical details — never mind that this visit’ s primary purpose had been to thank him for recommending me to the philosophy chair.
The outcome was that Myrene, Richard and I went in search of a Mexican restaurant for lunch, looking (at Richard’ s injunction) for ‘ the fresh kind of Mexican food, rather than the sloppy kind’ . He also insisted that we choose a place that offered a discount for seniors, on the grounds that we might as well be that bit frugal. The conversation included some philosophy of course, but its most memorable element concerned Richard’ s plans — he lacked the kind of health insurance that would have been desirable for living in the USA, as he was still only a visitor at UC Berkeley, despite having been there about ten years. One possibility was therefore to return to the UK, where he had a house. Another was to sell that house to fund the health insurance, since they liked the small house in Berkeley. Either seemed sensible options, and we joined in a weighing of the pros and cons. But another option appeared, seemingly from nowhere; going to live in Venice. This had little to recommend it except, of course, that one then lived in Venice. And that might be benefit enough, and especially as a base for Richard’ s art-critical writing, particularly for the journal
Modern Painters to which he was an important and frequent contributor. We know, of course, that he did not move to Venice — yet it was revealing to see that he continued to dream for the future.
One further story Richard told me, if I can tell it aright, casts (for me) a profound light on his life. I had assumed, given his name and heritage, that he understood German. When this was mentioned in conversation, he assured me that, no, he did not speak German; as Richard recounted it, his father had taken the view that there was no point in speaking languages unless you could speak them perfectly. Judging Richard’ s German accent to be irretrievably flawed, he had neither taught Richard German nor encouraged him to learn it. This seemed to me sad in itself, but also at odds with Richard’ s use, in his writings on aesthetics, of one or two texts solely available (at that time) in German. If there were no translation, how could Richard refer to them so appropriately? He responded that, in order to read such texts, he had to ‘ work up’ his German — which might take as long as two weeks! For those of us getting by on ‘ a little Latin and less Greek’ , combined with the Bluffer’ s Guide to French and German, this was startling. I am not sure exactly what the expression “ not understanding German” means to me, but I am sure it is not remediable to the degree needed to master impenetrable philosophical texts within a fortnight. I take this story to highlight both Richard’ s modesty about his accomplishments (and achievements) and also how he set for himself — perhaps as a result of paternal influence — the highest of possible standards; as previous remarks suggest, he could be far more forgiving of the shortcomings of others.
At my side as I type this is my copy of the second edition of
Art and Its Objects, with Richard’ s inscription; I remember my slightly childish delight at having this paperback version when only the hardback was available in England. But I am also proud that he chose to give it to me, just as I am proud to find my name among those appreciated in the front of
Painting as an Art, for both works are unquestionably masterpieces. Richard’ s friend Bernard Williams famously asked if there is any point in doing philosophy unless one was extremely good at it, since (after all), if one was not extremely good, one’ s work would either be “ unoriginal (and therefore unnecessary) or inadequately supported (and therefore useless)” (Tom Nagel,
Other Minds, 1995 p. 10). By that harsh test at least, it is clear that Richard should have continued doing philosophy, since his work is both distinctive and fertile. And that reminds me of another injunction, this time concerning what is required in order to do aesthetics — namely Clive Bell’ s suggestion that one needs both artistic sensibility and a turn for clear thinking. This test, too, is one Richard clearly passes, as befits a President of our Society.