Master and apprentice: Obituary: David Esterly died on June 15th

Master and apprentice

Obituary: David Esterly died on June 15th

The master wood-carver, devoted to the style of Grinling Gibbons, was 75

Jun 29th 2019

It might happen at any time of day. David Esterly would be at his workbench, gouge in hand, when he felt the breath on his shoulder. The voice would say: “I wouldn’t do it like that,” or “I’ve made a leaf curl that way before. Why are you bothering?”

He did not need to ask who it was. The man’s portraits at three different stages of his life, the last plump, bewigged and comfortable, hung round his workshop in a converted barn at Barneveld, in upstate New York. Grinling Gibbons, England’s 17th-century genius of woodcarving, was the god of the place. For ten years his admirer had been labouring to emulate his astonishingly meticulous chains and cascades of foliage, fruit, flowers, feathers and shells in the same white lime or linden wood. The tradition of such carving was long-lost. Mr Esterly, whose studies as a Fulbright scholar at Cambridge had been in Yeats and the philosopher Plotinus, hoped he had found a way to combine intellectual, moral and sensory experience into what Yeats called “unity of being”.

There were many satisfactions in working as Gibbons had done. Standing at his workbench—not sitting, for carving involved the whole body—he would take up, with a quick flip of the hand, one of the dozens of tools spread before him. He could have done it blindfolded, knowing just where each one was. The multiplicity of blades reflected the fecundity of nature, which he would strive to reproduce with ever-more-delicate gouging.

He began each piece by stabbing down the outline on a sawn board a few inches thick, then wasting away the wood around it and modelling the form. The rearward hand, and that half of his body, propelled the tool; the forward hand, on the wood, resisted. This opposition gave him exquisite control over the blade edge. It reminded him of the empowering contrast between Dionysian impulse and Apollonian restraint; and of Hamlet, too, torn between action and thought, whose tension drove through the play.

For him, as for Gibbon, the limewood responded beautifully, as only limewood could. It was soft, almost oily, with a nutty smell that filled the workshop and a crisp zip under the gouge; pliable, kindly, magically white and forgiving of mistreatment, such as his necessary cutting across the short grain to mould the shape of an apple or a grape. (He had tried other woods, but found ash too hard, beech and birch thuggish.) Its tolerance allowed it to be drastically undercut in Gibbons’s style, with a gouge held like a pencil, until the wood was scarcely thicker than a petal or a feather and the piece filled with shadow and air. At that point he would add the selective exaggerations, a curl here, a bulge there, that would make a leaf look real, even though carved in wood. And then, leaving the piece bare except for gentle abrading with Dutch rush, as Gibbons would have done, he would set it aside to shine like ghostly marble with its own independent life.

He never kept anything he made. Ever since he had sold a small mirror frame for £100 at a village fair, he had worked only to commission. He could not afford to do otherwise, for though his pieces eventually sold for six figures they were so time-consuming that he made only about 50 in his life. Carvers were starvers, he often said: an existence his comfortably middle-class parents in Akron, Ohio would have struggled to understand.

And it had begun in a moment: that moment in 1974 when his girlfriend Marietta, later his wife, took him to see the Gibbons carvings behind the altar in St James’s Church, Piccadilly. He was thunderstruck, and his reaction was physical: hairs rising on his neck, his skin tingling, and his tongue seeming to move over ivory’s coolness and smoothness. (“The thinking of the body”, Yeats would have called it.) His first, academic, thought was to write a book about Gibbons; his second was just to pick up tools and teach himself to carve. The minute his chisel struck the wood, he was in thrall. Ensconced in a cottage in Sussex for eight years, then at Barneveld, he became a ghost’s apprentice. But no, that put it too lightly: by the end of a decade, he was a slave. Enslaved not only to his carvings, which about halfway through would start to impose their own ideas on him, but also to the long-dead master he so revered, beside whose work he could only despair about his own.

There was a way out. That, too, was completely unexpected. In 1986 he was asked to replace a seven-foot Gibbons drop at Hampton Court Palace, south-west of London, which had been destroyed by fire. He hesitated over it. Exact reproduction, which he had never done, was surely the most slavish tutelage of all. Yet the closer he got to Gibbons—first touching a single stem, then whole pieces, scrutinising his technique, following the movements of his gouges and his thought—the more his own workbench seemed transported to 1698, and the more he saw the larval forms of the half-modelled wood with Gibbons’s eyes. When after a year the drop was made, with its exhausting ropes of crocuses and trefoil, he was no longer a slave, but a colleague. The spell was broken.

iPhones in limewood

He was now a master in his own right and one for his own age. Freed from Gibbons’s riotous acanthus, he let other influences crowd boldly in: the peonies, roses and lilies of Dutch Old Masters, the vegetable heads of Arcimboldo and a touch of modern cynicism in insect-blighted leaves. Letter-rack trompe-l’oeils became a favourite theme, as they were for 17th-century painters, but his racks contained cameras, car keys, film spools and iPhones, as well as delicate hibiscus, holly or sprays of oak. He became Gibbons’s confident ambassador, curating an exhibition and writing books.

Strolling into his workshop for a day of meditative carving, still in his bathrobe and carrying his tea, he would go straight to Adobe Illustrator to map out his designs in many overlapping layers. As well as daylight, halogen spotlights illuminated his bench. Between defining the edges of his peony leaves and excavating tiny florets of lilac, he would check his emails. The portraits of Gibbons were still on the walls, but the voice no longer bothered him. He might have sensed, from time to time, an approving nod.◼

This article appeared in the Obituary section of the print edition under the headline "Master and apprentice"

读书种子刘恕

陈尚君

今人常讲往生者为大。与死者告别时，稍微讲一点缺失，都很不厚道。可是黄庭坚撰《刘道原墓志铭》，偏要说他平生有二十失：

佻易卞急，遇事辄发；狷介刚直，忿不思难；泥古非今，不达时变；疑滞少断，劳而无功；高自标置，拟伦胜己；疾恶太甚，不恤怨怒；事上方简，御下苛察；直语自信，不远嫌疑；执守小节，坚确不移；求备于人，不恤咎怨；多言不中节，高谈无畔岸；臧否品藻，不掩人过恶；立事违众，好更革应事；不揣己度德，过望无纪；交浅而言深，戏谑不知止；任性不避祸，论议多讥刺；临事无机械，行己无规矩；人不忤己，而随众毁誉；事非祸患，而忧虞太过；以君子行义责望小人。

似未讲够，又讲他有十八蔽：

言大而智小，好谋而疏阔，剧谈而不辨，慎密而漏言，尚风义而龌龊，乐善而不能行，与人和而好异议，不畏强御而无勇，不贪权利而好躁，俭啬而徒费，欲速而迟钝，闇识强料是非，法家而深刻，乐放纵而拘小礼，易乐而多忧，畏动而恶静，多思而处事乖忤，多疑而数为人所欺。事往未尝不悔，他日复然，自咎自笑，亦不自知其所以然也。

当然，这都是死者生前自省的文字，原文未保存，仅见于墓志。黄庭坚也是知书达礼之人，想来若非死者遗嘱，也应家人要求，不会恶意唐突。

那么，刘道原是什么人呢？

道原名恕（1032－1078），江西筠州人。其父刘涣，字凝之，仕途不顺，且看不惯官场陋习，50岁就弃官归隐庐山下，以读书为乐。其同年进士欧阳修激赏他的为人，作古风《庐山高赠同年刘中允归南康》宠行，有“策名为吏二十载，青衫白首困一邦。宠荣声利不可以苟屈兮，自非青云白石有深趣，其气兀硉不可降”，实在是一位不随世沉浮的高人。

凝之藏书富甲一方，刘恕更是颖悟俊拔，读书过眼皆能成诵。据说他四岁时，客人说到孔子无兄弟，刘恕即答：“以其兄之子妻之。”引《论语》以驳之，客顿觉失言。13岁时，见宰相晏殊，反复问政事之要，晏殊被他问得无言以对。18岁，举进士及第，所试经义各科皆为第一。那时司马光也还年轻，为贡院属官，见主考问《春秋》《礼记》大义二十条，唯一人所对最精详，擢为第一。揭开糊名，方知是刘恕。司马光因此与他认识。十多年后，司马光受命著《资治通鉴》，自辟助手，首先想到的就是刘恕。此前刘恕担任几任小官，虽自负经济大略，为官只认死理，抚孤鳏，挫豪猾是有的，但官场人事则日益紧张。据说王安石搞变法，也想拉拢他，两人见面，他坦率到直陈所见，是非了然，直说得王安石面色如铁，也就没有下文了。司马光向以直道著称，碰到刘恕，比他更直率锐利，好在司马光有宰相气度，能包容，合作十年而能始终不变。

《资治通鉴》开局后，司马光所聘三位助手，刘攽专治汉代，范祖禹专治唐代，分工较清楚。其余三国两晋南北朝，五代十国，主要由刘恕负责，不仅时间跨度大，且国家分裂，战乱纷仍，最难叙述。三位助手中，刘恕出力最多，素有定论。

范祖禹撰《秘书丞刘君墓碣》云：“道原为人强记，纪传之外闾里小说，下至稗官杂说，无所不览，其谈数千载间事，如指诸掌。道原终身不治他事，故独以史学高一时。”“道原于魏晋以后事，尤能精详，考证前史差谬，司马公悉委而取决焉。”

司马光在成书后，为刘恕请功上《乞官刘恕一子札子》说：“恕博闻强记，尤精史学，举世少及。臣修上件书，其讨论编次，多出于恕。至于十国五代之际，群雄竞逐，九土分裂，传记讹谬，简编缺落，岁月交互，事迹差舛，非恕精博，他人莫能整治，所以攽等众共推先，以为功力最多。”当事人叙述，最可相信。刘恕死于《通鉴》完成前六年，没有见到全书完成。其父当时还在世，最可哀愍。

刘恕之著作，今存有《资治通鉴外纪》十卷，自述曾与司马光讨论《通鉴》何以不从三皇五帝叙述起，认为不必顾忌与《春秋》或《左传》的重叠。光不能赞同，乃自撰此书，始于西周共和元年（前841），迄于周威烈王二十二年（前404），与《通鉴》衔接。亡佚者有《十国纪年》四十二卷。恕临终前告，仅《百官》及《公卿表》未完，由其子熙仲续完，司马光作序，对此书推奖备至。《郡斋读书志》引司马光跋此书云：“世称路氏《九国志》在五代之史中最佳，此书又过之。以予考之，长于考异同，而拙于属文。其书国朝事皆曰宋，而无所隐讳，意者各以其国为主耳。”所谓属文指讲史例或史法，于本朝皆不避隐，其坦率可知。《十国纪年》不传，自是史家不幸，但我也愿意相信其主体史料，已为《通鉴》十国部分所援据。只要以《新五代史·十国世家》部分与《通鉴》对读，就不难理解于此。

上海商务印书馆缩印明刊本《资治通鉴外纪》

回到本文开始所谈刘恕自省的二十失、十八弊来说，这是一位纯粹书生临终的觉悟。司马光《刘道原十国纪年序》：“道原嗜学，方其读书，家人呼之食，至羮炙冷而不顾。夜则卧思古今，或不寐达旦。”吃饭、睡觉都在钻研学问，他会在意人际关系吗？仔细读此三十八过，可说是对一般读书人陋习的全面概括。如“泥古非今，不达时变”，今人何尝不如此？“高自标置，拟伦胜己。”自己读书多，自我评价高，看得起的只有比自己学问更好的人。“任性不避祸，论议多讥刺。”大约知识人每每如此。“多言不中节，高谈无畔岸。”节是关键处，畔岸是边际，此类读书人甚多。“臧否品藻，不掩人过恶。”“人不忤己，而随众毁誉。”读书人总喜欢褒贬人物，很少明白为贤者讳的道理，与自己无交往、无违忤之人，也总喜欢随人之后，任意好恶。刘恕毕竟读书多，学问好，近千年前所说，仍能概括古今读书人的通病，不能不让人肃然起敬，猛然自省。

The Great Summer Read

Why do we persist in this often futile literary quest?

By Joseph Luzzi | June 17, 2019

westpark/Flickr

Now that the days are long and vacation is on hand, it’s time to dream, especially inside the pages of some book we’ve been meaning to get to all year. The more daunting the literary challenge the better—forget old standbys like Hamlet and Hemingway; this summer we can tackle the really ambitious stuff. Maybe doorstopper-sized Don Quixote, that mighty intellectual puzzle Ulysses, or even an obscure Shakespeare play. Bring on King John and Thackeray, make way for Ford Madox Ford!

But by early August our literary dreams of late May might, in retrospect, seem like what invading Russia must have looked like to Napoleon: a good idea at the time but ultimately a crushing overreach. You might bring Shakespeare to the beach only to find that he’s even more difficult to read under the glare of a hot sun than in the comfort of a library. And as far as Ulysses goes, well, Joyce was right when he said that it would keep the professors busy for centuries arguing over its meaning. Trying to solve its enigmas while your kids pour wet sand over its pages will likely produce a migraine, not enlightenment.

So why do we persist in our often futile quest for the Great Summer Read? Why not just load the beach bag with the latest Lee Child instead of Leo Tolstoy? I think Henry James said it best: “Summer afternoon—summer afternoon; to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language.” James repeats the two words, savoring them on his tongue like ice cream or chocolate—it is the sweetest time of the year, a time for grand literary plans. Of course, we tackle more elaborate books in summer because we have more time on our hands, with the season’s longer days, the time off from work, and the promise of leisure in the air. But there’s also a psychological effect at work. From our childhood days, the coming of summer and the end of the school year meant the end of our “required” reading: no more homework, no more chapter assignments, no more mandatory synopses of The Scarlet Letter or historical summaries of “Everyday Life in Dickens’ London.” Come the solstice, many of us experienced something that will never disappear: the exhilaration of setting our own literary agenda—a private summer syllabus devoid of grades and fueled by love alone.

When I was in college, I read more, and more effectively, during the summer than during the semester. I recently taught Joyce’s Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man and came across a phrase I had memorized, 30 years ago, when I was a sophomore: “A day of dappled seaborne clouds.” I read those words not in a literature class, but while walking through the largely empty campus after the academic year had ended. I had dreams of becoming a writer myself, and I spent that summer reading anything that might aid me in my quest. Now, decades later, I found myself encountering those words through the eyes of my students, who are about the same age I was when I first fell under their verbal spell. What will be my students’ summer reading, I wonder, and how will the books they choose fuel their dreams?

And what will be the books that teach the teacher? For me, summer reading is always a balancing act between the books I have loved, the books I feel I oughta love, and the books I sense I will love. So I will reconnect with old friends like Dante’s Vita Nuova in the lush and still preeminent translation by the Pre-Raphaelite master Dante Gabriel Rossetti, finally square off with Tolstoy’s monumental War and Peace, and explore important new contemporary works like Karen Russell’s Orange World and Other Stories. There will be nonfiction as well. I hope to finish the brilliant meditation on decision making, Thinking, Fast and Slow by Daniel Kahneman, that I started in the dead of winter. And when U.S. Open tennis rolls around in melancholic late August, I will likely reconnect with John McPhee’s Levels of the Game, a classic on the 1968 battle—physical and metaphysical—between the African-American humanitarian Arthur Ashe and Clark Graebner, the epitome of the WASP establishment. All these very different books will have one thing in common: not one of them is homework, either for my students or for me.

The more I teach, the more I am convinced that books choose us as much as we choose them. The words in a book you love will not change from year to year, but your interpretations of them will if you read them at different times of your life. We’re drawn to certain works by a mysterious magnetic pull, a gravity we cannot always explain. Sometimes we’re even pulled in by books that we know we will not, cannot finish. What might seem like an overreach or pipe dream, a doomed attempt to tackle a mighty tome, may be our opening up of ourselves to something new and mysterious, a journey that will spill over from one summer to the next.

My own dreams for the Great Summer Read have become more modest over time: if I can manage to discover one truly transformational book, then it will have been a successful chapter in my reading life. Last summer, I spent weeks on the majestic Buddenbrooks by Thomas Mann. His tale of the rise and fall of a once-prosperous German merchant family begins with the Buddenbrooks gathering for one of their biweekly celebrations on an evening that will include delicious food (“a colossal smoked ham, brick-red and strewn with bread crumbs” [trans. John E. Woods]), poetry, music, and raucous good cheer for seven hours. I remember thinking, Who today would interrupt their work for a Thursday four P.M. feast on that scale! I now think of Mann’s imaginary party as the ultimate allegory for summer reading: a space carved out from the regular flow and busyness of life that starts out as a pleasant interlude and ends up as an essential ritual.

Of course, I never came within a million miles of becoming the next Joyce—or, for that matter, the next Ford Madox Ford (what I would give to have such an alliterative double-barreled pen name). But I do get to teach Joyce and other great writers for a living. I now see that this was the real dream, all those years ago. I was preparing myself for a life with books, sharing them with students like the ones who just read Joyce with me. My Great Summer Read, like that of so many others, put me on a path that I was completely unaware of at the time, led along as I was by the promise of a powerful book and its magical contents. I did try to read Ulysses that summer too, but only made it to about page 34. No matter—there’s always next summer.

Permission required for reprinting, reproducing, or other uses.

Joseph Luzzi teaches at Bard and is the author of My Two Italies, a New York Times Book ReviewEditors’ Choice, and In a Dark Wood: What Dante Taught Me About Grief, Healing, and the Mysteries of Love.