“Nothing is more characteristic of modern literature than its discovery and canonization of the primal, non-ethical energies (.)”
—Lionel Trilling, “On the Teaching of Modern Literature”
Any opportunity I might have had to experience the uniquely motivating ambience of a George Sanderson lecture was, through the decades, impeded by the frustrating impositions of geography and circumstance. Nevertheless, there is a fair measure of consolation to be gleaned by the realization that one can easily access George’s legacy through archival and even current issues of The Antigonish Review. For, to this day, ‘TAR’—as George and his beloved wife Gertrude affectionately called this respected literary journal—continues to resonate with the Sandersons’ globe-spanning, creatively-candid editorial vision.
However, thanks to the equally-spontaneous caprices of time, and on more than one occasion, I had more than one opportunity to partake of the Sandersons’ articulate, jovial and—dare I add—refreshingly pedagogical company. It was, in fact, through the auspices of ‘TAR’ that I not only became aware of George Sanderson, but also Antigonish, Nova Scotia and Saint Francis Xavier University, along with that institution’s exhilarating literary tradition. During the early 1980s, a McGill English Lit BA in hand, I happened to be patrolling for steady employment in the highly-unlikely milieu of Montreal. Despite the fact that my slender literary achievements outweighed my fledgling reputation as a visual artist, I decided to apply for a Canada Council grant. My goal: the completion of a series of acrylic-on-canvas literary portraits. At that time, applicants were required to secure the signatures of three individuals willing to vouch for the candidate. During my struggle to secure even one signatory, I found myself veering through the autumn-nipped streets of Saint Anne de Bellevue and knocking on the door of Deborah Campbell, a former John Abbott College teacher.
When Ms Campbell spied my bundle of black and white pen drawings she immediately asked me whether I had heard of Montreal artist Béla Egyedi. I recounted my brief interaction with the 60-something Hungarian artist back in the spring of 1981, during the annual launch of Scrivener, a McGill literary publication. The compact, white-haired Egyedi stood off to one side, the recipient of enthused accolades by a barrage of Scrivener enthusiasts. I bid Béla a cordial ‘hello’ along with requisite huzzahs in regard to his featured status in that issue. He, in turn, proffered a gracious ‘thank you’ before shifting to acknowledge his next accolade. As I concluded my recollection, Ms Campbell noted the passing resemblance of my drawings to Béla’s. Perhaps I should consider submitting to a Nova Scotia-based quarterly that included the Hungarian Montrealer’s work. Was I familiar with The Antigonish Review?
The name rang a bell. “As a matter of fact,” she continued, “the editor is supposed to be coming to town sometime soon.” Would I be interested in meeting him? Of course, I responded, relieved by this spark of hope in the middle of a gray and fruitless job hunt. Delight underscored my relief when, some weeks later, I cautiously rang up the hotel number Deborah had given me. The voice that greeted me reflected nary a hint of the dour condescension one so frequently encounters within the academic sphere. When the relaxed, accommodating Sanderson requested meeting coordinates, I gladly supplied the name of a downtown venue.
As I marched through the thick of a blizzard, I hoped my bulky case—filled with drawings, poems and stories—wouldn’t dampen the enthusiasm of this kindly-sounding, as-yet unseen personage. All such thoughts were carried off into the stinging whiteout within seconds of George Sanderson’s sortie from the snow-clambered Number 24 bus. Ever at ease in the city he once called home—and before I had a chance to blurt out, “Greetings, Professor Sanderson!”—the jovial, January-bundled figure extended a leather-gloved hand along with a low-key, “Please call me George.”
We wended our way along the wintry streets toward the bustling confines of the student hangout I had recommended. Because it was a Sunday afternoon, there were rare seats to be had in the usually clogged, coffee-, croissant- and smoke-infested premises. As we waited for our respective lunettes to unfog, we opted for tankards of draft beer in lieu of more seasonal hot chocolates. Following my polite response to his handful of questions about myself and Montreal—in that order—George proceeded to introduce himself within the easygoing ramble of paragraphs speckled with delectably-wry, observational wit. His eyes sparkled behind those freshly-polished lenses as he conveyed a thriving portrait of Antigonish—from the literary cyclone comprising Saint Francis Xavier University’s community to the infinite inspirations of Gertrude and their sons, Eric and Brendan. Finally, he capped it all off with the saga of The Antigonish Review.
The most exceptional aspect of our preliminary exchange, I think, was George’s capacity for leaving out all traces of himself while simultaneously, perhaps ironically, relaying an abundant sense of who he was. His splendid and generous quintessence shimmered through each account of those individuals and topics he broached. Regardless of the fact that his presence fit into the larger than life category, it was obvious that George had no need or patience for even the minutest display of self-absorption. Regardless of my earnest efforts to shift the conversation away from myself, George always managed to steer back onto that course with the deft perseverance of a sea captain for whom even a sudden squall presents no serious danger. What were my artistic and creative aspirations? Who were my major or minor influences or mentors? Were my goals realistic?
He obviously thrived on listening to others, sharing the relish with which each indulged in their life stories and ideas, however majestic or humble the content or context. Clues to the mysteries that drive the vast and varied complexes of existence: the unremitting curiosity that drives great artists and, in George’s case, exceptional teachers. The topics shifted to life, the philosophical and those elements, if any, I considered as characterizing the artistic temperament. “You are young,” he commented, his benevolent intonation punctuated by apprehension, “and I hope you won’t make the mistake of allowing yourself to be overwhelmed any extreme devotion to purist conceptions. Such obsessions only seem to lead to so much unhappiness.” He cited those artists, from Van Gogh to Sylvia Plath, whose suffering could too often be traced to the isolation imposed by an almost reckless, singular devotion to their respective creative callings. His solution: live life to the fullest while balancing one’s energy and emotional input vis-à-vis the creative calling. “Have a good time!” he smiled, surveying his half-empty stein.
With trepidation—and a hefty measure of George’s merry insistence—I removed my drawings from their case. As soon as he spotted the quirky black and white, slightly geometric, vaguely (at least, to my eye) reminiscent of Beardsley, decorative yet caricatured figures, George’s face became illuminated. “Do you know Béla Egyedi?” Unmistakable enthusiasm underscored his reverberation of Deborah Campbell’s question. When I recalled the tidy figure at the Scrivener launch, George’s eyes continued to emit their pronounced sparkle, as if each word was raw gold in need of delicate harvesting. Not only was George’s faith in Béla’s gifts of that caliber every artist dreams of—he was without a doubt Egyedi’s most devoted ally.
This discernment became more manifest during George’s next visit to Montreal, during which he graciously invited me to accompany him to the Véhicule Press warehouse. As fate would have it, Béla had met a sad and premature end in the preceding months, having been struck by a mail truck. The Sandersons had been appointed Béla’s sole inheritors and Véhicule’s director, Simon Dardick, had munificently agreed to store the precious boxes comprising the artist’s legacy. As we stood in the hangar-like space beneath scathing yet distant industrial lights, George surveyed the massive array of boxes. Where to begin? Before long, he was gently seizing one box, then another, unearthing pad after pad, notebook after notebook, each filled with Egyedi originals, with the tenderness one would bestow upon an intact archeological treasure trove. A plethora of quirky characters, swirls and exaggerated repetitions revealed an oeuvre comprised of pencil, charcoal, pastel, crayon, ink and paint packed onto every imaginable type of paper and board, a brimming, whirling visual tribute to that force which propels the human brain. As he surveyed each find, George’s face was flooded by a joy and awe powerful enough to incite Egyedi’s return from the dead. By entrusting his legacy to the Sandersons, the artist had made the wisest decision of his life. Once inventoried, every last box would journey back to Antigonish with George.
George’s third trek to Montreal included a long-awaited, propitious opportunity to meet his wife and literary life partner. With Gertrude by his side, the full scope of George’s gregariousness emerged, vestiges of politesse giving way to an even more relaxed cheer. Even so, there was no variance in perception, whatever the topic at hand: be it the private and professional enigmas driving McLuhan, the latest TAR or the challenges of securing adequate funding, laced with the occasional, juicy tidbit of Antigonish gossip. George and Gert injected that Italian feast at a Montreal landmark resto with so much infectious enthusiasm, wine flowing amid gales of laughter, it was as though they had brought along the entire population of St Francis Xavier U. Again, matters pertaining to the literary were to be perceived, not under the auspices of some alienating, impenetrable academic or stagnant moralistic veil, but primarily through the auspices of the human impetus.
My contributions to TAR would include poetry and illustrations, including a cover Issue Number 52 (Winter 1983), whose metallic silver elegance George insisted—via lengthy back and forth dialogues with the printers—must be balanced by just the right burgundy contrast. I couldn’t have felt more privileged if I had been elected Béla’s reincarnation. George’s praise, always grounded in specific critical insights, emphasized the authentic intent and disciplined perimeters of his praise. Although George and Gert did not perceive the need to include editorial prefaces within ‘TAR’, their outlook and perception loomed throughout every issue, with every poem’s juxtaposition to every essay, review, story and illustration.
Geof and I would have the pleasure of seeing George on only one more occasion within the last two decades. As we ensconced ourselves within the elegant yet informal surrounds of a French restaurant in downtown Montreal—Paesano’s long since having passed into the city’s mythical pantheon of eateries—we immediately felt as though the years between had been dissolved, so instantly were we caught up in George and his news, matters both literary and personal. We also had the distinct pleasure of meeting his multi-talented son, Brendan during a sunny summer trek to Ottawa during the early 1990s. Brendan’s serene yet probing intelligence was offset by an exuberant vision that candidly undertook to record with his own unmistakable lens—employing the vivid colours and the delicate linear complexity of the slender nibs—those components comprising his parents’ spirit. True to Trilling’s definitions of modern literature, George Sanderson chose to emphasize literature’s place in the immediacy of humanity’s maelstrom—in lieu of leaving words to freeze within the disciplinary plane of mere intellectualization. Live and let live, seize the feast with gusto and exhale with mirth!
fin
© 2007 Sonja A. Skarstedt
[Originally appeared in The Antigonish Review Number 149;
Saint Francis Xavier University, Antigonish, Nova Scotia]
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