Reggie's Greatest Regret In Life

. . . is that he cannot play the piano.  And it is not for lack of trying, either.

Reggie grew up in a house where the children were expected to become proficient in playing a musical instrument, among other basic skills of the well-rounded life.  When Reggie was a little boy, no more than six or seven years old, his mother, MD, asked him what instrument he would like to learn to play.  He wasn't given the option of whether he wanted to learn to play an instrument, but rather which one.  Fortunately, Reggie was more than agreeable to the prospect, despite having listened for years to his older siblings torture their way through practicing on various instruments for which they had little aptitude.  Aside from enjoying singing and playing records, the Darlings weren't exactly what Reggie would describe as a musically gifted family.

A young Reggie at the piano with his teacher, Mrs. Lee

Rather than follow in the footsteps of his older brother Frecky and take lessons on the French horn (a choice that to this day Reggie finds to be a peculiar one for his brother), Reggie asked to be given piano lessons.  He was attracted to the piano for several reasons: he liked the way it sounded, one could sing along to it when playing tunes upon it, and one wasn't expected to cart it about from place to place, unlike more portable but often cumbersome options, such as the cello or bassoon.

Performing classical music in concert halls
wasn't what attracted Reggie to the piano

The prospect of learning to play Beethoven's sonatas and other serious music and then performing them one day in concert halls was not the reason Reggie wanted to play the piano.  No, he was far more interested in learning to accompany himself and others while singing show tunes, popular songs, and Christmas carols in the comfort of fashionable drawing rooms.  For Reggie is a sociable chap, and has been one since the get-go, and he liked the idea of being the lucky fellow sitting at the piano at the parties he imagined himself attending, at the center of all the fun.

Everyone enjoys singing show tunes around the piano!

Yes, even at the age of seven Reggie was already a show tune lovin' laddie, which some may interpret as manifesting the propensity to be "that way," but which Reggie takes exception to since many of the composers of same were well-known for their prowess with the opposite sex—but that's a topic for another day, I suppose . . . .  On a less flibbertigibbety note, Reggie also enjoyed then (and still does) a good hymn sing, at least from the 1940 edition of the Episcopal Hymnal that was then still found in the pews at the church we attended on Sunday mornings.

This is how I saw myself
Photograph courtesy of Getty Images

In short, Reggie was interested in learning to play the piano because he thought it would be his ticket to becoming the life of the party.

But it didn't work out that way.

My parents signed me up for piano lessons with a neighbor, named Mrs. Lee, who lived only two doors from our house and who had three pianos in her large living room where she gave lessons in the afternoon, when her husband, an editor at the Washington Post, was at the office.  Mrs. Lee was a pleasant lady, and I liked her.  She started me with the exercises that one would expect and was encouraging of the progress I initially made under her tutelage.  I remember the pride I felt when I performed for the first time at the annual recital she held for her students, the highlight of which was—at least for little Reggie—the sweet and salty praline cookies she served at such gatherings.  I remember those cookies vividly to this day.

Doesn't Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge?

The problem was, after an initial spurt of facility at the piano, my progress slowed to a virtual standstill, and I barely advanced beyond rank beginner after several years of taking lessons.  Part of the problem, I admit, is that after the first flush of excitement wore off I became less than enthralled with practicing for more than half an hour at a time, and I was frustrated that I was forced to learn the likes of Bartok's compositions for children when what I really wanted to play was "I Could Have Danced All Night" from My Fair Lady.

I played this album to death as a child

It also didn't help that the piano we had at home was a rather pathetic upright one that MD had bought at a yard sale and painted cherry red (she had a thing for painting furniture with bright enamel colors at the time), and that was only rarely tuned, if ever.  MD refused to consider buying a better piano for me to practice on, given my level of skill at the time.  "Why should I buy you another piano when you can't even play the one we've got?" she would ask me when I would complain about the quality of the instrument I was expected to practice upon.

The dreaded, and for Reggie embarrassing, piano recital

But despite that, Mrs. Lee and I soldiered on for the next several years.  Every year at her annual recital concert I was still lumped with the beginners, and I would find myself—with some humiliation, I might add—towering over the little ones who surrounded me there.  By that point, MD had given up attending the recitals as she had—she informed me with a snort—other and better uses of her time.

My piano recital competition

One day, when I was twelve years old, I arrived at Mrs. Lee's house for my weekly lesson.  After several minutes she put her hand on mine as I was stumbling through the day's piece and said, "Stop."

I turned to her to see why.  She had an odd expression on her face.  She hesitated, as if building her courage, and said to me, "Reggie, you are a nice boy, and I like you, but I am afraid that I must tell you that you will never learn to play the piano.  Of all the students I have taught over the years, and there have been many, I have never come across one who has as little talent for it as you do."

"Really?" I asked.

"Yes, really.  There's simply no point in trying any more, because you will never learn to play the piano.  You have no aptitude for it, and no matter how much you practice you will never learn to play it.  I am sorry, but I can't teach you anymore.  I simply cannot, in good conscience, accept any more money from your parents.  Today is your last lesson.  We are done."

"But what will I tell my parents?" I asked her.

"I will telephone your mother now and let her know."

It was with mixed feelings that I left Mrs. Lee's house that late afternoon and walked back to my parents' house.  On one hand I was relieved that the burden I had endured for the last four years was now over, but on the other hand I was disappointed to learn—once and for all—that I had absolutely no talent for playing the piano and that I would never find myself the life of the party, tinkling ivories and singing show tunes to the delight of those gathered around me.

That's how I saw myself.  Erroneously, as it turns out . . .

When I got home MD was waiting for me.  "Thank God that's over," she said with a smirk, letting me off the hook.  She had the piano carted away the very next day.

Not for Reggie, as I learned . . .
Photograph courtesy of Getty Images

But it always rankled me that I had never learned to play the piano, and that I had been told that I never would, nor should I bother even trying to.  I still, deep down inside of me, wanted to be that happy fellow sitting at the piano at the smart parties I imagined attending, singing and laughing away.

Half a decade later I got another chance . . .

During my final year at Saint Grottlesex I applied for and was the fortunate recipient of a scholarship to attend school in England for a year, with all of my expenses paid for.  It was an exchange program between English and American boarding and secondary schools under the auspices of the English Speaking Union, an organization devoted to fostering good will among (or as they would say "amongst") the English speaking nations.  I was not given a choice as to which school I would attend under the program, except to request one that was strong in music and where the students were largely drawn from within Great Britain, as opposed to from a broader, more international base.

The school that the E.S.U. selected for me was Sherborne School, a quintissentially English, all-boys public boarding school located in a bucolic market town of the same name in Dorset, a several-hour train ride west of London.  Sherborne (pronounced "Shuh-bn") was founded in 1550 by Edward VI (the short-lived son of Henry VIII) on the site of a deconsecrated monastery.  It was and remains a beautiful school with handsome buildings and grounds, and it was used as the location for the 1969 movie of Goodbye Mr. Chips starring Peter O'Toole.

Sherborne School, Dorset, England
Image courtesy of same

When I arrived at Sherborne I was given the opportunity to take music lessons on an instrument of my choice.  I decided that I would—once again—attempt to take up the piano and show "them" that I really could learn to play the instrument that Mrs. Lee said I would never be able to master.

I was given as a teacher an elderly, archtypal English maiden-lady named Miss Whipple, who looked like a character right out of an "English Cosies" murder mystery of the type filled with village eccentrics, vicars on bicycles, and such.  Miss Whipple, who was in her early seventies at the time, lived in a cottage not far from the school with her equally elderly spinster sister.  Her sensible clothes were from another long-gone era, and she wore stout, sturdy shoes.  I recall that she wore a pince-nez, too.

Miss Whipple looked remarkably like
the writer Agatha Christie
Photograph courtesy of ezdia.com

I told Miss Whipple my story of how I had taken piano lessons as a boy, and that I regretted that I had been considered incapable of ever learning to play one.  She responded encouragingly that she had had great success with her pupils, even ones with only modest innate talent, and that she was sure she would have success with me, too, so long as I promised to apply myself.  With that agreed to, we set off.

Could this still be in my future, I wondered?
Image courtesy of dorisday.net

In the first several weeks under Miss Whipple's tutelage I made leaps and bounds of progress, and she was delighted with me and how quickly I proceeded.  I practiced diligently, hours every day, and I was determined to make a success of learning to play the piano.

But after several months had passed I was no longer making any progress, and—no matter how much I practiced—I had once again become stuck at the very same place I had been when Mrs. Lee put her hand on mine.  Whereas Miss Whipple had initially been pleased to see me and was quite enthusiastic about my progress, over time she became increasingly restless and fidgety during our lessons, which were no longer the pleasant fun they first had been.  Despite my best efforts, she started to become impatient with me and at times quite short with me, clearly irritated by my incompetence.  "No!" she would cry as I fumbled my way through a piece, "That's not how it is done!"  She would then demonstrate once again, with mounting irritation, how I should play the section of music at hand and what technique I should use.

Sadly, no jolly shout-outs for Reggie with a happy gang
of fellows gathering 'round him at the piano

But I didn't make any more progress, and it became increasingly clear to me, as it certainly had to Miss Whipple by this time, that what Mrs. Lee had said to me all those years ago was, in fact, true—that I had absolutely no aptitude for playing the piano, and my attempting to learn to play one was futile and an utter waste of my (and others') time.

After several more painful weeks had passed, by which point Miss Whipple had grown openly hostile to me and was now sitting through our lessons in angry, stony silence, I decided to throw in the towel and put both of us out of our misery.  Not surprisingly, Miss Whipple was more than pleased to let me go and agreed with alacrity that it was far better that I concentrate my efforts on activities where I had at least some chance for success.  So, instead, I signed on for the school's choral society where I was able to happily sing away without unduly embarrassing myself or visibly annoying the conductor . . . or Miss Whipple.

And that, Dear Reader, is why Reggie cannot—nor will he ever be able to—play the piano.

All black and white photographs, unless noted, are courtesy of LIFE Images.  Reggie had rather a lot of fun finding vintage photographs to illustrate his story.  He makes no claims to actually appearing in any of them.

One's Old School Ties, and Thoughts About Dress Codes In General

Now that the holidays are (finally) behind us, Reggie feels free to return to topics of more sustained interest to him than pretty bows and ornaments.  He's had a bit too much sugar in his diet, if you know what I mean . . .

Several months ago, the inestimable Admiral Cod wrote a thought-provoking post about old school ties that sent Reggie searching his closets and drawers to see what neckties he still owns of the schools, both preparatory and collegiate, that he attended.  And he came up with rather a lot of them.  It's not surprising that Reggie held on to so many of such ties over the years, since they are not exactly the kind of thing that one is inclined to throw away or send off to the jumble sale at one's local parish.  Heavens, that one should come across an unsuitable stranger wearing one's old school tie!

Pompey whizzing by Reggie's old school ties

When Reggie was a schoolboy he attended private and preparatory schools that required their students to wear uniforms or abide by dress codes.  From the time he entered fourth grade through when he graduated from prep school he was expected to wear a jacket and tie to school.  No questions asked.

Saint Grottlesex School ties

Reggie never found the wearing of uniforms or abiding by dress codes as a lad to be an unpleasant or restricting requirement.  Not only did they make his sartorial choices easier (or did away with them altogether), but they helped provide him with a greater sense of community with the other students he went to school with.  As an adult he has come to further appreciate that school (and other) uniforms and dress codes are a sign of respect for the institutions and places in which they are worn.

Sherborne School ties

Even though there was no formal dress code at Yale by the time he enrolled there in the mid-1970s, the wearing of a jacket and tie was expected of male undergraduates when attending university functions or other organized gatherings.  Reggie found himself donning a jacket and tie at least several times a week when he was an undergraduate at Yale.

When Reggie joined the workforce after college, taking a job in a large bank on Wall Street in New York City, men were expected to wear a suit and tie to the office each and every day of the week.  And so it was for the next fifteen years or so, until all Hell broke loose and "business casual" took over like so many canker sores.

Yale College ties

Reggie is a firm believer in the positive benefits of students and employees abiding by dress codes, and he rues the day that so many schools and places of employment relaxed or did away with such requirements altogether.  He would far rather see a young man wearing a jacket and tie in a lecture hall or his place of employment than one wearing an oversized golf shirt and ill-fitting, no-iron khakis.  Or—even worse—a tee shirt and blue jeans.

Yale Whiffenpoof ties

But Reggie isn't the only one who feels this way.  In the last several years there has been a movement in financial and other firms in New York City to reinstate the daily wearing of suits and ties in the office.  In fact, the Investment Bank where Reggie works on Park Avenue has recently re-instituted a policy that requires its client-facing male employees to wear suits and ties to work every day, at least during the cooler months of the year.  It's thought to be more respectful of the institution, our clients, and one's colleagues.  And it brings a level of discipline and professionalism to the firm that reflects well upon it.

Needless to say, Reggie is rather happy with this development.  And he would, of course, be overjoyed should his firm require men to start wearing proper hats again, too . . .

All photographs by Boy Fenwick

Reggie's Rooms IV: The Wheeler Library

Lest you think, given the previous three installments in this series, that Reggie admires only rooms decorated in styles predating the turn of the 20th century, today's essay is about a favorite room that was decorated not only well in to that century, in the 1930s, but done up in a manner that could only have occurred after the advent of modernism.  It is a room that has much to recommend it, I believe, and there is much to be learned from it, too.

Wheeler library, gallery view

The room in question is the library in the Lake Forest, Illinois, house of Mr. and Mrs. Leslie Wheeler.  Designed by David Adler (1882-1949), one of the greatest residential architects of the first half of the twentieth century, the room was decorated by his equally talented sister, Francis Elkins (1888-1953), with whom he collaborated extensively.  What an exceptional team they were, this superbly gifted brother and sister, and how lucky we are that so much of their work was photographed (in the case of this room, in 1934) and recently published in books by Stephen Salny and the Art Institute of Chicago.

David Adler in 1904                           Francis Elkins in 1938

I first came across David Adler's work, and the Wheeler library in particular, in the early 1980s when leafing through the pages of an out-of-print monograph on the architect that belonged to my dear friend George Pinckney, a fellow appreciator of traditional architecture.  Looking for the first time at the photographs of the Adler houses featured in the monograph was an astonishment for me.  Not only had I never heard of the architect, but I had also never seen such a concentration of handsome, well-appointed houses and interiors of the featured period, and all by the same hand.  At the time, I was certainly familiar with the work of McKim, Mead and White, as well as other illustrious architects of their and earlier eras, but this was the first time that I saw a book with the work of an equivalent master of traditional residential architecture of a more modern and, for me, accessible period.  Lots of books were available at the time featuring the twentieth century work of the masters of the International style of modern architecture, but little had yet been published on the work of their then less-celebrated, classically-inspired counterparts.  This has only been remedied more recently, in the last fifteen or so years.

The coveted Adler monograph; photo by Boy Fenwick

Written by Richard Pratt and published in 1970, the monograph is David Adler: The Architect and His Work.  It was and remains much sought-after by collectors, libraries, and practitioners of traditional (or classical) architecture, as it was the only book on Adler and his work available until recently.  It was, as it turns out, a very valuable book, too, and could only be had at a price that reflected its rarity and the fevered demand for it.  Looking through it for the first time I was determined to own a copy of it, but I was only able to do so many years later when my pocketbook could support such an extravagance.  It remains to this day one of the treasures of our book collection at Darlington House.

Wheeler library, fireplace wall

The Wheeler library is a room that I return to again and again in my mind's eye, as it is not only a handsome room, but the stuff of fantasy for me: a special-purpose room dedicated to the pleasures of reading, set apart from the owners' other sitting and entertaining rooms.  We have a room at Darlington, which we call our Snuggery, that holds many of our books; but I would not say that it is a library, per se.  For our Snuggery is not the sole repository for our books, which are scattered throughout our house in bookcases and piles, and in it resides, also, our lone television.  Frankly, we use our Snuggery more as a cozy, personal sitting room than we do as a place to read, contemplate, and study books.  I would be thrilled to live in a house that had an actual library, such as the one the Adler/Elkins duo created for the Wheelers.

Our copies of Adler/Elkins books; photo by Boy Fenwick

So, what is it, exactly, that I so admire about the Wheeler's library?

• It is an attractive, symmetrical, well-proportioned room, embellished only with severe moldings and restrained architectural elements; it relies on the integrity of the materials for its beauty rather than surface decoration;
• It is a special-purpose room, designed for the holding and studying of the Wheeler's extensive collection of books, set away from the house's more public rooms;
• While clearly within a residence, it attractively resembles an academic library, with stacks projecting into the room at regular intervals;
• It is paneled and fitted out with pickled pine, a great favorite of mine;
• It is filled with an array of handsome furnishings spanning several hundred years, including English furniture from the eighteenth century and modern chairs and lamps by Jean Michel Frank--the modern master whose work Mrs. Elkins introduced and championed in this country;
• The modern upholstered seating is both stylish and commodious, and a comfortable place to wile away hours reading;
• The windows are hung with the simplest, plain curtains;
• It is fitted out with good, modern lamps and the niceties of comfort and convenience--one need not look too far for a place to rest one's drink or set one's pipe, if one smoked such a thing;
• The gorgeous, polished, antique parquet-de-Versailles floor is bare of carpets, giving the room a clean and fresh look, and it is scattered with boldly graphic Zebra skins--long before such skins had become the decorating cliche of the first decade of this century;
• And it has a gun rack!  And not just any gun rack, either, but one built into the paneling and surrounded by a frame based on ones found on early English Georgian mirrors.

Wheeler library gun rack

Finally, the Wheeler library channels for me on a very personal level a number of academic libraries that I spent many pleasant hours in years ago, first as a student at Sherborne School, a boys' public school in England, and later as an undergraduate at Yale.

Sherborne School library
Image courtesy of Sherborne School

Sterling Memorial Library Reading Room
Image courtesy of Yale University

Unless noted, all images are courtesy of Francis Elkins: Interior Design by Stephen M. Salny, published by W. W. Norton & Company.  Additional images of the talented Adler/Elkins partnership can be found in Stephen M. Salny's The Country Houses of David Adler, also published by W. W. Norton, and in the Art Institute of Chicago's David Adler, Architect: The Elements of Style, published by the Art Institute in association with the Yale University Press.