Here and There – Maryland, USA
To explain why I spent time in Maryland requires something of a detour, both in time and place. The story starts in 1945, in Aspen Colorado. The key figure in this part of the story is Walter Paepcke, a very successful businessman running a logistics company in America. The demand for transporting materials and finished products during the Second World War had ensured that his company, Containers Ltd, became very profitable. His wife, Elizabeth Paepcke, persuaded her husband to take a break and visit the small and then relatively unknown town of Aspen, which she’d first seen in 1937. Paepcke was entranced and saw this as the place to create a ‘Salzburg’ in the US. He started buying properties and set up two companies: one would purchase and run developments, including the one hotel in town; and the other, The Aspen Skiing Company, began the planning of a major chairlift, which opened in 1947, the start of Aspen’s transformation into one of the leading ski resorts in the USA.
The other important driver for Paepcke was his desire to establish a centre for learning and the arts. He bought Aspen Meadows, a large tract of land near the centre of Aspen, as the location for a major event, a Goethe Bicentennial Convocation, planned for 1949. The convocation brought intellectual stars to Aspen, among then Albert Einstein, and, for the only time he ever visited to the USA, Albert Schweitzer. Facilities were built, seminar rooms constructed, and even a huge tent for music performances. Among the many people involved were two key members of the University of Chicago, Robert Hutchins the young, dynamic President of the University of Chicago, and Mortimer Adler, one of the Chicago professors, well-known as the leader of the ‘Fat Man’s Seminar’, drawing on the collection of ‘great books’ he had been helping to develop for the Encyclopedia Britannica with Hutchins.
The infrastructure built for the Goethe Convocation was used, a year later, for two separate activities. Paepcke asked Mortimer Adler to develop an ‘executive seminar’ in 1950, based on extracts from the great books, and intended to help American managers learn skills other than the techniques of management. Paepcke believed that their technological sophistication was far greater than their understanding of the broader issues that faced them. The Executive Seminar would be an intensive introduction to liberal arts for the practicing manager. At the same time, the success of the convocation also led to the establishment of an annual summer Music Festival, centred around the tent at the Meadows. This would bring promising young musicians to Aspen to play alongside leading concert performers, a key strategy in developing their skills. Today the Aspen Music Festival brings together more than 1,500 young musicians a year.
The organisation set up to host the Executive Seminars was The Aspen Institute. By 1992 it had been running for more than 40 years, and was well-established, offering a unique way to develop promising executives. I felt a similar program in Australia would be equally worthwhile. With the Myer Foundation’s support, I wrote to the Institute, and asked if I could attend a seminar. The CEO, David McClelland offered me a place. In fact, he offered two free places. Part of their approach was to encourage partners to attend: if the seminar was to have an impact, then it would be better if this was not just for an isolated individual, but for his or her partner, too. The intention was that both people would learn and grow.
So, my wife and I prepared to take part in the two-week seminar. As it happened, it was to be held at Wye Woods, the second base for the Institute, a secluded centre on the edge of the Chesapeake (famous as one of the places where Clinton had met with Arafat and Peres, in his attempt to broker a peace deal for Palestine). Before we left for Maryland, we were sent our readings for the two weeks, a folder with some thirty odd extracts from those ‘great books’. Many were the ones that Mortimer Adler had chosen, but there had been a few changes over time. We were expected to read the extracts and be ready to discuss them when we arrived!
Wye Woods was a magical place. Deer roamed around the woods (that seems less amazing now after having lived in North Carolina’s Pfafftown, where we regularly had deer in our garden). When we arrived, the Canada Geese were heading south, stopping to stay overnight on the bay, producing a fearful noise some nights (also visitors to Pfafftown!). Each day we spent time in the seminar room, sitting around an oval table. Most days involved both a morning and an afternoon session, but we did get a couple of afternoons off each week.
The seminar style was moderated discussion, based on Alder’s ‘Socratic approach’. This meant each session would be focussed on one or two readings. We would turn to a reading, and the moderator would invite one of the participants to read a passage out loud. The moderator would then ask questions about what the passage might mean, what it suggested to us, and as the session moved on, going on how it was relevant to contemporary issues. I loved the approach and have used it ever since. Reading a passage concentrates everyone’s attention and gives a focus to the moderated discussion. Participants learn to read carefully, a skill many of us have lost through skimming and reading summaries. The subsequent discussion is intended to push participants to both reflect on what was said, and to explore ideas and views that might be new or even uncomfortable.
Our moderator was Charles van Doren. For two Australians, his name was unfamiliar. He seemed a little fragile at times; during the seminar he was supported by his wife, Gerry, who attended all the sessions and sometimes – only rarely – would join in the conversation. Charles had another skill which I later practiced and developed in my own way: he would remind us each morning about some of the topics and exchanges that had taken place the previous day. Now when I run similar seminars, I prepare a written commentary, and the final document is something the participants take away from a program. I learnt a great deal from Charles, who was an excellent moderator. He encouraged and involved everyone.
I got a little (over)excited one evening and persuaded my wife to mount an argument against universal suffrage. We were to read Harriet Mill’s seminal paper on extending the franchise to women the following day. My wife tried, valiantly, suggesting the franchise go to one person from each household, offering views based on the family’s discussion. The reaction of several participants was fascinating. They took her aside afterwards and asked, “how could you do that, argue against women having the vote?” I think my partner would have liked to have killed me there and then. We learnt that exploring ideas had its limits.
One of the features of the Executive Seminar was that the attendees would put on a performance of Antigone. As soon as I heard about this, I made sure that all the major parts were allocated to others in our group, and I offered to be the director, and cover a couple of minor roles. As usual, I had rushed ahead, and I should have read the play! The minor roles, soldiers and a soothsayer, turned out to be major. Terrified of the thought of acting, and, either deliberately or by default, I read my part as a London cockney. Charles loved our presentation, but especially my distinctive, and in his eyes brilliant, take on some key roles!
In the evenings, the presidential debates were being held between Bill Clinton, George W H Bush, and the pixie-like Ross Perot. We had been advised that three topics might be good to avoid in conversation – sex, religion, and politics. In the excited atmosphere of the run up to a Presidential election, politics was on the table, although we soon learnt that most of the participants in our seminar were Republicans. Fortunately, Ross Perot was consistently so excitable and so funny that he was a safe topic for comments when the issues got a bit tense.
As I said, Charles van Doren was a bit fragile, even a little aggressive at times. One evening, another participant explained that Charles had been a professor at Columbia University, the son of a Pulitzer Prize winning poet and novelist, Mark Van Doren, a recognised polymath on track to become a major figure in the world of philosophy. Clever and handsome, NBC encouraged him to take part in the quiz show Twenty One, their preferred choice to battle with the champion, Herb Stempel. He proved a star, winning several sessions. He defeated Herb Stempel and won nearly $130,000 (about $1.1m in today’s money) before he was beaten. Stempel was a sore loser and told the press Charles had cheated. It became clear both had been coached, questions carefully tailored for them. It was, after all, television. Charles was mortified, first denying everything, and then confessing. Eventually he told all:
“I was involved, deeply involved, in a deception. The fact that I, too, was very much deceived cannot keep me from being the principal victim of that deception, because I was its principal symbol. There may be a kind of justice in that. I don’t know. I do know, and I can say it proudly to this committee, that since Friday, October 16, when I finally came to a full understanding of what I had done and of what I must do, I have taken a number of steps toward trying to make up for it. I have a long way to go. I have deceived my friends, and I had millions of them. Whatever their feeling for me now, my affection for them is stronger today than ever before. I am making this statement because of them. I hope my being here will serve them well and lastingly.
I asked (co-producer Albert Freedman) to let me go on (Twenty One) honestly, without receiving help. He said that was impossible. He told me that I would not have a chance to defeat Stempel because he was too knowledgeable. He also told me that the show was merely entertainment and that giving help to quiz contests was a common practice and merely a part of show business. This of course was not true, but perhaps I wanted to believe him. He also stressed the fact that by appearing on a nationally televised program I would be doing a great service to the intellectual life, to teachers and to education in general, by increasing public respect for the work of the mind through my performances. In fact, I think I have done a disservice to all of them. I deeply regret this, since I believe nothing is of more vital importance to our civilization than education.”
Charles was dropped by NBC, which had given him a three-year contract, resigned from Columbia University, and took up writing introductions to philosophy. He later became an editor at the Encyclopedia Britannica, which is where he was working when my wife and I met him at Wye Woods. He had been very foolish, but his skills as a teacher and moderator were without question. I became a friend, and we kept in touch for many years. I went to see him in his Connecticut hideaway once and dined with he and Mark at a very exclusive New York club. Boy, those patrician New Yorkers know how to live. Charles died in 2019, aged 93, but we’d lost contact before then, as he slowly retreated, becoming something of a hermit.
I guess that was a bit off-track! Rather than dwelling on Charles van Doren, I should have stuck with taking about the Executive Seminar! It was an exciting approach to develop learning. I liked the model of readings and ‘moderated’ discussion: the two tasks in moderation were to make certain everyone took part in the discussion, and, when necessary, getting the discussion back on track. This latter was usually done by referring back to the text, getting a participant to read out a key section. I have used the approach ever since.
I visited The Aspen Institute several more times over the years. For one memorable visit I stayed in Baltimore, my base while meeting various people at the Institute. Tired was the President of the Institute at the time. I hadn’t met him before. he offered to come over to Baltimore to meet, rather than have me drive down to the Washington offices. I was pleased. We were staying at the Sheraton on the Harbor, and we had been upgraded to a huge suite. I could entertain him in the suite since my wife had gone off for the day. When a call came from the front desk, I was a bit miffed: Fred wanted me to come down and go out.
We left the hotel. Dressed in a suit, I was getting warm as we began our walk up Charles Street. “We need to find out about a restaurant,” he announced. We went into a citizen’s advice centre, and Fred asked the African American lady on duty “Can you tell us somewhere good to eat.” A little brusque, I thought. She mentioned some places. “No, not a chain, something authentic. The places Mencken wrote about.” Wisely, she left, and summoned the manager. He understood and gave Fred details of a tiny restaurant over on the other side of the harbor. We had somewhere to go (the advice proved excellent). However, first we went further up Charles Street. Was this sightseeing? No, I sensed this was a walk with a purpose.
Suddenly, Fred turned off Charles Street on to East Centre Street and stopped outside ‘Ted’s Musician’s Shop’. As I was looking up at the window, without any explanation Fred entered, and I followed. The store was small, boxes everywhere, hundreds of old instruments hanging from the ceiling. It had been in business since 1931, supplying to everyone from Leopold Stokowski to schoolchildren. As I looked around, I could see four others in the shop, three African Americans and a Caucasian at the desk, all wearing jeans and open necked shirts.
“Have you got any clarinets for sale?” Fred didn’t waste time on niceties. A little nervous I positioned myself near the door. The man at the counter pulled out a box. “I said a clarinet, not a piece of rubbish.” Being near the door was looking like a good idea. The assistant seemed unworried and pulled out another box. “Well,’, announced Fred. “That almost looks like a clarinet. Try again.” Unperturbed, he rummaged around and pulled out an old, scuffed box. “Ah. I need a reed”. Fred assembled the clarinet, looked around and put the clarinet to his lips, and started playing, playing jazz, and, boy, could he play: it was magical. The shop was silent, everyone transfixed. “Well, I suppose that’s a clarinet. What about a tenor sax?” Thirty minutes later, Fred had tested three saxophones, and decided they were all inadequate. He didn’t buy the clarinet, but conceded it was alright. It was time to leave, and just as he got to the door, he looked up. “I’ll be back”, he said “to buy that fagotto.” We walked out.
Near the store Fred explained before Aspen he had been President of Oberlin College and an expert on Russian and Eurasian affairs. However, his passion was collecting musical instruments and he told me he was after the fagotto, an early version of a bassoon from Hungary. He didn’t bother to explain why he could play a clarinet the way he did, but I discovered he was a co-founder of the Louisiana Repertory Jazz Ensemble, which played all over the world. I was very fond of Fred, and sorry when he moved to Johns Hopkins.
Visiting Maryland, Wye Woods, and Baltimore, played a major role in my future life. Not quite King’s College, but the aftermath of my visits has continued to the present, as I offer discussion sessions to U3A members in Canberra, still trying to do a good job in moderating, and writing a commentary. Thank you, Maryland, and The Aspen Institute.
