No, his is not the vinegar face I'm speaking of here. This portrait of Richardson Wright, editor in chief of House & Garden from 1914 well into the years of World War II, had to have been the result of photographer Doris Ulmann's coaxing him to look editor-in-chief-ish.
I love reading anything he has written, from two of his Bed-Books that I own, one original and one reprint, to articles he wrote in my vintage House & Garden magazines. I just ordered another old book of his and will be totally useless for hours when it arrives in the mail.
In her introduction to the reprint of his The Gardener's Bed-Book, Dominique Browning, who claims to have cornered the market on his books, says that "Wright was a gentleman of breeding and discernment. He was worldly, and at the same time he was devoted to the domestic arts. He believed in living well, and thinking large. They don't make too many like him."
Here's what Richardson Wright wrote on his 28th of November entry about Vinegar Faces.
In my Winter tramps hereabout, I have been encountering the dour faces of the natives, the grim look of men and women on isolated farms far back in the hinterlands. And I'm wondering why people must be so grave and sour and vinegary. Certainly our coming into this world is painful enough, and the manner of our leaving it is, in most instances, nothing to boast about. Between these two momentous events, Life spreads no bed of Roses for us. To some it's a springless couch. To most it's a bumpy one. A rare few find it pleasantly circumstanced, like an old bed with curtains to keep out draughts. The best of us seem to lie unprotected, in all the night winds of the world. Since so unfairly does Life deal the cards, let those of us who can, laugh: let girls giggle and boys shout and old men chuckle in their stomachs and old ladies titter behind their fans.
So today I'm sharing this with anyone who needs it--and no one needs it more than I do, especially by around 5:30 p.m. each day.
For those of us who have not lost our homes to voracious wildfires, for those of us who have not lost a beloved person or pet, for those of us not greatly suffering from one of Life's unfairly dealt cards...
Come, would you, and sit by me?
Join me while I titter behind my fan.
5:30 p.m. would be a perfect time.
[I know, I purloined this image with its watermark, but is it not too perfect to pass up? And I love my green dress!]
