It was with more than a small degree of trepidation that we opened the big glass door and stepped, once more, into the welcome gallery of Rannoch. There is something about a last minute invitation that gives one enough time to become excited, but not enough time to weigh the significance of the invitation, inoculating a person against just fears. Not so, with this evening’s invitation. Sir James Wallace and Creed had stood side by side, as we departed the concert, and invited us back for dinner two days hence. Plenty of time for us to work up a good case of nerves. It didn’t help that, after our first visit to his opulent home, we knew just how far out of our depth we would be, without the relative safety and anonymity of a crowd.

I spent the two days worrying about what to wear, purchasing Tony a new shirt, and studying for all I was worth on the life, history and work of Sir James Wallace. And then of course there was the question of what to bring to dinner, I couldn’t show up empty handed, my mother taught me better than that, but I certainly wouldn’t have DARED try to choose a bottle of wine for this audience. I settled on an exotic, manly looking variety of ruby and green potted orchid instead.

Surreal is an inadequate word.

Phantasmagorical is a synonym, but that’s not nearly right either.

How, exactly, does one make small talk with a gazillionaire Knight when the sum of one’s experience is a log cabin upbringing? I did what I always do: hid behind Tony’s skirt, and dove into his bookshelf when Colin, the butler of sorts, left us unattended, with our drinks, in the library! When Sir James presented himself, in maroon jeans and a very common striped shirt, gin & tonic in hand, I did the only other thing I know to do: I asked questions.

• Tell me about this piece of art?
• Are you from New Zealand originally?
• Who are these guys and what do they do for you?
• How did you get interested in art?
• What is this meter long mass of silver run down the middle of your dining room table?
• Why don’t you process pigs?

He raised one eyebrow, amused.

“I’ve read that a big part of your business is rendering the hides and leftover bits from meat processing plants. You have three separate lines: one for red meat and bones, one for poultry and feathers, and one for blood, but you make an express point of the fact that you don’t process pig material. Why not?”

“You’ve done your homework! That’s a very good question!”

He went on to explain to me that a big part of their market is into Asia, specifically Indonesia, which has a large Muslim population, and so every factory faces mecca, their kills are all done according to halal rules, as is their processing, therefore: no pork.

“We also produce parchment for market into Israel for the writing of the Torah, so we also employ a rabbi who certifies that process as Kosher. What else would you like to know?”

And so our evening continued with my litany of questions, occasionally punctuated with the question of, “May I ask a question?” and his amused assent.

Among the things I learned:

• He skis, every 6-8 weeks, avidly, even though he’s well into his seventies.
• He loves New Hampshire, having spent his secondary school years at Cambridge, in Boston, and weekend with friends, one state north.
• His love for art began in the galleries of Boston.
• His university education is as a lawyer.
• His fortune is made from scratch.
• He has always, from the time he was young, invested heavily in the arts.
• The enormous blob of silver on the dining table is a sculpture representing New Zealand that he had commissioned. The artist adds a couple of serving pieces each year: silver lighthouses that are working salt and pepper mills, condiment dishes in the shape of shells, serving bowls on an ocean theme, an entire formal set of silver ware, custom made for Rannoch.
• He does not have a favourite piece of art.
• He is invited to a minimum of three performances a night, every night, year round. This got my attention, as I realized he’d chosen to have us to dinner instead.

Throughout the evening he picked and poked at his young men.

There are three who live with him, in various custodial or artisan roles.

Our friend Richard cooked a delicious Cuban pork dinner with banana rice and his grandmother’s recipe of black beans. He complained about the difficulty of finding mojo seasoning in Auckland, but the result was so close that it made us homesick for Belize and our friend Lana, who must share recipe books with Grandma Decal. Sir James gently teased Richard about the “interesting” place settings, and the general lack of “presentation” of the dishes (which were slammed on the sideboards in their cooking pots, in classic 23 year old backpacker style)

He launched into a rant on the proper positioning of the knife whilst eating and how it should be set down:

“In Scotland, where my heritage lies, this matters very much, you know, you can’t just toss it down on the plate like you’re going to grab it up and stab someone! You must set it properly, carefully, where it goes!”

The guys quietly adjusted their forks, I thanked my stars for having learned proper table ettiquette somewhere along the way: fork in the left hand, upside down, knife in the right, cut each bite.

“Americans shovel their food!” The Knight declared, his two American proteges exchanged furtive glances, everyone laughed.

“You know,” I mused, “You’re the only person I know who turns piles of rotting death into beautiful art!”

Sir James belly laughed at that:

“Indeed! You know, most people in the art world don’t understand that at all. They see me as a collector, but they don’t think about where the money comes from. They would be appalled if they considered it!” I think he enjoys that elephant in the art gallery room.

“May I ask another question?” Again.

“Why were you Knighted?”

We’d moved to the parlor room now and were seated on furniture that couldn’t be called couches, because they were high backed and far too formal for that, in front of a fireplace. Sir James held court from his wing backed chair.

He didn’t answer straight away, as the dogs started barking and scratching at the back door.

“Have you fed them, Ricardo?” He asked our friend, as he got up and shook his finger through the glass, shouting “NO!” at them.

He smiled, returning to his chair, “The problem is that we can’t figure out which one is in the habit of taking a little pee in the house from time to time… and in this house, that’s just not on.”

I cringed, imagining dog pee on the priceless rugs, or running down the leg of a marble statue in the front gallery, and nodded my agreement.

“I was knighted for philanthropy,” he finally acquiesced and then tried to change the subject.

“You know, I read an interview about you,” I pointed out.

“Oh dear! I hate journalists! And I hate interviews, I’ll only accept one that is focused on promoting the arts! I’ve never read what they write! What did it say?”

I laughed, knowing that for just a minute I had the upper hand, where information was concerned, “Well, the interviewer said that interviewing you was rather like poking an old turtle with a stick, trying to get you to directly answer a question.”

He smiled, a sort of Grinch Who Stole Christmas smile, and chortled, “Oh good, if she felt that way then it means that I weathered the assault and managed not to give away any good information!”

Richard chuckled, and asked Sir James if he could pour himself a glass of cognac, as I adjusted my stick and took aim at the turtle again.

“I see you as a patron of the arts on par with the Medici family of the Renaissance, (he smiled his turtle smile, as I plowed on) You’re a self made man, you could spend your money as you like, but you choose to spend it on art, not for yourself, but for the public benefit. I find that inspiring. Your museum (The Pah) is free. You never sell a single piece, so clearly you’re not in it to make money. And then there are these guys that you employ in various capacities. Clearly they help keep the house running for you, but you are also investing a great deal in them in continuing their educations, culturing them and connecting them within a world that they would otherwise never be privy too. Why do you do that?”

The knight tipped his glass and sipped his cognac. “You’ve done your homework!” 

Of course I have. I’ve had 48 hours to sweat being a fish out of water, I wasn’t about to enter the room cold, and the last thing I wanted was to be the one answering questions, so I came armed to the teeth!

“You know, I decided early to become a patron of the arts. I have not always had a lot of money, but I’ve always given it. These young doctors and lawyers and bankers nowadays, they have far more money than I had at that stage, they’re making $150,000 a year or more and are only concerned with their houses and boats and skiing trips. They don’t give, and that’s a shame.”

I listened to him talk, his blue eyes alight with the passion of deep conviction as he preached to me about the necessity of giving back, the importance of preserving the arts for everyone, and making them accessible to everyone and of the value of taking the time to teach and culture young people, like the guys he employs and houses.

“The education you are giving your children, liberal in art, and music and culture, not everyone has that, but everyone should have that, and it’s our responsibility to provide it. Those of us who can give, should give. Greed is killing the arts. People have stopped giving. The names on the backs of the playbills are the same names that have been there for decades, there’s no new blood, and there needs to be. I work hard to encourage these young guys to become collectors and patrons and to give!”

He sounds like a stern father reprimanding children who won’t share and are fighting over a toy.

I take a sip of my wine. The lights flicker, and then go out altogether. The power has been cut. Ricardo hops up an goes in search of a flashlight. The Knight adjusts himself in his chair.

I think under the cover of darkness.

There is one phrase that echoes off of the walls in the gloaming…

“It has been my joy to….”

• Invest in the arts
• Collect pieces for the public
• Support emerging artists
• Follow the careers of developing artists and collect pieces that show growth
• Expose these young men to art and opera (“Did you know Ricardo has never seen a Shakespeare production?? He’s 23! Unbelievable!”)
• Open my house to support the arts
• Host benefit concerts for deserving, talented young people, like Naoki

It has been his joy to.

It has been his JOY to.

We talked until nearly eleven, without feeling in the least like it was time for us to go. It seemed very much like for one evening, Sir James’ joy was to educate us, share his art and culture with us, and swap hitchhiking stories over Richard’s shiraz poached pears. (He burned the sauce, but the pears were lovely. Sir James criticized him lightly for slamming the blue box of ice cream out on the buffet instead of presenting on dessert plates, but it was good natured: “You realize you served this whole meal on the kitchen plates?!” As opposed to the proper dinnerware.)

I, for one, was proud of Ricardo, who had refused my offer of a sandwich for lunch a month and a half ago, and given me a dissertation on the protein-per-penny breakdown of chickpeas, his preferred low-cost high-protein, backpacker friendly food. He produced a beautiful meal, from a culturally relevant source and served it with confidence to a Knight and his dinner guests.

That shows moxy for a 23 year old backpacker!