Legend for a Publisher

by

Esmé Berman

Dear Sir,

This is how it all began:
‘The fairy godmother waved her magic wand . . . and out from the mists that swirled around his hilltop castle there galloped a knight in shinning armour . . . He approached, reined in his noble charger and, leaning from his gilded saddle, pnonounced the fateful words that altered Esmeralda’s life forever . . . ‘

(Dear Madam,
We regret to sdvise that we are unable to accept your manuscript. We do not publish hackneyed fantasy.)

Dear Sir,
Believe me, this is how it all began:
‘Phyllida Wentzel, Director of the Johannesburg Institute for Adult Studies, ushered him into the living-room . . . a small, stooped man in owlish spectacles, who giggled nervously on introduction . . . some stilted conversation . . . a deadline two months thence . . . a second meeting---and the fateful words that altered Esmé Berman’s life forever: ‘YOU are going to write THE book on South African art!” . . . ‘

(Dear Madam,
Reality sometimes resembles fiction . . . )

Thus, in 1966, began my curious see-saw relationship with August Aimé (Guus) Balkema. My life has never been the same from that day forth.

Guus Balkema is a dedicated bookman, cast in a since discarded mould. He loves beautiful books. And he produces them. But mainly for the satisfaction of bringing them into existence. I imagine that, if he had his way, he wouldn’t even stoop to selling on the open market. He would prefer to sit cloistered in his cluttered office, waiting until others---similarly devoted---called on him requesting individual, precious copies of his publications. In such congenial company, he would relax, expand, make little jokes, begin to reminisce and wax articulate.

That inclination is cold comfort if one earns one’s living as a writer. But then, Guus Balkema has scant respect for writers as a breed. He believes that they all suffer from the delusion that their books are wanted. No matter that he, personally, selects his authors, evaluating their potential before according them his interest and his skills. Present him with a runaway bestseller: he will nonetheless declare that he is losing money and that nobody is asking for the book!

He coaxed me into writing Art & Artists of South Africa; encouraged me as I proceeded with the monumental effort. Then, perceptive of the tyranny of my obsessional perfectionism, advised my sensibly that my research would obviously never end: was it not wiser, therefore, to curtail it and commit its current fruits to print, than to wait for that unlikely day when I was satisfied that I had finally fulfilled my aims?

At the time, 1969, Julian Rollnick and Cor Pama were still working at his side. The skills of all were brought to bear upon the manuscript. Time, talent and substantial funds were spent in the production of a record-making publication. Yet, Guus Balkema seemed permanently surprised at its success and chronically reluctant to order necessary reprints as each new impression was sold out.

It was at his suggestion that I wrote my second book, The Story of South African Painting---first his way, then mine. It, too, was an extremely costly undertaking for a local publisher, with colour reproductions liberally distributed throughout.

I still regard The Story as a most attractive book. But, even some years after its release, it continued to remain a kind of family secret. When I protested to Guus Balkema about its non-exposure, he assured me that the fault was mine. The demand (!), he said, was lodged with Art & Artists and no other book could challenge its supremacy!

Eccentric logic is not the only paradox of our prolonged association. How often have I sat at my desk a thousand miles away, angry and despairing . . . frustrated by his reluctance to reply to urgent correspondence and his phobic avoidance of the telephone (his parents owned the first instrument in Amsterdam and he still retains his childhood awe) . . . frustrated by his chronic obstinacy and the secretiveness that will not permit him to employ professional assistants since the retirement, long ago, of trusted colleagues . . . frustrated by his steadfast refusal to accept the passing of an era and to come to terms with the high-powered world of contemporary technology and marketing . . . ?

Then, we arrange to meet in Cape Town. I climb the steps, rap on his office door. He springs, so lightly, to his feet, extends an eager hand and, wreathed in smiles, chirps his birdlike, hiccupping ‘Hulloo!’ . . . And I am flooded with renewed affection for this spritely knight in shining spectacles!

I did not know Guus Balkema when he was young; but I have heard reports about his deeds in Holland during World War II and I respect him for the things he stood for then and stands for now.

I respect him also for his courage. He has not feared to do what others would not risk. I respect him for his continuing pursuit of quality in life and art. He has espoused the noncommercial cause of culture and he has produced some of South Africa’s splendid books.

I respect him for the unexpected chinks in the tough outer armour: the old fashioned courtliness with which he treats his gentle, patient Annie; the sudden bursts of puckish humour; the moments of perceptive kindness and wise, fatherly advice . . .

Those are the ties that bind me to my eccentric knight. When other publishers have approached me to transfer my loyalties, enticing me with promises that, certainly, Guus Balkema could not and would not match, the mutual affection and respect have outweighed all professional considerations.

And thus it was that I completed the revision of my major work and sent the manuscript by courier to the offices of A. A. Balkema in Cape Town---now occupied only by the man, his bookkeeper and two clerks---in October 1982.

We have worked together on three books, over more than 17 years; but I doubt if any period in either of our working lives was more traumatic than that seemingly interminable year that Guus Balkema refers to as his ‘Jubileum’---1983. Obstinate as ever, determined that he would handle the entire, mammoth task alone, he worked 18 hours a day on the production of our latest, his firm’s largest-ever, volume. I worked in tandem, helping to avert disaster, picking up the pieces when they fell. By the time that the frail looking septuagenarian stepped off the plane from Amsterdam on 15 November 1983, with four heavy copies of the book and just four hours in hand before the scheduled launching function, we were both exhausted by the strain.

But, as in all good fairy tales, the race against the evil spirit of encroaching time was won. Together we could celebrate the crowning of his Golden Jubilee with yet another volume in the Balkema tradition.

           My love, my thanks and salutations, Guus!

From: Liber Amicorum Pro A. A. Balkema, Friends of the South African Library, Cape Town, 1984.