CLP 155: 2006 "Wen Fong and Me." Symposium honoring Wen Fong Princeton

Wen Fong and Me

The proper place to start is our first meeting. I came back to the Freer Gallery, where I would finish my dissertation and begin a curatorship, after two years abroad (Fall ’54 to Fall ’56), to hear two pieces of rather alarming news.

First: a new major collector had appeared: John Crawford, whose background of knowledge was in old and rare books, but who now was buying old Chinese calligraphy and paintings, most of them coming from Chang Ta-ch’ien. That sounded like an infallible recipe for disaster. But it wasn’t, because he was being advised by an intermediary with a very good eye, Joseph Seo (who later disappeared: if someone knows where he is, I'd like to learn.)

Second: a new high-powered young specialist in Chinese painting had appeared on the scene, teaching at Princeton, who was setting out to revolutionize the study of Chinese painting. No one who was himself meaning to do just that could hear this news without a shiver: how will we two get along? Will we be adversaries and enemies, in the pattern established by the generation before us, like Loehr and Karlgren, or Lippe and Priest, or Siren and everybody else? Again, disaster was averted; it turned out that we liked and respected each other, even as we argued and fought, and we have gone on doing that now for more than fifty years. And that, Wen Fong old friend (and all you others), is what I'm here to talk about.

Wen Fong at that time, I learned, was holding a seminar on Yuan painting at Princeton—Li Chu-tsing was in it, for one--and since this was an easy bus-ride from D.C., I came at his invitation to attend a seminar session and talk about my dissertation topic, Wu Chen. As I told people afterwards, I felt in his seminar like a Republican in a Communist cell. I had judged perhaps a dozen or fifteen extant Wu Chen paintings to be genuine; Wen and his students had reduced his surviving oeuvre to a single one, a “Fisherman on Lake Dongting” picture. Few Yuan-period artists, in their view, could claim more than one surviving work; Qian Xuan was permitted two, since the Princeton Art Museum had recently acquired a lovely small picture of a sparrow with a Qian Xuan seal on it. It may surprise some younger students today to learn that at that stage in our careers, Wen Fong was the doubter and I the credulous one. Changing places as we have was, of course, only a healthy development; it would have been stultifying for us to take fixed positions and stay with them.

Later, Wen Fong brought groups of his students to D.C. to see paintings at the Freer and sometimes at my home. I remember Bill Wu, delegated (I guessed) as the youngest and newest to speak for the group, asking me something like: “Why do you deal only with the superficial aspects of style, instead of the deeper ones?” (That at least was what I understood as the thrust of his question, which may have been phrased more politely.) On one trip Wen Fong and I began to argue over priority for the two versions of the “Wu Congyuan” Eighty-seven Immortals scroll, the one owned by C. C. Wang vs. Xu Beihong’s, which we knew from a scroll reproduction. I don’t remember which side either of us was on; but I do recall that Wen Fong missed his bus back to Princeton in order to stay on and try to convince me that his side (whichever it was) was right. And the important thing, for Chinese painting studies, is that we were making arguments based on visual analyses, and that we cared passionately about "getting it right." For some years, our project was to establish a coherent style-history, especially for Song-Yuan and earlier landscape; if that project has been abandoned, as I’ve had several occasions to complain recently, it's at great loss to the field—whether or not irreparable remains to be seen, obviously by those younger than myself, although I have my deep fears. (If anyone supplies me with funding and technical assistance, I will be glad to devote myself to putting my version of it into a video series, in the manner of Kenneth Clark, while there is still time. Wen Fong should do the same.)

Wen Fong had made a major contribution to that project in the 1955 monograph, written collaboratively with Sherman Lee, Streams and Moontains Without End, about a landscape handscroll acquired by the Cleveland Museum of Art in 1953. No Chinese painting had, up to that time, been subjected to such a thorough and systematic application of dating criteria, with comparisons to more safely datable materials, including a loosely datable fragment from Kocha (as I recall). I don't know how much of this was Wen's contribution and how much Sherman's, but since some of the methodology resembled the "visual and structural principles" that Wen Fong was then advocating as the basis for constructing period styles, I credited much of that part of it to him.

A major focus of our studies and arguments in those early years was the question of authenticity in the paintings of Qian Xuan—I had been responsible for buying a handscroll for the Freer ("Yang Kuei-fei Mounting a Horse") that Wen didn’t believe in, and I had published an article on it in Archives of Chinese Art. Wen Fong wrote an article on authenticity problems in Qian Xuan’s works for Art Bulletin; the original text, of which he sent me a copy in advance, was considerably more contentious, even polemical, than the one finally published. My first response was: great, here we go, gloves off. But after more correspondence and thinking we both pulled back, and the article was published in milder form.

One might have expected that we would somehow come to represent insider's and outsider's approaches—Wen Fong with his background in Shanghai, me from a small town in Northern California. But he was the one who was always citing Panowsky or Weitzmann, while I was searching Chinese texts in putting together a first coherent account of literati painting theory. It was not to be so simple. It could be argued that here, too, we have switched places, he moving more toward positions rooted in the Chinese tradition, I away from them. But that, too, would over-simplify.

In 1963 I organized the first grand gathering of Chinese painting specialists, taking advantage of most of them being in New York for the opening of the Crawford Collection showing at the Morgan Library. The event, titled "Chinese Art Treasures Post-mortem Conference," took place over two days in the auditorium of Asia House Gallery. Most of the leading authorities of that time were there, arguing questions of authenticity and dating for paintings that had been in the great Chinese Art Treasures exhibition of 1961-62. Wen Fong at that point in his career was still decidedly the skeptic: he spoke at length about quite a few of the paintings, mostly arguing for later datings, and when the great Guo Xi "Early Spring" of 1072 appeared on the screen, he gave a number of reasons why it could not be an early work and must date from the Ming, the time of Zhu Duan. Fortunately, I had brought a lot of comparative slides in anticipation of such arguments, and was able to put the Stockholm Zhu Duan beside "Early Spring" to let the audience decide for themselves. But others of Wen's arguments were very good; and of course "Early Spring" was later to become one of his monuments, about which he would write penetratingly in the Possessing the Past catalog and elsewhere. And I myself was making comparable mistakes—several of the works in my Chinese Painting book, for instance, I would not date so early today. We were hopeful in 1963 that our widely disparate datings were symptomatic of an early stage in the development of our field. But they proved not to be; at the Gu Kaizhi "Admonitions" symposium in London almost forty years later we were still about as many centuries apart on that great work, but in reverse: Wen Fong now for the early date, I for the later.

After I moved from the Freer to Berkeley in 1965, Wen Fong and I came together less often, but there were occasional and interesting exchanges. When I traveled to the East Coast in 1971 with a seminar of eight graduate students to work on the “Restless Landscape” exhibition of late Ming painting, we visited Princeton. As it happened, all my students were women, and all his (or nearly all) at that time were men. I had a vision of a Gilbert and Sullivan-like scene in which his group would sing of “visual and structural principles” in lusty baritone and tenor voices, and mine would respond, as sopranos and contraltos, with the doctrines they had learned from me, after which they would all join in perfect harmony, as the French and Italian musical modes are joined in a piece by Couperin, and fall into each other’s arms, reconciling these two schools of Chinese painting studies. I'm sorry to say that nothing of the kind happened. I learned only later that East Coast people were referring to us, because of the Berkeleyan leftward leanings of some of my students, as “Cahill and his Red Detachment of Women.”

When I chaired a Chinese Old Painting delegation for a month-long tour of China in the fall of 1977, Wen Fong was one of our number, and served as unofficial liaison with important Chinese scholars there. Unofficial because, at the pre-trip planning meeting in D.C., when I was suddenly and unexpectedly informed that I must appoint a co-chair, I looked around the table and found myself facing a daunting triad: Nelson Wu, Wen Fong, Wai-kam Ho. Thinking fast, I said "Ellen! Will you be my co-chair?" Ellen Laing was an excellent co-chair, but it was Wen Fong who at crucial moments utilized to good effect the special language and diplomatic skills he had that we lacked, or at least I did.

Because of his heavy responsibilities at both Princeton and the Met, Wen Fong always seemed busier, more pressed for time, than the rest of us; he was the one who would fly in on the morning of the symposium (or sometimes later), deliver his paper, speak imposingly and at length in the discussion session, then fly off again for some urgent meeting, leaving us landlocked mortals to hang around through the latter days of the symposium, which. like other latter days, tend to slip into decline. Sometimes he was able to stay longer, and if we were lucky, he would be accompanied by Connie, whose presence always brightened these occasions. Both of them were with us for the Anhui School symposium in Hefei in 1984, or at least for part of it, and Wen and Connie and their daughter Serena joined in the post-symposium travel and climbing of Huangshan. Serena, as I remember, was engaged in composing poetry, and we talked about that. I also remember gratefully the Bada Shanren symposium in Nanchang in 1988, when, after both Lin Shuzhong and Wang Shiqing had given up on reading the Chinese text of my dense and overlong paper, Wen Fong stepped in and rescued me by part-reading, part-summarizing the rest.

Our switching of roles in our later careers--me doubting more and he accepting more—was, if not dictated, certainly affected strongly by our job changes: me moving from museum back to academia, he (without lessening his professorial functions) taking on the responsibility for building the interlocked painting collections at Princeton and the Met. I remember, in describing that great shift to someone, using as an analogy the case of the young political science professor who can make idealistic theoretical arguments before he himself takes public office, but not so easily afterwards. Roderick Whitfield describes, in his Orientations article, the shock that he and Wen Fong's other students felt when they observed how the surviving oeuvre of Ni Zan ballooned suddenly from the solitary Rongxi Studio picture recognized by Wen Fong the professor to the strikingly larger group acquired and published by Wen Fong the curator. But in the end, in spite of some perhaps unavoidable controversies, these collections--notably the Elliott Family, Douglas Dillon, and Tang Family collections, but also, in large part, those of Earl Morse and Arthur M. Sackler--are major monuments to Wen Fong's success in a very perilous pursuit through a veritable minefield. Some of his acquisitions have inspired major studies in his students' dissertations—Dick Barnhart's Li Gonglin, Shih Shou-ch'ien's Zhao Mengfu, Freda Murck's Xiao-Xiang study, Mike Hearn's "Southern Tours," are examples that come quickly to mind.

Over the years I would hear stories of Wen Fong's skills in negotiating high-tension situations in museum or university politics, and admire them from afar—these are just the areas in which I myself am famously ineffective. The scene, for instance, at a summit-level meeting of the Met's departmental curators, described to me as a nest of contending feudatories, in which Wen Fong had to persuade the others, and the director, to forego some of their own future acquisition funds to allow his department to acquire the Packard Collection. The Japanese galleries at the Met, rather undistinguished before, testify to the outcome. Mike Hearn's article in the latest Orientations lists other, similar successes, and one can only guess at the costs they exacted on Wen Fong—not least, judging from the illustrations to that article, having to spend so much of his life wearing a tuxedo.

Standing out among his academic triumphs is the decision he made, at a crucial moment (as I heard the story), to give up a faculty position that would have relieved him of much undergraduate teaching in order to save Shûjirô Shimada from a very bad predicament and keep him at Princeton. And, of course, there is Wen Fong's success in obtaining funds to attract and sustain good students from the U.S. and abroad. I admired these successes, as I say, from afar, while continuing myself to occupy an underfunded, non-chaired position that left even my best students scrabbling to survive. I used to tell prospective recruits to our program about the Daoist fisherman who fished with no bait on his hook, wanting to catch only those fish that were really eager to be caught. Fortunately, and against the odds, this enforced stratagem worked; I am certainly not complaining. Anyway, I never liked wearing a tuxedo.

I nevertheless should congratulate Wen on producing such a large and distinguished group of students, and for his success in placing them in good jobs, especially on the East Coast. All of the East Coast, that is. And some distance inland. And here and there (especially if we include Yale grads as second-generation Princetonians) on the West Coast as well. Not to speak of Europe and Taiwan. And now Freda has been teaching at Beida, and Wen himself serving as consultant for a new program at Qinghua-- Well. The sun never sets.

I haven't time to list all the large-scale international gatherings Wen Fong has organized and presided over; his and Freda's "Words and Images" symposium of 1991, dedicated to a badly ailing John Crawford, was perhaps my own favorite. His success in bringing senior Chinese specialists to these has benefited our field by helping to strengthen scholarly relations with China. (I say this even though, at the most recent one in which I myself participated, the 1998 "Issues of Authenticity" at the Met, I found myself facing a rather sternly disapproving lineup of them in the front row.) And I will leave it for others to list and extol Wen's Fong's scholarly writings, also immensely impressive. My role here has been to been to talk about our friendship and our interactions, and I believe I have done enough of that. Congratulations, Wen old friend, on a long and illustrious career, with warmest hopes for your continuing it over many more years.

The proper place to start is our first meeting. I came back to the Freer Gallery, where I would finish my dissertation and begin a curatorship, after two years abroad (Fall ’54 to Fall ’56), to hear two pieces of rather alarming news.First: a new major collector had appeared: John Crawford, whose background of knowledge was in old and rare books, but who now was buying old Chinese calligraphy and paintings, most of them coming from Chang Ta-ch’ien. That sounded like an infallible recipe for disaster. But it wasn’t, because he was being advised by an intermediary with a very good eye, Joseph Seo (who later disappeared: if someone knows where he is, I'd like to learn.)Second: a new high-powered young specialist in Chinese painting had appeared on the scene, teaching at Princeton, who was setting out to revolutionize the study of Chinese painting. No one who was himself meaning to do just that could hear this news without a shiver: how will we two get along? Will we be adversaries and enemies, in the pattern established by the generation before us, like Loehr and Karlgren, or Lippe and Priest, or Siren and everybody else? Again, disaster was averted; it turned out that we liked and respected each other, even as we argued and fought, and we have gone on doing that now for more than fifty years. And that, Wen Fong old friend (and all you others), is what I'm here to talk about.Wen Fong at that time, I learned, was holding a seminar on Yuan painting at Princeton—Li Chu-tsing was in it, for one--and since this was an easy bus-ride from D.C., I came at his invitation to attend a seminar session and talk about my dissertation topic, Wu Chen. As I told people afterwards, I felt in his seminar like a Republican in a Communist cell. I had judged perhaps a dozen or fifteen extant Wu Chen paintings to be genuine; Wen and his students had reduced his surviving oeuvre to a single one, a “Fisherman on Lake Dongting” picture. Few Yuan-period artists, in their view, could claim more than one surviving work; Qian Xuan was permitted two, since the Princeton Art Museum had recently acquired a lovely small picture of a sparrow with a Qian Xuan seal on it. It may surprise some younger students today to learn that at that stage in our careers, Wen Fong was the doubter and I the credulous one. Changing places as we have was, of course, only a healthy development; it would have been stultifying for us to take fixed positions and stay with them.Later, Wen Fong brought groups of his students to D.C. to see paintings at the Freer and sometimes at my home.

I remember Bill Wu, delegated (I guessed) as the youngest and newest to speak for the group, asking me something like: “Why do you deal only with the superficial aspects of style, instead of the deeper ones?” (That at least was what I understood as the thrust of his question, which may have been phrased more politely.) On one trip Wen Fong and I began to argue over priority for the two versions of the “Wu Congyuan” scroll, the one owned by C. C. Wang vs. Xu Beihong’s, which we knew from a scroll reproduction. I don’t remember which side either of us was on; but I do recall that Wen Fong missed his bus back to Princeton in order to stay on and try to convince me that his side (whichever it was) was right. And the important thing, for Chinese painting studies, is that we were making arguments based on visual analyses, and that we cared passionately about "getting it right." For some years, our project was to establish a coherent style-history, especially for Song-Yuan and earlier landscape; if that project has been abandoned, as I’ve had several occasions to complain recently, it's at great loss to the field—whether or not irreparable remains to be seen, obviously by those younger than myself, although I have my deep fears. (If anyone supplies me with funding and technical assistance, I will be glad to devote myself to putting my version of it into a video series, in the manner of Kenneth Clark, while there is still time. Wen Fong should do the same.)Wen Fong had made a major contribution to that project in the 1955 monograph, written collaboratively with Sherman Lee, , about a landscape handscroll acquired by the Cleveland Museum of Art in 1953. No Chinese painting had, up to that time, been subjected to such a thorough and systematic application of dating criteria, with comparisons to more safely datable materials, including a loosely datable fragment from Kocha (as I recall). I don't know how much of this was Wen's contribution and how much Sherman's, but since some of the methodology resembled the "visual and structural principles" that Wen Fong was then advocating as the basis for constructing period styles, I credited much of that part of it to him.A major focus of our studies and arguments in those early years was the question of authenticity in the paintings of Qian Xuan—I had been responsible for buying a handscroll for the Freer ("Yang Kuei-fei Mounting a Horse") that Wen didn’t believe in, and I had published an article on it in .

Wen Fong wrote an article on authenticity problems in Qian Xuan’s works for ; the original text, of which he sent me a copy in advance, was considerably more contentious, even polemical, than the one finally published. My first response was: great, here we go, gloves off. But after more correspondence and thinking we both pulled back, and the article was published in milder form.One might have expected that we would somehow come to represent insider's and outsider's approaches—Wen Fong with his background in Shanghai, me from a small town in Northern California. But he was the one who was always citing Panowsky or Weitzmann, while I was searching Chinese texts in putting together a first coherent account of literati painting theory. It was not to be so simple. It could be argued that here, too, we have switched places, he moving more toward positions rooted in the Chinese tradition, I away from them. But that, too, would over-simplify.In 1963 I organized the first grand gathering of Chinese painting specialists, taking advantage of most of them being in New York for the opening of the Crawford Collection showing at the Morgan Library. The event, titled "Chinese Art Treasures Post-mortem Conference," took place over two days in the auditorium of Asia House Gallery. Most of the leading authorities of that time were there, arguing questions of authenticity and dating for paintings that had been in the great exhibition of 1961-62. Wen Fong at that point in his career was still decidedly the skeptic: he spoke at length about quite a few of the paintings, mostly arguing for later datings, and when the great Guo Xi "Early Spring" of 1072 appeared on the screen, he gave a number of reasons why it could not be an early work and must date from the Ming, the time of Zhu Duan. Fortunately, I had brought a lot of comparative slides in anticipation of such arguments, and was able to put the Stockholm Zhu Duan beside "Early Spring" to let the audience decide for themselves. But others of Wen's arguments were very good; and of course "Early Spring" was later to become one of his monuments, about which he would write penetratingly in the catalog and elsewhere. And I myself was making comparable mistakes—several of the works in my book, for instance, I would not date so early today. We were hopeful in 1963 that our widely disparate datings were symptomatic of an early stage in the development of our field. But they proved not to be; at the Gu Kaizhi "Admonitions" symposium in London almost forty years later we were still about as many centuries apart on that great work, but in reverse: Wen Fong now for the early date, I for the later.

After I moved from the Freer to Berkeley in 1965, Wen Fong and I came together less often, but there were occasional and interesting exchanges. When I traveled to the East Coast in 1971 with a seminar of eight graduate students to work on the “Restless Landscape” exhibition of late Ming painting, we visited Princeton. As it happened, all my students were women, and all his (or nearly all) at that time were men. I had a vision of a Gilbert and Sullivan-like scene in which his group would sing of “visual and structural principles” in lusty baritone and tenor voices, and mine would respond, as sopranos and contraltos, with the doctrines they had learned from me, after which they would all join in perfect harmony, as the French and Italian musical modes are joined in a piece by Couperin, and fall into each other’s arms, reconciling these two schools of Chinese painting studies.

I'm sorry to say that nothing of the kind happened. I learned only later that East Coast people were referring to us, because of the Berkeleyan leftward leanings of some of my students, as “Cahill and his Red Detachment of Women.”When I chaired a Chinese Old Painting delegation for a month-long tour of China in the fall of 1977, Wen Fong was one of our number, and served as unofficial liaison with important Chinese scholars there. Unofficial because, at the pre-trip planning meeting in D.C., when I was suddenly and unexpectedly informed that I must appoint a co-chair, I looked around the table and found myself facing a daunting triad: Nelson Wu, Wen Fong, Wai-kam Ho. Thinking fast, I said "Ellen! Will you be my co-chair?" Ellen Laing was an excellent co-chair, but it was Wen Fong who at crucial moments utilized to good effect the special language and diplomatic skills he had that we lacked, or at least I did.Because of his heavy responsibilities at both Princeton and the Met, Wen Fong always seemed busier, more pressed for time, than the rest of us; he was the one who would fly in on the morning of the symposium (or sometimes later), deliver his paper, speak imposingly and at length in the discussion session, then fly off again for some urgent meeting, leaving us landlocked mortals to hang around through the latter days of the symposium, which. like other latter days, tend to slip into decline. Sometimes he was able to stay longer, and if we were lucky, he would be accompanied by Connie, whose presence always brightened these occasions. Both of them were with us for the Anhui School symposium in Hefei in 1984, or at least for part of it, and Wen and Connie and their daughter Serena joined in the post-symposium travel and climbing of Huangshan. Serena, as I remember, was engaged in composing poetry, and we talked about that. I also remember gratefully the Bada Shanren symposium in Nanchang in 1988, when, after both Lin Shuzhong and Wang Shiqing had given up on reading the Chinese text of my dense and overlong paper, Wen Fong stepped in and rescued me by part-reading, part-summarizing the rest.Our switching of roles in our later careers--me doubting more and he accepting more—was, if not dictated, certainly affected strongly by our job changes: me moving from museum back to academia, he (without lessening his professorial functions) taking on the responsibility for building the interlocked painting collections at Princeton and the Met. I remember, in describing that great shift to someone, using as an analogy the case of the young political science professor who can make idealistic theoretical arguments before he himself takes public office, but not so easily afterwards. Roderick Whitfield describes, in his article, the shock that he and Wen Fong's other students felt when they observed how the surviving oeuvre of Ni Zan ballooned suddenly from the solitary picture recognized by Wen Fong the professor to the strikingly larger group acquired and published by Wen Fong the curator. But in the end, in spite of some perhaps unavoidable controversies, these collections--notably the Elliott Family, Douglas Dillon, and Tang Family collections, but also, in large part, those of Earl Morse and Arthur M. Sackler--are major monuments to Wen Fong's success in a very perilous pursuit through a veritable minefield. Some of his acquisitions have inspired major studies in his students' dissertations—Dick Barnhart's Li Gonglin, Shih Shou-ch'ien's Zhao Mengfu, Freda Murck's Xiao-Xiang study, Mike Hearn's "Southern Tours," are examples that come quickly to mind.Over the years I would hear stories of Wen Fong's skills in negotiating high-tension situations in museum or university politics, and admire them from afar—these are just the areas in which I myself am famously ineffective. The scene, for instance, at a summit-level meeting of the Met's departmental curators, described to me as a nest of contending feudatories, in which Wen Fong had to persuade the others, and the director, to forego some of their own future acquisition funds to allow his department to acquire the Packard Collection.

The Japanese galleries at the Met, rather undistinguished before, testify to the outcome. Mike Hearn's article in the latest lists other, similar successes, and one can only guess at the costs they exacted on Wen Fong—not least, judging from the illustrations to that article, having to spend so much of his life wearing a tuxedo.Standing out among his academic triumphs is the decision he made, at a crucial moment (as I heard the story), to give up a faculty position that would have relieved him of much undergraduate teaching in order to save Shûjirô Shimada from a very bad predicament and keep him at Princeton. And, of course, there is Wen Fong's success in obtaining funds to attract and sustain good students from the U.S. and abroad. I admired these successes, as I say, from afar, while continuing myself to occupy an underfunded, non-chaired position that left even my best students scrabbling to survive. I used to tell prospective recruits to our program about the Daoist fisherman who fished with no bait on his hook, wanting to catch only those fish that were really eager to be caught. Fortunately, and against the odds, this enforced stratagem worked; I am certainly not complaining. Anyway, I never liked wearing a tuxedo.I nevertheless should congratulate Wen on producing such a large and distinguished group of students, and for his success in placing them in good jobs, especially on the East Coast. of the East Coast, that is. And some distance inland. And here and there (especially if we include Yale grads as second-generation Princetonians) on the West Coast as well. Not to speak of Europe and Taiwan. And now Freda has been teaching at Beida, and Wen himself serving as consultant for a new program at Qinghua-- Well. The sun never sets.I haven't time to list all the large-scale international gatherings Wen Fong has organized and presided over; his and Freda's "Words and Images" symposium of 1991, dedicated to a badly ailing John Crawford, was perhaps my own favorite. His success in bringing senior Chinese specialists to these has benefited our field by helping to strengthen scholarly relations with China. (I say this even though, at the most recent one in which I myself participated, the 1998 "Issues of Authenticity" at the Met, I found myself facing a rather sternly disapproving lineup of them in the front row.) And I will leave it for others to list and extol Wen's Fong's scholarly writings, also immensely impressive. My role here has been to been to talk about our friendship and our interactions, and I believe I have done enough of that. Congratulations, Wen old friend, on a long and illustrious career, with warmest hopes for your continuing it over many more years.

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