Once passed the towering double doors carved from oak dating from 1833, turning to the right to avoid the commoner’s public areas, and in the muted atmosphere near a massive fireplace, the period wooden moldings accenting the fine wallpaper in subtler hues suitable for masculine conversation, ‘The Great Books Society’ held its secretive reunions after classes, play rehearsals, and sports meets, always presided from behind his Bourbon and soda, by the extremely elegant, and very endearing, fiftyish mustachioed gentleman known to us as Pops. During these late-afternoon hours spent in his company which were a cultural respite from the times while my brother Ron and others were serving in Vietnam, while all the values we knew were catapulted with the occurrences of student riots, or the newsworthy musical events just downstate in Woodstock, and where our collective anticipation of greatness needed shelter and inspiration, Pops was undeniably, for we happy few, the founding father. All more or less nineteen or twenty years of age, this handful of men, handpicked by the host, were drawn for the discussion of anything, really, other than Great Books. It was a brotherhood where friendly shirtsleeve cajoling, the patter of strapping youth, and especially those infinitely delicious stories of his colorful theatrical past told by Pops were featured on the daily menu, and the mixed drinks resting on their little paper napkins on the heavy oak table were only an excuse to be present one more time in his thrall.
This magnetic personage, known beyond the doors of the Big Tree Inn as Professor Robert E. Sinclair, was a skilled actor, and his infinite charisma could be dosed out to the ultimate degree. In fact, since I was one of his acting students and in several stage plays and musicals he directed while for two years at Geneseo State, he took the pains to explain to me how to pace a phrase so that the auditor holds on to every breath, every beat of your sentence. His examples were eloquent; at taking the right breath just before the punch line he was the master. Pops taught me to do a double-take, a basic stage skill that in humor is essential. He taught me how to walk with a different character for playing different ages and periods. Varying the pitch of intonation in speech was a technique we developed, and improvisation was also explored, where I discovered I had the innate knack. In the acting classes I learned how to break Pops up laughing, a deep, boisterous laugh which I enjoyed because of the twinkle in his eyes, and perhaps the possibility of being asked again to have the honor to discuss Great Books at the Big Tree Inn.
He cast me in the Berthold Brecht masterpiece ‘Mother Courage,’ and in a rare ‘Lock Up Your Daughters,’ a period musical where I discovered how to break an ankle onstage and finish the performance with a cane. There was also ‘The Man of La Mancha’ where at age twenty I somehow dreamt I would be cast as Don Quixote! A memorable moment to this day was being called in to Pop’s office, where a small framed photo of beloved happy/sad actor Burt Lahr set the tone, only to be seated to learn that my day to perform the role will come another day, but that this show requires someone with much more experience (as I have related elsewhere, that moment would come 45 years later when I sang ‘Don Quichotte’ in Brazil!). Pops cast me as the Innkeeper, which finally was a wonderful learning experience.
His most priceless advice to me for performing was his rule to remember, at all times, that we are playing for only two people; they are both seated in the back row. One is a youngster who has never seen this play, and the other is the wise spectator who knows the play by heart, and has seen it countless times. I wouldn’t be able to tell the number of times this simplification has allowed me to concentrate on the essentials of stagecraft: communication, emotion, and clarity. Last year I was engaged to sing a final Sarastro, as a cover really, at the Met. The rehearsals went as usual, and while the cast got to know one another, I particularly enjoyed watching the young Pamina who sang so beautifully, and the young Papageno who brought such freshness to the role. For the cover rehearsals, we are not really required to be present for the scenes that do not involve our character, and since this sometimes takes place at the Met in the 5th floor studio or Room 202 (even smaller) it’s actually appreciated that the whole cast is not sitting around watching their hand-held devices! Despite the custom, I was seated behind the conductor and the prompter for the entire final piano rehearsal, out of curiosity, and frankly to enjoy and encourage the young cast. After the last scene, Mr. Papageno came to me and said it was very useful to hear my laughing reactions to his spoken dialogues, and to glimpse my occasional smile during the singing. My pleasure, I assured him. After leaving the room and descending alone in the elevator of that vast building, I realized that after singing Sarastro for so many years and in so many places, for this gifted young performer – during the time of one rehearsal – I had become the old man in the back row that Pops had told me about so long ago!
After my last semester at Geneseo, our 16-voice Chamber Singers was planning its first European tour, and I would soon be departing after that six-week summer trip to embark on my studies at New England Conservatory, where I had just received a scholarship. To mark the occasion, and say farewell, Pops invited me to his home for dinner. He entertained me royally, showed me his wonderful Bang and Olufsen stereo record player and some cool records, gave me a drink, and prepared for me a marvelous meal of roast beef and garden green beans. There were candles. Wine was served, and it was all very European. Pops was absolutely charming. Somehow late in the evening – perhaps I was preparing to leave – we were standing face to face in the dim light, and he played very convincingly as if he had consumed a drink to many, and fell, so to speak, towards me with both arms around my shoulders. It was touching, a little embarrassing, and troubling to me to find myself for the first time in my life in this position. Regardless of how I would react now, my instinct that night was to safely put the man back on his feet and say good night. It was all very simple, and it was not in my sense a violation in any way. To this day it remains a tender memory.
A surprise knock at my door the next morning. Actually the door of the house where I rented a room. I was summoned to answer. It was Pops, disheveled and yet absolutely charming, breathless and hoping he had not missed my departure, holding for me a small package, probably a Kleenex or a handkerchief that was handy, containing a gift. He said, “They’re of no real value, really, but I thought with your tuxedo perhaps you could use them.” He wished me Bon voyage, and all best wishes for my future, I thanked him, and was he quickly gone. I slowly unfolded the package to reveal three formal shirt-studs made of lovely, intricately-worked silver, with mother-of-pearl centers. Tasteful, elegant, timeless. And a perfect remembrance from that stunning and inspiring man of the theater, a stage trouper who in his longing had so much to give, and gave so much of himself for his art.
Pops died of cancer just a few years later, at 58. And in that charming college town of Geneseo, New York which holds such rich memories, the former Black Box Theater now proudly carries the name ‘Robert E. Sinclair Theater.’ It’s just down the street from The Big Tree Inn, where I’d like to think other generations of devoted admirers of Great Books will continue to meet and find inspiration