Dear Editor,
Ron Savory passed on February 4, 2019, in St. Lucia, where he had lived with his family since 1980. Age 85.
In my lifetime there are a few people I met whom I can never forget. These were not necessary folks that were born great, or achieved greatness or had greatness trust upon them. There is even a cane cutter on my list. I remember them for the words of wisdom they spoke. Always I was taken aback by the gems of intelligence and unique learning they exhibited, stuff you wouldn’t find in textbooks on philosophy. Their kind of original insight came from the real deal – life and living.
In a place like Guyana where wild and crazy ideas can take hold of even highly intelligent people, Ron was an oasis of calm and reason. This “red man” was far removed from the internecine divide that plagues the country. To be in his company helped you get rid of your own phobias, if you had any; and knowing him, saved you from becoming drawn into the unwholesome web.
Popularly known throughout Guyana as the artist of the interior, that Ron Savory I never knew so well primarily because that art form is not quite my thing. Thus, this remembrance will not cover his professional career and achievement as an artist. Suffice it to say he exhibited in many Caribbean locales as well at the University of Sussex. His work is in the Guyana National Gallery as part of its permanent collection. He is fondly remembered for coordinating the thirty-six exhibitions at the first Carifesta (1972) in Georgetown, Guyana. Ron Savory gifted me a few paintings that I cherish and will do so even more now that he is gone.
As he painted continuously, he held fulltime day jobs, as most artists must do to pay rent and buy bread. As a fellow civil servant I knew of him when he was at the Local Government department, from where he had long postings in the interior of Guyana. I believe, like Wilson Harris, his connection with nature was secured from those stays in the heartland of the country.
I think it is at the British Council that we really connected. I would go in to borrow LPs (recorded music on 12” diameter vinyl discs), and he was working there. Pretty soon I would visit with him at his home in Bel Air Springs, I think it was called. And there I got baptized into hi-fi and serious listening. Ron’s bottom house was his art studio, exhibition hall, play pen, and music auditorium. His family lived upstairs. One evening he sat me down and looked for and played his favourite rendition of Edgard Varese’s “Arcana.” When the kick drum hit and the percussion soared, I felt my guts literally coming out my belly. I was hooked for the rest of my life. And it was not just music, we sometimes spent even more time and effort on the equipment that reproduced the music. Thank you, buddy. The pleasures I derived over the years – that you introduced me to – are immeasurable.
More than once on a Sunday morning I would leave my home in Agricola to buy fresh bread for breakfast. Instead, I would dash off to Ron intentionally to shoot the breeze and perhaps take in a little music and then quickly come home with the bread. Next thing you know I would be there till the evening. It happened a few times. The urge was irresistible.
I mentioned his bottom house. In retirement, as I think of how I would like to live, it is Ron’s bottom house in Guyana that comes to my mind. That’s the kind of place I would like to have with my toys and things, left alone with occasional visits from like-minded friends. It was to this same bottom house that Ron brought two salt pork barrels (mid-1960s) to use as speaker cabinets. Those funny-looking barrels were made of wood and tightly sealed. Along with the curved mid-section, Ron thought the sound would be enhanced. They didn’t last long. Sheila, his wife, complained that the stench seeped through the flooring into the upstairs.
Another place Ron worked was at the History and Arts Council. I once visited him there too, whereat tickets for a Theatre Guild performance were being sold. After enough hi-fi talk, he led me to the ticketing area. Immediately he and I started laughing hilariously without telling each other what was the source of our uncontrollable mirth. It was this and both of us recognized it right away. One person was taking your order for the tickets. Another person (Frank Pilgrim, I believe) was assigning you available seats. A third person was collecting the money. And a fourth person (Sheik Sadeek) would hand over the tickets to you as you as you got to the end of the counter. One girl in a kiosk in the lobby at Bookers Stores was doing all of that as a side chore while attending to her hectic receptionist duties, her main responsibilities. (If this were a social media thing, I would add LOL.)
Ron Savory attended the BBC Training School in London and continued to serve as a broadcaster and producer at the local radio station, Guyana Broadcasting Service (GBS). As you can see, the man did many jobs. Because he moved around so much he may not have had a comfortable pension to sustain him. The thing with Ron is that he could not – would not – cross the line to promote himself. He was humble and most unassuming. I never knew until recently that he went to Queen’s College, a high school that at the time was as good as any in the world. Up until the last he was still working in his studio. And when he had finally to stay home, even in pain and discomfort, he worried over not meeting his client’s wishes and expectations.
Let me leave you with one last thought that Ron shared with me. It comes back to me constantly. It reflects also the kind of person he was and how he viewed the world. It was not an original of his, and he made that clear when he told me, “Someone said, ‘the artist is not a special man, but every man is a special artist.’” Rest in peace, my dear friend.
Yours faithfully,
P.D. Sharma
Los Angeles, CA
