Death is always shocking, particularly if someone passes away whom you feel very close to you. I met Colin in Tucson this July. That time he was already in very bad shape, as his wife Milli, who drove him down from Phoenix, reported, he barely left his home. So I was somewhat prepeared, if you can prepeare at all to losing a beloved person. I liked Colin not only for his brilliant intellect and creativity, but also for his entire personality. Let me remember now only one single episode which shows what a unique experience was to be in his company. In 1988 the IAEA led his conference in Barcellona, Sicily. That time Colin was the president of the association. Nevertheless, the organizers missed to reserve a room for him at the site of the conference. I stayed in a double room, so a shared the room and also my quins bed with him. So as to distancing us from this strange situation, Colin found out that we shoud speak to each other only in Italian. Needless to say that neither of us knew more than a few words in this language. You can immagine the absurdity arousing of this situation. At the end of the conference there was a public transportation strike in Italy, so I offered Colin that, when driving home to Hungary, I would drop him at the Naples airport. After a few miles, he found out that I was "Il Duce", since I was driving the car. And, because at that time he was the president (and he had German ancestors), I could not help to replay with a similar address in German. So we managed even to enhance the absurdity.
It is too bad taht he is not able to continue this absurd game with life.

I knew CM for a long time: I was his graduate student beginning in 1977; he was best man at my wedding a decade later; I visited him and Millie last in Phoenix this past January. I saw him go through dramatic changes, and yet remain ever the same, but with the shock of his loss it seems my memories are now random and few, perhaps suppressed by lateral inhibition for the moment, who knows? But I must write something, and when I think of him now I remember his many contradictions.

A mix of fierce pride and great modesty, he never spoke of his accomplishments unless pressed, and then made light of them, but when his ideas were challenged his rebuttals could be merciless, and hilarious. Anti-liberal, often misanthropic (misogynistic, racist, you name it), in his views, he touched lives around the world for the good (as this website shows), and was generous in his hospitality and his time to anyone who would discuss interesting ideas. I never knew a teacher more willing to offer his time and guidance to any student who was intelligent, interested, and willing to work, nor as quickly dismissive of those who weren’t. But I also knew long times when he would be quite unavailable, while he was absorbed in some new area of study, or woman, or foul mood, and he was easily irritated if approached with mundane grad student concerns. His temper could be vicious, but mostly he loved to laugh, particularly at people’s shortcomings, his own or others, and his acerbic wit could be brilliant, inane, annoyingly repetitive, or all three. We would sometimes banter around some silly catchphrase for weeks on end, such as when we developed a psychotherapy marketing scheme using the phrase, “It doesn’t work – for everyone,” where the hyphen indicates that it doesn’t work – and that’s true for everyone. Guess you had to be there.

He was a very private, sometimes seclusive man who loved his friends, gave his wisdom and wit to a diverse array of local friends and many colleagues around the world, and readily opened his home to company; I stayed there several times, during grad school (after partying too hearty) and afterward. When I lived in Bangor he lived alone, in a majestic but decaying Victorian in a seedy part of town; the house was full of beautiful sculptures, paintings, tapestries, and furniture, but dusty from neglect; he spent all his time in the kitchen, surrounded by piles of books, cups of cold coffee, and full ashtrays. There in a smoky haze he would work through the night, every night, going upstairs to bed only as dawn approached (he particularly hated to teach morning classes). Despite the house full of art, and the Jaguar in the garage that he could never keep running, his physical needs were simple – he seemed to live primarily on bologna sandwiches with dry bread. But he also held terrific parties in the house, and I can still see him lounging, absorbed in pursuing his latest feminine conquest, probably reciting poetry, and oblivious to the mayhem around him. He did quite well with the ladies for a goofy-looking guy with strange ideas.

It is not often recalled that CM also was a clinical psychologist by training, and even served UMO as clinical director for a time, which is frightening to consider, though in fairness he was reluctant to accept or exercise this role, hence perhaps his ill-timed suggestion in one of the weekly clinical student / staff meetings, where he was explaining to certain mid-70s feminists in attendance why no woman faculty member had yet been recruited, that perhaps a high school girl should be hired for the job, a suggestion which was not well received (though not all attendees found the idea unfunny, or unacceptable). I also remember him providing me clinical supervision in my first year of training, as when I did an intake interview of a young woman who turned out to be smoking hot, with long legs, and dressed as if for a job interview (she was ostensibly seeking vocational counseling, which I effectively talked her out of), so of course I was basically acting like an ass, for which he never passed up any opportunity to deride me ever after. It didn’t help that throughout the interview the tip of his cigarette would glow in the one-way mirror behind her head as he inhaled with lighthouse regularity, interrupted only by his occasional snort-laugh whenever I said something particularly stupid. By the end of the interview the woman seemed to understand that our combined expertise might be insufficient for her needs.

He loved to do the unexpected: One time, for example, he was driving through Augusta, Maine with me and another grad student, a bit of a blowhard, who was sitting in back telling us stories about mother-daughter ménages a trois he had experienced, when CM stopped the line of traffic in the middle of a main intersection downtown to holler out my window on the passenger side to two teenage girls on the sidewalk, asking if they wanted a ride and urging them to get in back. It has been my everlasting regret that it was not the other student, but myself, who freaked out, hunkered down in the seat, and demanded that he drive away instantly, which he found unwarrantedly amusing and never let me forget.

But these are just a few random memories, and do not capture the great good fortune I had to be his student and friend, or all the other memories that no doubt will come. He helped me trust my intellect and taught me the joys of analyzing one’s own data and editing one’s own words. He also taught me his belief that when one gets to the Pearly Gates, the only thing St. Peter will be interested in is the length of one’s vita, so I know he stands in good stead there. Millie should also be blessed for all the loving care she has given him. It has been sad in recent years to see his health deteriorate; his poor vision was especially demoralizing for him, as he was losing the experience of beauty and the capacity to work. I have missed him for a long time; I miss him even more now.

Colin Martindale

1943-2008

An Appreciation

When Dan Berlyne died in 1976, I felt that the stature of the field of the psychology of art was seriously diminished, and accordingly, my place in it. I feel the same now, more than 30 years later, with Colin Martindale’s death in 2008, who filled in admirably as a prime representative of the psychology of art after Dan’s departure.

I met Colin for the first time at least 20 years ago, maybe more, both here in the US at a convention (and a bar), and in Hungary, where we and others gathered to discuss our work in literature. We have kept in contact since.

In a book to be published soon on psychology and literature, I buttressed many of my arguments by citing his work, and in one instance, I said something like this: “If you don’t believe a scientific psychology of literature is possible, look at all the citations to Martindale’s work in the Reference section.”

Later in the book, I complained about Martindale’s work not receiving the reception it should in scholarly circles. I quote: “Unfortunately, the extraordinary scope of Martindale’s impressive work is largely inaccessible to non-specialists because it is couched in the highly technical terms of research design and statistics. Consequently, scholars have regrettably not included his groundbreaking work into discussions of the arts.”

What made Colin special, too, aside from his breadth of interests and creative talents, leavened with a sharp but dry wit, was his refreshing honesty, bordering on bad manners--in print, no less--regarding his views of those who were not as enthusiastic as he was about advancing an empirical psychology of the arts. And he was in all of the arts, including creativity, aesthetics, and a few other fields (neurobiology, for one).

Where Colin pushed the boundaries of theory and research, of ideas and arguments, I cautiously tiptoed behind him. Heaven knows we need more people like Colin who are bright, clever, verbal, fearless and knowledgeable enough to take on critics of a scientific psychology of the arts.

I held Colin in awe, but was too bashful to tell him so (and perhaps also worried about getting back a wicked riposte). I thought of him as a model of the kind of sharp and intrepid researcher I wish I were. Who will replace him?

I was one of the persons invited by ESA to react to Colin Martindale's fascinating essay on the end of art. My response starts with an appreciation of Colin as a person in the field of academia, which on hindsight could serve as my personal testimony to the courage, integrity and inspiration that Colin Martindale brought to our fields (plural!), next to his toughness, his dedication, his abhorrance of pretense and would-be profundity, and his never-ending generosity.  Academics generally, in my experience, are not particularly courageous - though they are equipped with the necessary intellectual skills to think and judge independently, and in spite of the fact that they enjoy the greatest possible social freedom to express their ideas freely. Instead most prefer to swim with the tide and confine themselves between the closely situated fences of political correctness. There are exceptions, though. Colin Martindale is such an exception. For as long as I have known him, he has spoken his mind freely, unhindered by the dictates of polite academia. Also in this essay he forces us to come to terms with an issue none of us dare speak about - in his usual provocative way, half tongue-in-cheek (but only half!). If one takes seriously Popper's dictum of formulating bold hypotheses, here at least is a scholar who has made an effort.I will miss Colin as a towering figure in Humanities' research and a dear, dear, dear friend.

Colin Martindale not only contributed excellent and very innovative studies to the field of aesthetics and creativity; he also considered international exchange seriously, especially with Russia, where he made great efforts to overcome boundaries and obstacles. He will be missed as a charming, often ironic, but always sharp thinker. Colin will be missed at all future meetings of IAEA.

I knew CM for a long time: I was his graduate student beginning in 1977; he was best man at my wedding a decade later; I usually saw him once a year or so, and visited him and Millie last in Phoenix this past January. I saw him go through dramatic changes, and yet remain ever the same, but with the sadness of his loss it seems my memories are now random and few, perhaps suppressed by lateral inhibition for the moment, who knows? But I must write something, and when I think of him now I remember his many contradictions.

A mix of fierce pride and great modesty, he never spoke of his accomplishments unless pressed, and then made light of them, but when his ideas were challenged his rebuttals could be merciless, and hilarious. Anti-liberal, often misanthropic, in his views, he touched lives around the world for the good (as this website shows), and was generous in his hospitality and his time to anyone who would discuss interesting ideas. I never knew a teacher more willing to offer his time and guidance to any student who was intelligent, interested, and willing to work, nor as quickly dismissive of those who weren’t. But I also knew long times when he would be quite unavailable, while he was absorbed in some new area of study, or woman, or foul mood, and he was easily irritated if approached with mundane grad student concerns. His temper could be nasty, but mostly he loved to laugh, particularly at people’s shortcomings, his own or others, and his acerbic wit could be brilliant, inane, annoyingly repetitive, or all three. We would sometimes banter around some silly catchphrase for weeks on end, such as when we developed a psychotherapy marketing scheme using the phrase, “It doesn’t work – for everyone,” where the hyphen indicates that it doesn’t work – and that’s true for everyone. Guess you had to be there.

He was a very private, sometimes seclusive man who would not share his hurts but loved his friends, gave his wisdom and wit to a diverse array of local friends and many colleagues around the world, and readily opened his home to company (I stayed there several times, during grad school - after partying too hearty - and afterward). When I lived in Bangor he lived alone, in a majestic but decaying Victorian in a seedy part of town. The house was full of beautiful sculptures, paintings (I never really appreciated art until I studied all his nudes), tapestries, and furniture, but dusty from neglect. He spent all his time in the kitchen, surrounded by piles of books, cups of cold coffee, and full ashtrays. There in a smoky haze he would work through the night, every night, going upstairs to bed only as dawn approached (he particularly hated to teach morning classes). Despite the house full of art, and the Jaguar in the garage that he could never keep running, his physical needs were simple – he seemed to live primarily on bologna sandwiches with dry bread. But he also held terrific parties in the house, and I can still see him lounging, absorbed in pursuing his latest feminine conquest, probably reciting poetry, and oblivious to the mayhem around him. He did quite well with the ladies for a goofy-looking guy with strange ideas.

It is not often recalled that CM also was a clinical psychologist by training, and even served UMO as clinical director for a time, which is frightening to consider, though in fairness he was reluctant to accept or exercise this role, hence perhaps his ill-timed suggestion in one of the weekly clinical student / staff meetings, where he was explaining to certain 70s-era feminists in attendance that no woman faculty member had yet been recruited because qualified women were rare and would not come to Maine, that perhaps a high school girl should be hired for the job, a suggestion which was not well received (though not all attendees found the idea unfunny, or unacceptable). I also remember him providing me clinical supervision in my first year of training, when I did an intake interview of a young woman who turned out to be smoking hot, with long legs, and dressed as if for a job interview (she was ostensibly seeking vocational counseling, which I effectively talked her out of), so of course I was basically acting like an ass, for which he never passed up any opportunity to deride me ever after. It didn’t help that throughout the interview the tip of his cigarette would glow in the one-way mirror behind her head as he inhaled with lighthouse regularity, interrupted only by his occasional snort-laugh whenever I said something particularly stupid. By the end of the interview the woman seemed to understand that our combined expertise might be insufficient for her needs.

He loved to do the unexpected: One time, for example, he was driving through Augusta, Maine with me and another grad student, a bit of a blowhard, who was sitting in back telling us stories about mother-daughter ménages a trois he had experienced, when CM stopped the line of traffic in the middle of a main intersection downtown to holler out my window on the passenger side to two teenage girls on the sidewalk, asking if they wanted a ride and urging them to get in back. It has been my everlasting shame that it was not the other student, but myself, who freaked out, hunkered down in the seat, and demanded that he drive away instantly, which he found unwarrantedly amusing and never let me forget.
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But these are just a few random memories, and do not capture the great good fortune I had to be his student and friend, or all the other memories that no doubt will come. It was a great privilege to work and publish with him, but mostly it was fun. He helped me trust my intellect and taught me the joys of analyzing one’s own data and editing one’s own words. He also taught me his one religious belief, that when one gets to the Pearly Gates, the only thing St. Peter will be interested in is the length of one’s vita; if he’s right, he should be getting pretty good seating. Millie should also be blessed for all the loving care she has given him. It has been sad in recent years to see his health deteriorate; his poor vision was especially demoralizing for him, as he was losing the experience of beauty and the capacity to work. I have missed him for a long time; I miss him even more now.

I remember sitting in the large black stuffed chair in his tiny office filled with books, the journals piled on the desk, the snuff box and cigarette smoke, and the conversations that could last for hours, turning over every facet of a research problem, looking for best means of approach. Out in the hallway or in class the faculty might hold your life in their hands, but in the conversations there was no pretense or hierarchy, just a mutual quest for knowledge.

Then the focus would shift to the work of collecting data. The atmosphere in the labs was different, like a clubhouse, the research slightly conspiratorial – the more revolutionary the hypothesis the better.

And there was the feeling that in this work one was engaged in a project of great importance, a chance to add to the cumulative knowledge of humanity. There was no moral ambiguity; to engage in research was to be involved in work of transcendent value.

Colin, by word and by deed, exhorted us not to trivialize our lives by giving time to trivial things. I remember his annoyed comment about Labor Day, “When we celebrate work by not doing any.” Or, two decades later, “Never do anything you can’t put on your vita.”

He once told a story of Pavlov’s students looking out the window because the Russian Revolution was underway and fighting had broken out in the street. Pavlov, Colin explained, scolded the students for wasting time on the transitory when they could be doing science, which was eternal. This was hard to accept – Colin told us this story during the first Reagan administration, when it seemed as if the cold war would bring an end to life on earth. Nothing could have been more fateful than the Russian Revolution. But a few years later the Soviet Union had ended while Pavlov’s work endured.

To me, those conversations will be forever in the present. The play of his thoughts, in his books and journal articles, will surely be discovered by other students, perhaps in other countries or centuries. And each of those students, for a few moments, will be sitting in that large stuffed chair.

Colin and my mother, Milly, were married for 17 years before he passed on the 16th of November. Struggling to cope with losing him has made the time since very emotionally difficult. We have, however, gathered much strength from the emails, phone calls, and postings here. Colin loved his work in psychology and continued it quite literally until his last day. It has been both insightful and consoling to hear of not only his impact on the field of psychology but also of his tremendous impact on so many people. I am sad to only now learn the extent of my stepfather's abilities, insights, and intelligence. Now if only the notes he left scattered around his office were in layman's English! Of course, with Colin's sense of humor, you can all imagine the sort of commentary he might have in reading this. I'm sure the words "too serious" and "BS" would be the least involved - while drawing yet another cigarette from his pocket. He'd probably say that this was all a mistake, that "God" had meant to get the old guy next door, and that he was bored and going out for a smoke! The gracious support we've received from all of you, many friends of Colin and my mother from years gone by, and the tributes written in this blog mean so much us. Thank you all for the support and for helping to both solidify and perpetuate Colin's legacy. Our family will always remember him the way he was as a husband, stepfather, step-grandfather, and philosopher (cigarette smoke included!). My mother would like to conclude this with the following words: "Let the perpetual light shine upon him. Amen."

I think of Colin Martindale as the underrated giant of late 20th century psychology and aesthetics. The previous testaments to his wit and wisdom resonate with my memories of him, and my own thinking is heavily influenced by his innovative (in my view, genius) ideas. He certainly called a spade a spade, and he was an immensely hospitable and interesting person. It has been a comfort to me to know that there are both great and generous eccentrics around like Colin, although some comfort will now come from only the memory of this wonderful person. Warm wishes and thoughts to Colin's family and friends.

Like Al West, I knew Colin Martindale for over 30 years and in that time he taught me much about psycholgy and the arts and about life in general. As an undergraduate in his Cognitive Psychology class at the University of Maine, I knew he was special. He would lecture with one foot on a chair while smoking a cigarette. Yet, his lectures were the epitome of elegance.
Like Jon Borkum, as his graduate student I also spent much time in "the black chair" watching him while he smoked, sniffed his snuff and ate the requisite three bologna sandwiches per day while we discussed research strategies and findings.
He often pushed me beyond what I thought were my limits. Even though I had a bad case of "stage fright", he made me present papers at conferences around the world. Practice sessions usually took place at 1:00am the night before in a bar at the conference hotel. Somehow it worked.
Colin truly had a beautiful if mischievous mind. His contributions in numerous scholarly areas will continue his legacy. As we move into a new year, he will be greatly missed.

Although we communicated sporadically since my undergraduate work ended in 1985 you have been with me every day. My mind opened when I took Introduction to Cognition and during my time as your advisee you allowed me to take graduate level courses; courses which shaped my world view, my ability to understand the way the mind works, hence the world works. Your idea's literally helped form the fabric of my mind, my line of sight into my cognitove experience. Your rare ability to move intellectually from the abstract to concise was so impressive and I admired your mind, humor, and compassion. Your knowledge shared has improved my life in so many ways, hearing of your passing this way (looking up some of your work) is heart wrenching. I so wish now i had not cancelled lunch in 2006.

I met Colin when we were both graduate students at Harvard.He was newly married which didn't stop his frequent & incessant crushes on women. Colin had a love-hate relationship with women. He adored women but didn't think they were the intellectual equals of men. Colin had a major rebellious streak in him which was expressed, I think, by his smoking & drinking. He hoped he would attend the funerals of some nonsmokers -- but that was not to be. Smoking ended his life way too prematurely. But I don't think he would have had it any other way.As all the others who have commented here knew well, Colin was super dedicated to his work. He worked all his adult life including that last Saturday of his life. It is clear that he inspired a great many people. The most enjoyable part of Colin for me was his wonderful ascerbic sense of humor which I had the pleasure to be the recipient of in the daily emails I received from him. Below are parts of the last email he sent to me at 5:50 pm on Saturday before he died.

"...Your fucking hunter gatherers were a bunch of commies. The literal English translation for the !Kung is 'fucking liberals squatting in the sand because they can't find any mud...Good luck with your new compouter. With luck it might work in a few months. It will be outdated by then of course....I caught Darwin in another giant mistake. Back to the chase."

I wonder what mistakes Darwin made?