by Sasha Graham
One of the earliest artists to incorporate direct visual interpretations of specific musical compositions into her paintings. Not conscious representations but spontaneous representations of the same emotions which had inspired the composers. Color, line and form were intended to correspond with sound…the compositional elements functioned as concrete symbols of their idealogical equivalents in the spiritual realm.19
This version of synesthesia differs from the involuntary kind. Synesthesia is a condition people are born with. Pamela was listening to specific concertos and painting what came to mind as she worked.
Pamela’s synesthesia technique was learned at the Pratt Institute under the tutelage of Arthur Wesley Dow. Much of her work depicted imagery spontaneously brought to her mind while listening to music by the likes of Beethoven, Bach, and Schumann: “what I see when I hear music-thoughts loosened and set free from the spell of sound,” as she wrote in a 1908 article.20
Pamela continues painting pieces inspired by music. Pamela says,
Why, sometimes a single concert gives me as many as 25 or 30 ideas, and I have to put them all down on paper before I can rest. I am handicapped, I know, by deficient technique. But then there are times when the idea is the thing and the technique is forgotten. One art is not enough—the others must be ransacked.21
Tarot images spring from archetypes. Archetypes reflect ideas and concepts evident in human consciousness. Pamela reaches right into the world of archetypes and pulls them out so we can recognize them. Art critic Irwin MacDonald reports on her circle of friends and her ability to reach inside the human subconscious:
Again environment played its part, for she was the friend and close associate of the group of poets and playwrights who are restoring Celtic literature and tradition to the world. On the Continent, her friends were Maeterlinck, Debussy and others who were endeavoring, each in his own way, to pierce the veil that hid the subjective world. Pamela Colman Smith had not the great creative power of these men, but it soon became evident that she has something quite as rare—the power to see clearly the invisible realm of which they all dreamed. She entered it or shut it out at will, but when music opened the gates everything became clear to her inner vision. She learned to distinguish the elementals of the earth, air, fire and water, the gnomes, goblins, wraiths, leprechauns, pixies, salamanders and peoples of the sea.22
Pamela finishes the RWS deck and continues making art and storytelling. She hustles for work, opens a drawing shop, and remains busy and industrious. Though she is considered one of the most promising artists of her generation, fame and money remain elusive. By 1911, Pamela converts to Catholicism. She eventually leaves London and moves to the country to enjoy a quieter life, like so many of the bohemians around her who scattered into Europe’s countryside after their heyday in London and Paris. There is no record of romantic entanglements and not much is heard from Pamela after she leaves London. An inheritance allows her to open up a retreat for Catholic priests.
Asked by the Delineator magazine what she would call herself and her many talents, she answers, “Why, I suppose I am an expressionist. I try to express myself in the best possible way.”23 Pamela was an artist, designer, storyteller, and woman of innumerable talents. She led a rich life during a riveting historical time period. She traveled extensively and shared relationships with some of the most famous artists and occultists the world has ever seen. Her tarot deck was one item—one commission, a single cohesive piece of art—amongst the thousands of works, stories, illustrations, and paintings she created. A single common thread wove through all she created. It was strung through her collections of myth, illustrations of children’s books, portraits of famous actors, and her private press magazine. The thread is her dedication to story: sacred, perfect story.
W. B. Yeats once said of Pamela,
Our Father Time and Mother Space have said to you, as they say to none but excellent artists; You are so good a child that we need not trouble about you. We are as contented as if you were a sod of grass. Our of your croon comes into the silence or across the voices, like a bird’s chuckle among the leaves outside the window. One forgets civilization in the very act of 5 o’clock tea.24
People often lament the sadness of Pamela dying without recognition for her tarot deck, yet she created an object that brings joy, comfort, and guidance to untold numbers of people. It is utterly beautiful and profound that Pamela Colman Smith, a true storyteller at heart, created the very instrument that millions of people would use to tell their stories with. It is Pamela’s tarot we bring out on dark nights for intimate conversations. When we read her cards, we light lanterns and candles and fill the air with hushed sighs, just as she did when regaling a rapt audience with her Jamaican folktales. She whispers to our imagination as we look to her images with glee. Pamela is smiling over our shoulders every time we shuffle the cards. It is just what she did when mysteries unveiled themselves through her work. Pamela remains a gateway between worlds in death, as she did in life. Her work continues to inspire magic, enchantment, and contemporary artists, one card at a time. It is an electrifying legacy. This writer and tarot reader thinks that is exactly what Pixie would have desired.
31 South Ealing Road, London, 1909
Sodden leaves fill the street while raindrops pepper the windows like tiny stones on a damp Tuesday night. A mustached man writes prose across clean white sheets while sequestered inside a cozy office. The words tumble out of him and across the page like a fountain of language. A separate part of his consciousness, the active observing part of his own mind, realizes he is not alone as he authors this work. A third hand works through him, feeding him knowledge and insight. At times he feels this presence, like a pouring of morning light through a clean and clear window. His hands can barely keep up. “There is no such thing as a common life,” he writes.
The convention under which we regard it is alone common. The key of the great mysteries lies hidden in all things round us, but the perplexities of the convention hinder us from finding it. The gift of understanding is within us, and we might read the world’s language if we dared, but the inherited averseness of all the centuries to a first-hand experience of things sets an effectual check on the attempt. The inclination of the axis of the soul places us outside the direct line of vision; that inclination can be rectified, and the operation may not be essentially difficult, but it calls for a peculiar courage.25
Arthur Waite stands from his writing desk and rubs his eyes. The hearth cradles a crackling woody fire that bravely fights off the damp air and fills the room with rosy warmth. He feels renewed, filled with a sense of purpose, satisfied, as he always feels when his writing goes well. His solace is the written word. His act of writing is a form of devotion itself and is an exploration in its own right. It is the place where he finds perfect expression of thought and emotion. I see it all so clearly, he thinks to himself. Why is it so hard for others to see the obvious?
His eyes beam with pride over a pine shelf holding nine of his published books. “More to come,” he thinks with delight, “more to come.” He glances to a small yet important manuscript. It is his tenth book, The Pictorial Key to the Tarot. His deadline from the Rider Publishing Company looms. He is anxious for the last illustrations to be finished. There’s a small chance he will see his artist this evening, but he doesn’t cling to much hope. Pamela is erratic in her attendance of his meetings. Waite knows erraticism is the hallmark of many artists. He recognizes at once that Pamela adores the ritualistic aspect of his group’s work, but she has little care for the intellectual side. He believes her brilliant talent and unique abilities make up for what she lacks in discipline as a neophyte in his society.
He bids his daughter Sybil a good evening and moves toward his wife. “Good night, Lucasta,” he whispers to her. She barely glances up from her needlework. Lucasta is her pet name, yet she all but ignores him. He exits the house and enters the rain carrying a familiar an
noyance. She does not respect my great work, he thinks to himself. She looks at me with the eyes of my jealous colleagues. My work binds me to the highest source, he thinks. Of course they are frustrated when they find themselves immune to my level of understanding. I lay it all out; still they fail to see it. To grasp it. It frustrates them and makes them feel small. What can I do but stand as an example? I must lead the way with thoughts and actions, he thinks as he moves through the mist, becoming a shadow beneath the flickering torchlight.
He arrives at his destination and snaps the door shut behind him. He shakes the water from his top hat and trench and hangs it up. A circle of people have gathered in the room beyond, and he makes his way toward them. The room smells of tobacco and wool. Any passerby may believe this to be a social or church group. It is not. These artists and intellectuals are bound by metaphysical purposes. Arthur Waite has created an offshoot of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn in this group. They are intent on furthering the exploration of occult and spiritual study. He makes his apologies for being late and takes a seat. Their secret work begins.
The hallmark of highly creative people is often borne in the wounds they endure early on in life. Arthur Waite was born in the fall of 1857 on October 2 in Brooklyn, New York. He was an illegitimate child whose father was a seafaring adventurer. Charles Waite, an American Merchant Marine, died at sea when Arthur was less than a year old. Waite’s mother, Emma Lovell, came from a wealthy English family. She returned to London with Waite and his little sister, Frederika, after his father’s death. His mother’s wealthy family shunned the trio, and they were forced to live in poverty.
Waite’s fascination with the nature of mystery and hidden worlds began in childhood with the love of penny dreadfuls. Penny dreadfuls were serialized magazines telling fantastical horror stories and were wildly popular during Waite’s youth. Waite devoured hair-raising tales like candy even though his mother strictly forbade him to read them. As a path of darkness often leads to light, Waite began writing fiction and poetry. His first published story was “Tom Trueheart,” appearing in the Idler in 1878.
Waite had a strict Catholic upbringing, which served as the spiritual springboard for all his subsequent work. Waite’s beloved sister, Frederika, died when he was seventeen. Her passing led him down a path of psychical research. Waite examined and studied paranormal events and psychic phenomena while trying to make sense of the loss of his sister. The Spiritualist movement claimed to prove life after death through communication with the spirit world. Waite devoured their teachings.
Waite’s occult research led him to the British Museum. The British Museum was a hotbed of research and intellectualism at the turn of the century. Waite discovered a vast collection of alchemical, astrological, hermetic, and magical grimoires in the reading room. Waite was on his way to becoming a prolific occult author due to his significant relationship with the Rider and Co. Publishing House. Rider and Co. would eventually publish twenty of Waite’s books, and he was a regular contributor to the Occult Review magazine.
He met Samuel MacGregor Mathers, co-founder of the Golden Dawn, in 1883 at the British Museum’s reading room. Mathers describes them both as “haunting the British Museum, trying many paths of search, and having been introduced.” Waite already belonged to many fraternal organizations, and in January 1891 Waite became the ninety-ninth member initiated into the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn.
Golden Dawn’s infighting commenced. Secret groups forged secret groups within its ranks. Secluded rituals were being performed, and excluded members struggled to ascertain their power and ideas within the group. W. B. Yeats published a pamphlet advocating against secret sects within the group. He believed the subversive groups were committing an irresponsible and dangerous act by meeting separately. Disarray continued as the group fractured. Arthur Waite split from the group, forming his own. He brought Pamela Colman Smith along with him. It was during this time period that he and Pamela undertook the work of creating Waite’s rectified tarot, which was to become the RWS deck.
Waite, however, was dissatisfied with both traditional tarot cards and the designs devised by the order by Westcott and Mathers; with the founding of the Independent and Rectified Rite, the tarot designs were jettisoned in company with the old rituals and he determined to create a wholly new pack.26
Waite, though he writes in a formal, scholarly, often condescending tone, admits that anyone, anywhere, can place the meaning they like upon the tarot. In Shadows and Thought he says,
We have to recognize, in a word, that there is no public canon of authority in the interpretation of Tarot Symbolism. The field is open therefore; it is indeed so open that any one of my readers is free to produce an entirely new explanation, making no appeal to past experiments; but the adventure will be at his or her own risk and peril as to whether they can make it work and thus produce a harmony of interpretation throughout.27
Waite combines the traditional fortunetelling meanings with his own veiled experience of the tarot as a picture book of his occult work while allowing anyone the room to place their own definitions on the cards.
He calls Pamela “a most imaginative and abnormally psychic artist.”28 Waite’s great area of concern is in regard to the major arcana and the esoteric journey they describe. He describes in his memoir how he “spoon fed” the imagery of the Fool, High Priestess, and Hanged Man to Pamela. The minor arcana seems to have been an afterthought. Many of his descriptions do not even match the images on the cards, leading to the popular assumption that he gave Pamela free rein in designing the minors.
Waite went on publishing numerous books after the RWS deck. The Rare Manuscript Division at the New York Public Library reveals that at age 75, Waite attempted to sell a large collection of his original manuscripts, some unpublished, for 3,500 pounds through bookseller John Jeffery. Waite lived another ten years before his death in 1942. Author Kenneth Rexroth described Waite as “an odd fish in an odder barrel.” He is, however, respected as a renowned occult author who was the first to “attempt a systematic study of the history of Western occultism”29—no easy task. Biographer R. A. Gilbert marvels, pointing out of Waite that
against all expectation he found a unique path to the direct experience of God. All mystics turn within, but Waite was alone in grasping what he found and bringing it back so that all mankind could understand its nature and be offered a means of attaining it.30
Waite bridged the literary chasm between ancient occult grimoires and present-day New Age authors. Waite is mostly remembered for his rectified tarot deck. Like Pamela, he never lived to see its massive success.
East Thirty-Second Street, New York City, 1974
The sweaty taxi driver chews into his cigar and lays heavily on his horn. The sound misses its target but curls up and through a window three stories above. A tall gentleman hangs up the phone, rubs his chin, and stares ahead, oblivious to the honking. This boy from the Bronx is all grown up. Manhattan is separated from the Bronx by a thin stretch of the Harlem River, but it may as well be as wide as the Atlantic Ocean. Stuart Kaplan is president of a coal mine, a juvenile furniture company, and many other sectors. His Wall Street power broker’s phone bears a constant ring. His secretary informs him a second call waits on the other line. Ignoring her voice, he looks at the note he’s just scribbled on a piece of paper. Its a note from a conversation he’s just had with Donald Weiser of Weiser Books. It says, “Contact Hutchinson Publishing regarding the Rider-Waite deck. Do something with it.”
His office is not far from Grand Central Station, the bustling behemoth of daily commuters hopping trains and escaping the madness and sleaze of midtown to the safety of suburban Connecticut. Unlike many of his contemporaries, he is not content to slurp down whiskeys and chase secretaries, nor does he join the daily Metro-North marching commute of briefcases ending at manicured lawns, tennis wives, and prep school children. A greater calling tugs at the heart beating ben
eath his Brooks Brothers tie. He knows there is a mission he is here to fulfill. He’s been put on earth to pioneer something. Writing and researching are his first loves. That’s exactly what he plans to do.
Stuart’s divorced working-class parents sent him to a new private school in the deep woods of New Hampshire. Their intention was to get him away from stickball and the streets. His class was small, the location remote, far from girls, noise, and the hustling city streets he grew up on. He was among the first graduating class, along with classmate F. Lee Bailey. Bailey was the famed Patty Hearst lawyer who was involved in the Boston Strangler case and who overturned a murder case, inspiring the movie The Fugitive. Bailey gained further notoriety on the O. J. Simpson trial defense team. Bailey went off to Harvard while Stuart rebelled against higher education. He followed Hemingway’s footsteps and moved to Paris to become a writer.
The year was 1951. Stuart was eighteen years old. Paris’s ancient cobblestone streets echo with history. The magic of meandering stone streets reminds the traveler of kernels of deep recovered truth. Forgotten knowledge fills the body, as if heard and felt for the first time. It is like music notes drifting from a cafe window of a long-forgotten song whose every lyric you recall. It is seen with perfect clarity. Stuart began to understand the breadth of his parents’ prep school gift.
While living in Paris, he enjoyed long weekends in London. He swapped French life for English during June, July, and August of 1951. In September of the very same year a woman lay dying a five-hour drive from London. At eighteen years old, Stuart had no clue that the woman dying on the second floor of a cottage in Bude, a mere half-day’s drive away, was Pixie—Pamela Colman Smith. At eighteen, he had no idea that he would resurrect her legacy, which had turned dormant after she exited London for a quiet life in the country. She had departed the bohemian life, tired, as many artists and members of the Lost Generation were. Stuart had no idea that he would return to England in the future, knocking on doors, following clues, and asking anyone anything they knew about Pamela Colman Smith and her artwork. Pamela took her last breath on September 18, 1951.