EDITING
The Grammar of My Youth
My impatience with mispunctuation and malformed sentences began, as far as memory serves, not in the lofty towers of academia but in the quiet corners of childhood. One might, without undue offence, label me something of a pedant—or, if you prefer the modern idiom, a linguistic obsessive-compulsive. What others perceived as mere fastidiousness, I experienced as a moral imperative: a duty to honour the language with all the reverence due a sacred trust. It began innocently enough—letters penned in the florid style of a bygone era—but soon evolved into the weaving of verses which some, with unexpected kindness, called poetry. In time, these verses were gathered into a published volume. At the time, I scarcely considered myself a poet, rather a wordsmith of various forms—essayist, novelist, copywriter—each vocation a tributary to the same creative river. But now I can say, with no false modesty, that I am a poet indeed, and one with a voice shaped by both conviction and care.
An Editorial Intervention
My first real foray into the world of content revision came not by request but by a sort of divine discontent. The subject was the website of my business mentor, Subi Samuel—a man whose camera rendered the unseen visible, and who bore the air of one touched by a quiet genius. The text that had been drawn up by his team was, by all accounts, commendable. Yet it lacked something essential—an ineffable quality, the soul behind the skill. I could not bear the omission. And so, with the silent zeal of a nocturnal editor, I took it upon myself to reshape the prose. What emerged, I believe, was truer to the man: clearer, finer, more befitting the artistry it sought to accompany.
Of Clowns and Butterflies
There is a peculiar weight to familial admiration—it is the first and, perhaps, the heaviest burden of creative duty. Subi, being no less like my elder brother, and in many ways my first patron, soon asked me to write for the Zoom Channel, where he was curating a photographic series around the melancholy figure of the clown. I confess, my heart fluttered with both delight and dread. To be the verbal counterpart to his visual symphony felt like an honour too great, like adding footnotes to a masterpiece. But I wrote it, trembling and thrilled, and found in that effort a deepening of both courage and craft.
Of Published Pages and Private Fears
By this time, I had published two works of fiction under the auspices of Westland, and my pen had been well exercised in crafting content for my own firm, as well as for a host of notable friends in need of elegant prose. And yet—strange as it seems—the pressure of writing for friends and family bore a greater encumbrance than any public commission. When writing for one’s own, every word must be twice considered, for affection rarely shields one from critique. Still, by grace or grit, I emerged from the ordeal unscathed, even praised. And the relief, I must admit, was considerable.
A Cinematic Conversation
What joy it was, then, to be summoned by Ravi K Chandran—whose name echoes across the corridors of global cinematography—to assist him in crafting responses for an award ceremony celebrating his illustrious career. The questions, he said, must not be banal—they must spring from the well of experience and shimmer with significance. I accepted at once, and found in that exercise the same pleasure a sculptor must feel when the marble yields to the form within. Since that day, I have offered similar assistance to many, brushing the dust off clumsy prose, firming up loose syntax, and championing precision with the zeal of a grammarian crusader.
The Painter of England’s Soul
Jonathan Myles-Lea (23 January 1969 – 25 August 2021) was an English painter whose brush gave voice to the silent grandeur of country houses, historic edifices, and the landscapes that cradle them—often rendered from an aerial vantage, as though seen through the eyes of an angel surveying the memory of England. Among those who sought his artistry were none less than Charles, Prince of Wales, and the venerable National Trust, both discerning patrons of beauty steeped in heritage.
A Landmark Commission
In 2009, Myles-Lea was summoned to lend his vision to the cover of Country Life magazine—a commission of singular honour. The resulting work, Dream Acres, became the first painting ever to grace the cover in the magazine’s 112-year chronicle, marking the inception of a twelve-week series on the English garden, that terrestrial resonance of paradise. Jean Christie, the magazine’s publishing director, called it “a magnificent issue,” a daring departure from tradition—yet all the more splendid for it.
Art as Atmosphere
Later that year, the illustrious Grosvenor Estates, in partnership with Linley, engaged Myles-Lea to provide artworks for the adornment of a restored townhouse in Lower Belgrave Street. Here, too, his work was not mere ornamentation but the very soul of the space it inhabited.
A Liturgy of Land and Legacy
The heart of Myles-Lea’s oeuvre, however, lay in his portrayals of England’s storied homes and their surrounding estates—each painting a careful liturgy of memory and place. With a miniaturist’s discipline and a poet’s eye, he rendered these subjects in sweeping compositions, often measuring 42 by 30 inches, marrying scale with precision.
Portraiture and Publication
Though chiefly known for his landscapes, Myles-Lea’s hand extended to portraiture, capturing figures such as Evelyn H. Lauder of Estée Lauder Companies and Brian Avon of Aveda, both in 2004. His works have been enshrined in volumes such as The Artist and the Country House by John Harris, The Artist and the Garden by Sir Roy Strong, and The Story of Gardening by Penelope Hobhouse—each a testament to the enduring value of his vision.
Ventures into the Abstract
Not content with mere representation, Myles-Lea also ventured into the abstract, lending his more experimental pieces to the covers of novellas by the art historian Stephen Little. It was fitting, then, that Country Life would one day honour him among its “Living National Treasures,” a phrase perhaps no less true for its affectionate hyperbole.
An Heir to the Greats
To many, he was regarded as the spiritual heir of Stubbs and Constable—painters not merely of the land, but of its meaning. In Myles-Lea’s work, one does not simply see a house or a garden, but rather glimpses the very soul of England, quietly preserved in oil and light.
A Friendship in Letters and Art
I had the great privilege of being a dear friend to Jonathan Myles-Lea. In the years we shared, he would often send me the lectures he delivered at Harvard, entrusting me with their refinement, for he believed I possessed a finer grasp of the English tongue. He shared with me drafts of his artwork, the wine labels he was designing for his American patrons, and even his pronunciation podcasts—each bearing the mark of his meticulous mind and irrepressible spirit.
A Quiet Ache
We lost him far too soon, and the ache of his absence lingers with a quiet persistence.
An Actor’s Introduction
Among my quieter exploits was the revision of content for actor Dulquer Salmaan’s website—a task undertaken not with fanfare, but with the quiet satisfaction of one tending a beloved garden. It was not grand, perhaps, but it was worthy.
An Editor’s Benediction
And so the story could go on, for my love affair with words shows no signs of waning. But I shall end with a tale that is dear to me still. My friend Matt Straight—an author whose books on fitness have found grateful readers across the world—entrusted me with a solemn task: to edit his work Controlling the Odds: The Complete Guide to Regaining Control of Your Life After a Cancer Diagnosis. The book is now published and available, and I remain grateful to have touched its pages before they reached the world. It was not simply a task of language, but of honour—a final testament, perhaps, to what I have always believed: that words, rightly wielded, can heal as much as they can dazzle.
