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Henley and her best and oldest
friend, Gay Larsen
Image courtesy of Martha Lou
Henley |
The Quiet Philanthropist —
Page 3
Perhaps the clearest example of Henley’s distaste
for any kind of special attention lies in her adoption
of an unfreighted name. Her marriage to Gary Henley
in 1971 allowed for the legal dropping of Southam. The
union only lasted a few months, and was by all accounts
a mistake. At the wedding itself, Larsen cried. “Don’t
worry,” said Gary, “I’ll take care
of Louie.” And Larsen thought, “Oh no, he
has no idea who he’s marrying. He has no idea
how strong and capable she is.” For no one takes
care of Louie. Despite her abhorrence of public attention,
she is never to be underestimated or coddled. There’s
a post-polio support group, her doctor informed her,
where she might talk about the struggle of fatigue,
stigma, being different. She looked at the doctor squarely.
“Big deal.”
So why remain a Henley if the marriage meant nothing?
Why, if the marriage was brief and mistaken, keep the
unknown name? “Oh,” she says, clearly wondering
whether one is obliged to talk about this, “I
thought that’s what everyone did.” The taking
on of the Henley surname, suggests Larsen, “allowed
her to be known in her own right. To be herself and
do things her way.” Single ever since the divorce,
Henley has called her relationship with music “the
perfect marriage”—she takes friends to concerts
and gets her house to herself when the evening’s
done.
The Kerrisdale home Henley lives in today speaks to
her commonsense and understatement—it’s
encased on all sides by wall and shrub, with a short
iron gate at the entrance. Like her friend Gay, she
keeps a fleet of birdfeeders out back.
On a first visit to her house, for lunch, I was treated
to open-faced grilled cheese sandwiches (burned bacon
and hot tomatoes on top). Among friends, Henley is known
for her frugality as much as her philanthropy. She is
removed, now, from outward signs of wealth (she drives
a modest Honda). There are lavish gifts, of course,
doled out to Henley’s fold of artist friends.
Her foundation (the delivery method for her philanthropy
since 1988) can only give cash to charities with a tax
number, so more personal gifts are delivered off the
radar: Michael Cavanagh was able to take time off in
1997 to complete the libretto for The Master’s
Stroke; Heidi Krutzen was spirited away to New York
in time for a 1999 harp competition; Leslie Dala was
sent to Prague in the summer of 2000; and last year
the pianist Benjamin Hochman gained a new piano. But
no one is sure they know everything Henley is up to.
She withholds the details of her life’s work stubbornly.
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After Henley,
what kind of arts philanthropy will the city enjoy?
Vancouver is doubly damned: too far north to benefit
from the American tradition of philanthropy, and
too far west to receive the attentions of old
money.
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She appears to live an incredibly simple life—lunches,
baking, chats with her old Glaswegian nanny on the phone—a
life punctuated by an occasional (and staggering) act
of kindness. She’ll get her hair done at the local
budget barber, says one sister in astonishment (just
back, herself, from a facial), and then turn around
to sign a cheque for $2 million.
Of course, the willful abstaining from luxuriant display
is so much more effective anyway—it gives us no
determined bank account, just a rolling horizon of unperturbed
promise. It also is a sign of someone who doesn’t
want to tempt fate. Henley is acquainted with disaster
and takes nothing for granted. Gordon MacMillan Southam
(Henley’s younger brother) was 25 when he lost
control of a convertible sports car and slammed into
an iron gateway on Point Grey Road. He died shortly
before the clock hit midnight, barely missing the Valentine’s
Day of 1976. Only the day before, he had served as a
pallbearer at the funeral of the family patriarch, H.R.
MacMillan.
Another pallbearer at that funeral was Henley’s
only other brother, Harvey, who would grow up to launch
the B.C. business magazine Equity in 1983 and, having
proven himself independently of the family’s influence,
eventually became senior vice-president of Southam Business
Communications. He was widely considered the only family
member who could head the Southam empire. But, at 43,
Harvey took his own life one May day in Toronto, leaving
behind four children: Milo, Serena, Sydney, and Mercy.
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