He was established. A man of substance. A man of culture. His books were complicated and not widely read. He had pith. He was a short man. Insignificant one might think. If not for meritocracy, he would have been overlooked. But he knew there was a right way and a wrong way, his mother had expectations. He was an established thinker in modernist aesthetics.
He admired the wild thinkers. He courted them. He thought by being in their circle some of the magic of the wild thinker would rub off on him. Yet, he was always a small man. Stature and character. Some may say miniscule. Yet, he was an aesthete who was charged with moulding the thinking of the next generation.
Established and serious aesthetics of the predictable fashion. He left one artifact, a book. A brilliant book worth reading: Seeing Is Forgetting The Name of The Thing One Sees, A Life of Contemporary Artist Robert Irwin. The man was forgettable the book was not.