In 1957, Ian Graham, a 33-year-old Englishman—handsome, highborn, impecunious, somewhat adrift—sailed to New York with his vintage Rolls Royce coupé, a car once driven by Lawrence of Arabia. The hard-up swell stayed at the 23rd Street Y, met Salvador Dalí for drinks at the St. Regis, worked briefly as a photographic assistant to Irving Penn, and then set out in the coupé for Los Angeles. A detour to attend the Maryland Hunt Cup and Ball took him south. He found, as he would later recall, that “once one deviates from the straight and narrow path, it’s all too easy to stray further afield”—and so he meandered to Charleston, Natchez, Dallas, and Houston. There, Graham—a man of abundant charm, who was “always open to a good offer”—was befriended by a lumber baron who lent him his estate on the Galveston shore. (A virtuoso sponger, Graham would guilelessly freeload as a guest in the best houses, from Acapulco to Pasadena to Belize City to Manhattan.) From the Gulf, he drove to the legendary King Ranch, and then turned what was to be a quick trip across the Rio Grande into a nearly 600-mile journey to Mexico City. And there—in the galleries at the Museo Nacional and in a conversation at a dinner party at the house of the patrician, striking British painter Bridget Bate Tichenor—this appealing, off-on-a-spree man, no longer young, “on the alert for some opportunity … to earn a living pleasantly,” stumbled on his life’s work, a field wholly new to him: Mayan archaeology.
In this beguiling autobiography, Graham, who was awarded a MacArthur genius grant in 1981 and is the founding director of the Corpus of Maya Hieroglyphic Inscriptions Program at Harvard’s Peabody Museum of Archaeology and Ethnology, recalls a charmed life as an archaeologist-explorer. In a trackless wilderness of jaguars and rattlesnakes, of cities and stelae swallowed up by the jungle thousands of years ago, Graham has discovered, surveyed, mapped, or documented hundreds of Mayan sites and monuments. His ongoing Corpus project will eventually record every known Mayan inscription and its associated figurative art—a feat of scholarship that has dramatically advanced the decipherment of Mayan hieroglyphics.
Graham is gracious and self-aware enough to know that his lucky life—“a chain of pleasant events”—was made possible by the happy accident of his silver-spooned birth. His father was the youngest son of the Duke of Montrose; his grandmother on his mother’s side was the proprietress of the arch-Tory Morning Post. Prince Rainier was his childhood playmate; Rudyard Kipling gave him a many-bladed pocketknife just before Graham’s departure for Winchester (“where, of course, it gave me tremendous status in my dorm”). But Graham combined the easy charm born of privilege with an intense interest in the applied sciences, a pursuit rare among the classics-minded aristocracy. At Winchester, at Trinity College Cambridge, and at Trinity College Dublin, he studied electronics, physics, and crystallography; he conducted radar research for the Fleet Air Arm during the Second World War, and after the war he worked for the conservation laboratory of Britain’s National Gallery.
But in the middle of his fourth decade, Graham—unemployed and having abandoned one career (physics) and making little headway in another (photography)—was in some danger of lapsing into the life of an endearing wastrel. Instead, on that first trip to Mexico he became enraptured by an ancient and intensely foreign culture, and in dedicating his life to studying it and preserving its remnants, he discovered that he had a remarkable capacity for sustained and—jungle adventures notwithstanding—often unglamorous work. He was paid nothing for much of that early work (the little money he made, he earned by traveling the world photographing exotic places for coffee-table books), and even when he was an established archaeologist, his life was in some ways mean and insecure. Having no formal academic training in archaeology or the study of the Maya, Graham never held a faculty appointment; his explorations and even his great Corpus project largely depended on the kindness of patrons, including rich widows whom, of course, he captivated. Graham’s fund-raising efforts redounded to the benefit of scholarship but hardly of himself, which meant that throughout his phenomenal archaeological career, this never-married (though energetically heterosexual) scholar-gypsy led something of an ascetic life. When not a guest in a posh house, he divided his time between snake-infested rainforest encampments, his basement office at the Peabody Museum, and grotty digs he rented from the singularly ungenerous Harvard housing service.