Wednesday, February 10, 2016
I still feel unsettled since the death of my friend nearly 10 days ago. I am reminded of that last experiences we shared concerning really speaking our vows about our immense friendship and how we adored each other despite his crusty side and my arsty side that often clashed. He was a businessman after all, and 10:00 a.m. meant 10:00 a.m. not nearly 11.
He photographed my quilts too. He was a great photographer, but he was rarely mellow. After all these years, did he really expect my quilts to be finished and ready to hang? Not on your life. We'd work to pin them together, even use binder clips, duck tape and cord to get those babies to hang right.
The last quilt was at least three days late from the time I originally asked him to photograph it. He was mad as hell as I politely put him off. I couldn't bare to tell him I was still creating it on shoot day. He yelled at me, and I cried and begged never to do it to him again. Sadly, that wish will come true.
He was almost my videographer too. The local PBS channel is doing spotlights on local artists and I was asked to submit a quick video. I told him I wanted to do it, but was scared, needed to loose 50 or more pounds, and when I tried to do one at home on my own, the dog started barking. He got all puffed up and said that's what he use to do in another life, and I should get serious, call them back, get detailed information on what they were looking for, and above all not to do it at home where the dog would bark. Information noted.
I loved his photograph of gondolas in Venice so much, with the odd turquoise and orange colored boats and the dock and complex background. I asked him if I could use his photo to make it into a quilt. I tried and tried, but never managed because of the complexity of the shot. His artist eye was clearly genius, and my skills of perspective was clearly lacking.
I have cried about his passing a lot. I look at a picture of him and see those eyes and that grin. He called me Jefferson. I said "My Name Is Not Jefferson!!" The madder I became, the more he said it- just like the tease of a big brother. He was a man who understood me and my passion for art, who would drop everything to help me when I asked, who made me love him more when I knew I was going to lose him soon. I called him often when he was really sick, but before Hospice and said-"Hey its my job to check up on you." He was in pain, so mostly he just said okay... and faded until I hung up.
Jefferson is missing you, my friend.