Born, Lived and Died
It’s too bad the line “Let Us Now Praise Famous Men” has been used. The line, of course, was facetious because the book it comes from did not praise anyone famous at all. It honored the poor and the uknown.
A great painter - so many think they are in Santa Fe and aren’t - died last night. His name was John Gregory Tweed. His style was complicated. Impressionism. Pointillism. An accurate depiction of light and color and how Santa Fe plays with it every day.
Greg, which is what we called him, was truly a painter and an artist in a town full of poseurs. He was not a famous man. I praise him.
He was a grand story teller with a dramatic New England accent and the stories of his life were like his paintings - full of details and grand gestures of emotion and feeling.
Greg had been sick a good while. His heart quit him last night and he quit this Earth. I’m not sure about his entire story. Not sure enough to write much more about him other than to say he lived a dramatic life, a tragic life and the life of the truly real.
I hope when he took his final few steps across his beautiful living room - an old Santa Fe apartment mentioned by Willa Cather in “Death Comes for the Archbishop” and a bedroom used as a studio by Georgia O’Keeffe to paint - that he remembered maybe the bit of a favorite poem, or a song he loved or perhaps the voice of a love long lost.
Everyone dies. Everything fades. No matter what about the wheel of life and the repetition of death and birth and night and morning, it all ends for all of us.
There is so much I want to tell the world but fear of myself and fear of happiness has kept me from doing so.
I will try and change that, Greg.
He wouldn’t have listened to Springsteen, but I do. So here you:
Now, baby, everything dies, baby, that’s a fact
But maybe everything that dies someday comes back
That we will see about.