Cherish

In high school, Ricky Julliard, the only bona fide genius of our class, sat me down one day and taught me the theory of relativity, or at least what I could understand of it. What stuck with me was how he described energy—that energy couldn't be destroyed: once released, it moves on in different guises. We were talking about nuclear fusion, not death, but I've thought of Ricky often whenever I ponder where the essence of a person goes after he or she dies. For instance, my mother, where did her sweet nature go? For a non-believer, I find myself bypassing the more reverent explanations, say, God and heaven and all that rigmarole in which I find myself unsure. I'd like to think that Ricky was right, that energy moves on and informs us in different ways, and thus, a life that might have been cut short is still alive, in one form or another.


When Keith Rohman talked at his son Jack's memorial service, of how he had believed with all his heart that Jack would do something to change the world, and now that will not be, I wanted to cry out: but wait, he will, he has, he already has. I believe that; even though I didn't know Jack in recent years, from what Maya and her friends—amazing, cosmic kids up here on Mt. Washington and beyond—say, Jack's wit and humor, his intelligence and kindness, have changed their lives forever.


Keith appealed to all of Jack's friends to honor him: "Cherish your lives, cherish your friends, cherish your families," he told the young people gathered there, "Do not think there was anything you could have done." His call reached hundreds of those at the memorial who loved Jack and will continue to ring out among us here.

Sam says yes to friends.

Lulu

 Lu

Occasionally, my friend Lu and I meet at a local coffee house to do a little drawing and painting. We bring our watercolors and brushes, paper and pencils, and we sit, absorbed in our task. It's a very relaxing, focused kind of activity that pleases us, although we don't do it very often. (Doing something pleasant in L.A. takes time and gas, you know.)

The other day we met at Intelligentsia at Sunset Junction, where the barristers take their coffee-making seriously. Long lines of Silverlake hipsters form to buy expensive coffees and everyone seems to be attached to one thing or another. Lu pointed out one young man tethered to his ipod thusly, seemingly entranced by what he heard. 

As we paint we catch up on things, life, loves, work, etc. If you saw us, you might think we were sisters— sisters who don't need to pay strict attention to get every nuance of the conversation. We've known each other forever; as a result, we know what's coming, what's needed, what's best left unsaid.

Lu has a real sister, though, a sister whom she sees as often as is possible when one is busy and lives in another city. That she struggles with this relationship is no surprise, as I've done with my brother, as siblings do. As for my surrogate sister and I, we have the usual empathies and envies—happiness at the other's good fortune, sorrows when things go south—but without the ties of familial blood or obligation. Some would say, a relationship similar to being siblings... but better.

Lu at Intelligentsia


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Talking about happiness, last Saturday night Lu's husband Lloyd had an opening at the Cardwell Jimmerson Gallery in Culver City. It was a grand affair with family and old friends gathering around to admire his work.  

Lloyd and niece Sarah looking at the work

It was fun to see how the crowd interacted with the architectural installation scattered across the floor. Here's Sarah's gold boots framed by a towering angle.

In addition to his seventies work, Lloyd had a few new pieces tucked in the back. When I first heard the cooing of so many "ooohs" and "aaahs," I thought there must be a baby back there, or at least a chihuahua. 

But no, it was a big beautiful felt chapeau! Congrats Lloyd! The show runs until March 27.