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Guest Book for
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March 11,
2005 |
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Dear Sherry, Josh, and
Toby.
I just now heard about Chris and wanted to
write to tell you how sorry I am to learn the news. My
heart goes out to each of you. It's been years since
I've seen you but I always think of you fondly and keep
pictures in my mind of you all as you looked in the
early '70s. When I think of Chris, I remember him as a
kind and gentle person. I thought he was pretty cool,
too, back when I was fifteen--I'd never known anyone
before who painted their living room floor in different
colors and displayed rocks. I remember not being sure
what to make of the rocks but I remember I loved the
floor!
My sincere sympathies go out to you
Sherry, and to you, Josh and Toby, from your babysitter
who loved you dearly. |
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Nancy Benton
Insley (Walpole, MA ) |
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March 7,
2005 |
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On a late night bus
trip back from NYC, we got into an intense discussion
regarding the origins of gender bias & stereotype.
The exchange was spirited, engaging, provocative... and
one that I have never forgotten. It is one of my fondest
memories of Chris. Back then, I was so concerned with
making good grades, I only dared to dream of art the way
Chris lived it; I was convinced the best I could hope
for was to be on the outside, looking in... but Chris
certainly did make “in” look wildly inviting.
Now 20
years later, I’m writing from my office in midcoast
Maine, a place that has been home for over 16 years; a
place I’d heard Chris was quite fond of. News of his
passing is devastating. The timing is uncanny--it’s only
within the past couple of years that I have come to
realize that of all the people I encountered in my 4
years at H.A.S., it was Chris who taught the most
valuable and enduring lessons.
So, an unfortunate
twenty years too late, I thank you, Chris--for
recognizing that the part of me that would never fit the
mold wasn’t the broken part; it was, on the contrary,
the most vibrant, vital and utterly necessary part...
and for being a constant reminder (even--and most
especially--now) that questions are so much more
valuable than answers. A better teacher I have never
known. |
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Sheila Kennedy
(Thomaston, ME )
sheila@midcoast.com
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March 6,
2005 |
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Having spent three
years at Amherst College “rooming together within two
feet of each other,” as our fellow roommate Dave
Stephens recently put it to me, we got to know each
other well: what follows are some of the things I
remember most vividly about Chris. First of all, he was
a big, strong guy at 6'2", weighing over two hundred
pounds, and a first-rate athlete. His specialty was
putting the shot, the object of which is to muscle a
sixteen-pound ball of iron farther than anyone else. One
day I watched him closely during practice; watched as he
curled his fingers around the shot, cupping it gently in
the crook of his neck, like a concert-master cradling a
Strad. Then he spun full tilt and launched the shot
explosively, at the same time letting out an almost
bestial roar. What stuck with me over the years was how
powerful he was, how disciplined, how intense, and how
determined to put forth his very best–in which respects
he never changed.
Another way Chris remained
constant was in his championship of the
new-and-different, the out-of-the-ordinary, as in his
introducing Dave and me to the music of Shostakovich and
Stravinsky, who could have been from another planet.
Through him, too, we made the acquaintance of the
Freudian psychologist Wilhelm Reich–and to the possible
efficacy of Reich’s “Orgone Box” in enhancing and
husbanding our abundant youthful supply of “stored
energy;” i.e.,what is now called testosterone. Dave and
I had our doubts about this business (though we were
intrigued), but it was typical of Chris then, and
throughout his life, to test the edges, to “get people
going,” by espousing the unusual, even proposing the
outrageous, in order to push his students into examining
and challenging the status quo. It became a hallmark of
his teaching style; it marked his conversation with
family and close friends as well.
In our junior
and senior years, Chris and Dave and I lived on the
second floor of Psi U, looking out over the spacious
lawn and venerable sycamores in front of the house. In
our livingroom was an old fireplace, no longer
operational but warmly decorative. Shortly after we
moved in, Chris carved the word “Averaducci” on the
lintel–as a way, perhaps, of making this part of the
house our home. “Averaducci” isn’t a real word, but was
Louis Armstrong’s version of “Arrivederci” as belted out
in the movie “High Society,” a favorite of ours. It
means goodbye, of course, but only until we meet again.
So I’d like to end this piece with a heartfelt
“Averaducci, Horts,” and a promise to meet again
soon–very specifically, at the public celebration of
your life and work to be held at the Hartford Art School
on June 26, 2005.
– |
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Skip Fitchen
(Madison, WI ) |
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February
20, 2005 |
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My father Gary Hogan
was a fellow HAS collegue and it was the place where I
spent my most formative years (as a toddler, not a
student!) You were all my family and caregivers at one
time or another. I remember cement halls and you all
helping my parents paint their West End Victorian. My
dad died in my arms, at home 13 years ago, I know many
were there to wish us well. I am so sorry for your loss
and hope the good memories will always prevail. Sherry,
my mother Marsha was the one who told me of your loss
and sends her best wishes as well. |
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Catherine Hogan
(San Francisco, CA ) |
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February 4,
2005 |
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A photo of Dad during
healthier times. |
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Josh Horton
(Hyde Park, NY )
josh_horton@yahoo.com
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February 1,
2005 |
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Amidst the clutter
around me, Chris taught me to expect more of myself and
others. He was an tireless advocate for those who would
not fit neatly in a box and instilled in me, much to the
dismay of others around me,the yearning for deeper
questions. As a freshman in his Art Theory class, I was
petrified of Chris. I can still hear his booming voice
in that lecture hall. But he lit a fire in me and
through my years at HAS, he was always there to to talk
to. I left HAS with a deep admiration and respect for
Chris and all that he taught me. My thoughts and prayers
are with Chris and his family. |
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David D'Orio
(Washington, DC )
ddorio@dcglassworks.com
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January 28,
2005 |
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I first met Chris
somewhere between ’49 and ’50 in the most unlikely of
places – Boy Scouts. Of course, neither of us lasted
long, preferring instead to sing Tom Lehrer’s irreverent
song, "Be Prepared."
We, and our friend, John
Tucker, rode the road through adolescence together –
studying, playing, dating, drinking, and exploring the
mildly forbidden fruits of the Fifties in a semi-rural
land. We once asked ourselves, "Were we innocent or
ignorant, and is there a difference?" That formed as
tight a bond as you’re likely to get in life, a
knowledge of the other before he has added the layers of
adult sophistication. And even though we all went off to
different colleges, we were together every vacation and
working summer jobs.
Chris was the heart, the
soul mate, the big guy, the strength, "Horts." The one
who launched the discus and the hammer and the shot. You
don’t have to talk a lot of heavy philosophy to know
what the other is made of. We entered the US Army
together, went through basic training and Counter
Intelligence School, and later followed each other’s
divergent lives. When he married Sherry, we were there
to share the joy, and when my wife Jean died, they were
there to share the grief. Visiting Chris when he was
dying, I saw the same strength that was there in his
youth.
I loved him like a brother and feel for
Sherry as if she were my sister. Bless him, the boy put
a dent in our hearts. |
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Bill Hamilton
(Choroní, Venezuela) |
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January 27,
2005 |
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I first met Chris
somewhere between ’49 and ’50 in the most unlikely of
places – Boy Scouts. Of course, neither of us lasted
long, preferring instead to sing Tom Lehrer’s irreverent
song, "Be Prepared."
We, and our friend, John
Tucker, rode the road through adolescence together –
studying, playing, dating, drinking, and exploring the
mildly forbidden fruits of the Fifties in a semi-rural
land. We once asked ourselves, "Were we innocent or
ignorant, and is there a difference?" That formed as
tight a bond as you’re likely to get in life, a
knowledge of the other before he has added the layers of
adult sophistication. And even though we all went off to
different colleges, we were together every vacation and
working summer jobs.
Chris was the heart, the
soul mate, the big guy, the strength, "Horts." The one
who launched the discus and the hammer and the shot. You
don’t have to talk a lot of heavy philosophy to know
what the other is made of. We entered the US Army
together, went through basic training and Counter
Intelligence School, and later followed each other’s
divergent lives. When he married Sherry, we were there
to share the joy, and when my wife Jean died, they were
there to share the grief. Visiting Chris when he was
dying, I saw the same strength that was there in his
youth.
I loved him like a brother and feel for
Sherry as if she were my sister. Bless him, the boy put
a dent in our hearts. |
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William and
Marisol Hamilton (Choroní, Venezuela)
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January 24,
2005 |
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Dear Sherry,
I
just found Chris's obit and this guest book today. I was
so fortunate to have met and enjoyed your wonderful
husband as an undergrad, when he popped into a
"Creativity" course I was taking and shared his deep
passion for art with all of us. At the time, the dose of
color and life he brought was just what I needed, mired
as I was between the (sadly) separate academic worlds of
words and paints. I'm sorry I never had the chance to
get to know him better. This guest book is a testament
to just how much I missed out on!
My heart goes
out to you and your children. I know what it is to feel
loss so deeply. Miss you.
-Becka. |
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Rebecca Pearson
(New Britain, CT ) |
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January 22,
2005 |
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Sherry,
Thank
you for sharing with me Chris's obituary. Your last
email made it sound like Chris was on to other
places.
Please accept my thoughts and prayers for
you and your sons - Josh & Toby. We have never met,
but your families' love of Maine and the two years you
and Chris spent at the "funky cottage" were duly noted
with the obvious love you and Chris expressed for the
natural environment - thru his paintings, your writings
at the old desk overlooking the outlet to Friendship
Harbor, and your adventures with your kayaks!
I'm not a wordy person, so I will end with the
attached photo of the Meeting House on Salt Pond Rd. in
Cushing. I imagine Chris now has a better perspective of
this scene..........he'll probably out do Andy Wyeth
with a painting of it.
Regards,
Jim |
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Jim Jennings
(Bishop, CA ) |
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