Ed

Ed and I used to talk about art a lot. The question was always the same “What is art?” Ed’s focus was on the visual arts, mine on the written word, but to us this was irrelevant. We agreed that art was something bigger than us, something holy in a sense, something us mere mortals were trying to capture or convey. There was lots that we disagreed on, but you have to remember this took place during more civil times, when folks could suffer different notions without staining conversations with greasy invective.
So what is art? Actually, I don’t think I’m any closer to answering that question than when we raised it some time ago. Just as there are good and bad influences, there is good and bad art. Or maybe there’s no bad art at all, it being so removed from the influences of the angelic that we are simply experiencing poorly arranged medium, be it from the stroke of a pen or of a brush. We know when it is good. The artist has conveyed to us a moment of us in our fallen condition, or he has shown us the beauty in a fragment of time.

Around that same time, Ed and I made a bet. The goal was to see who would move to California first. The loser would have to pay the winner a million dollars, provided that he felt comfortable doing so. Ed was one of the first ones that I called when I moved onto a boat in the port of Los Angeles.
“I beat you, Ed. You owe me a million dollars.”
“Fuck you, you’re on the water, that doesn’t count.”
“No, fuck you, I’m well within the 12 nautical mile limit.”

It was a good natured argument between two old friends.
But Ed beat me to someplace better, and I concede the win. He passed away yesterday after a tough battle with cancer. The pain is gone, the suffering is gone, and the troubles that come with our human condition are gone.
Dear Ed, the expression you have while holding your beautiful granddaughter, that is art.
May you rest in peace.