Like most of the world, I learned yesterday of the passing of the artist Rodney Graham after a relatively brief illness. Relatively brief compared to the rest of his life, thankfully, though 73 is too young for someone as youthful and curious as Rodney.
I first met Rodney in the late-1980s, when I busked with Hard Rock Miners on Robson Street and he worked around the corner at the Alberni Street liquor store. The designer Dean Allen lived above a shop on Robson, and it was at one of Dean's parties that I was formally introduced to Rodney and Shannon Oksanen. I arrived after an evening of busking, and Rodney, who often walked past us lost in thought, asked me about the Miner's repertoire -- questions that implied he was listening and indeed knew more about jug band music than we did. So my first introduction to Rodney was as a teacher of sorts.
As my writing life came to replace my musical life, I began to spend more time looking at visual art and, when not writing poetry and fiction, accepted invitations to write catalogue essays and exhibition reviews. It was through artists like Stan Douglas, Mina Totino, Judy Radul and Ken Lum that I came to know Rodney and the local art scene that linked them, a supportive scene that valued the ways in which an artwork is conceived and realized more than the commercial success by which "success" is often measured. At that time Rodney was a critical success -- an artist's artist whose work was as thoughtful as it was fun. It wasn't until the late-1990s that he achieved success at both levels.
During the oughts and early-teens I would see Rodney almost every Wednesday night at a South Granville salon hosted by artists Neil Wedman and David Wisdom at a now-defunct New Orleans themed bistro called Ouisi. Even if you weren't interested in obscure psychedelic bands, early Popeye lore or anything made by Roger Corman's American International Pictures, these sessions were magical, and the breadth of Rodney's wit and insight was often on display (to say nothing of his generosity, for on many occasions he quietly picked up the tab). Along with artists and writers, the salon was equally populated by those from other walks, many of whom came and went. One semi-regular was the hypnotherapist Sarah Lightbody, whose VHS copy of Seasons in the Sun (1987) was passed on to me by Rodney, with the promise that I return it to Sarah after I'm done with it. So Sarah, if you're reading this ...
I have many fond memories of Rodney, both the person and his remarkable body of work (from the early films, sculptures and writings to the later Walter Mitty works and abstract paintings), but I'll sign off with a memory that, in a way, bookends my busking days on Robson, when I'd see Rodney walk past us. It was at a downtown restaurant, during the restaurant explosion of the early-2000s. Judy and I were being led to our table by the maitre'd, and as we turned a corner, there was Rodney reading a paperback and poking at something in a bowl. We waved but he didn't see us, and we turned another corner and let it be. An hour later, after our server cleared our dinner plates, another server arrived with two magnificent tiramisus. "Nice! But we didn't order dessert." At which point the maitre'd swooped in and whispered, "Compliments of Mr. Graham."
photo: Alex Waterhouse-Hayward
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