Andrew Gruft (1937-2021)

The life of Andrew Gruft was celebrated last night at Cecil Green Park House, a big ass Edwardian era mansion designed by Samuel Maclure in 1912. In my dozen or so conversations with Andrew (a UBC Professor of Architecture for many years), I never knew what he thought of Edwardian mansions, though I suspect he had an understanding of them and might well have discussed them on a case by case basis, looking at each design and structure on its own terms, judging its success or failure on those terms.

And of course in my careful approach to a discussion of what Andrew might think about anything I feel myself bracing for his sudden presence, to tell me, No Turner, you're full of shit again. Stop standing outside yourself like that, disembodied. What were you feeling when you left the road and walked down the path? Did you feel the embrace? Did it feel yours? Don't me give me this crap about objectivity. Come alive, man!

There were four speeches last night. The first one from a daughter-in-law; the last one from Claudia Beck, Andrew's partner and wife for many years, and with whom he founded an important gallery and built an equally important art collection; and in the middle, a speech by Chris Dikeakos and one by Sarah Milroy, both of which were loving, funny and insightful. It was Sarah who reminded us of Andrew's two voices, what she calls "The Chainsaw" and "The Turtle-Dove." The chainsaw voice was the sparring voice, the one that scared me the first time I heard it because I took it personally; the turtle dove was softer and reserved for concerns over one's health or a stalled project, sometimes as a follow up to the chainsaw voice for those who appeared to take the chainsaw voice personally.

The event ran from 6pm to 11pm, but I left after the speeches, not wanting to eat or drink their words away, wanting to contemplate them instead and, I guess, speak to Andrew in my own mind, the sun having finally come out in full, so high in the sky at that, casting its rays onto things it touches only a few long days a year. Like this maple tree just north of UBC's Main Library, which I stopped to stare at because that's where Andrew was, where I could talk to him, hear what he had to say.