devastated.

I don't even know what to say. My dear friend Brandon, who was my rock, just killed himself this week. The week has been a horrific blur of exhaustion, I sit here now all night as one of the dance parties goes on next door, too exhausted to go in, too sad to go into our printshop, Brandon's print shop, his passion.

He got in his car, and he turned it on in the garage, and when his brother found him Tuesday morning both the car battery and Brandon were dead.

Why? Why, why, why?

We saw him Friday night, he seemed a little dejected, and his last words haunt me still. But, I didn't detect anything bad, I've seen him profoundly depressed and suicidal before and it was different. He didn't say goodbye. He left early in one of the greatest openings, Capsule's last, I never even got time to write about it. It was a magical evening, marred a few days later by the discovery that it was the last time Brandon was seen alive. He ordinarily stuck around and drank beer (free beer for life, we used to joke, since he fixed up and donated the kegerator, 'cause that's the kind of guy he was), and since he was "stumbling distance", as he would say, he was usually the last one here.

Such a kind, gentle soul. I loved him like a brother, we got each other. He always opened up to me, we poured out our feelings to each other about life, about relationships, about art. If he was going to tell anybody he was in pain, it would have been me, K., or I.

I'm angry, I'm sad, I'm confused. I can't believe I'll never see him again. I'm lost without him in the screen printing shop, he knew so much more than I did, he taught all the classes. I'll never forget him looking over his glasses at me, one eyebrow cocked, squeegee angled to pull another print but pausing at some outlandish thing I'd said. It was a scene replayed many times. He was the kind of guy that -- as Miss V.R. quipped at the memorial -- "would not only get excited about whatever project you proposed, would have bought all the materials and had everything ready for you by the next time you saw him". He was thoughtful to a fault, constantly burning screens for people, staying late after class, a natural teacher.

Two weeks ago, he left a list of jobs for the shop tech, which was essentially him, although we were getting a new one to assist. He posted new emulsion times. The shop was tidy. His last class was Thursday. Was he planning this? Did he know that I would never see him again on Friday night? If so, I want to kick him in the balls for not saying anything, for not even hinting. Was I too neglectful, too busy, too distracted? Hanging Matthew's fantastic show -- Capsule's last -- was exhausting and time consuming, 804 collages in one room, mailed to me over the course of two years. Was Brandon trying to tell me something? He said he was really tired...come to think of it, he's been saying that a lot lately. But it was his busy season at work, and he was worried about paying the bills, and both of us were working a lot, and still trying to get our work done...of course we were exhausted. Something else we shared -- workaholic insomniacs, with different "cures". His involved Ambien, so the early thoughts were that he had "sleep-driven" the car. But...he left two signed checks for his folks. He locked the house. I keep grasping at every clue, desperately trying to remember every conversation, searching and searching for meaning in the most trivial of things.

M. and I were given his art supplies to divide by his parents. It was hard...we both sorted through, decided what was useful to us...I love the thought of painting with his brushes, and he had some very cool things that will open new artistic directions for both of us, and we were getting excited with possibilities, talking about airbrush techniques (I haven't used one since high school, but suddenly I am in posession of one). But then, we would remember, and feel guilty for any enthusiasm over materials, which is the most natural impulse for any artist, I suppose. Odd, mixed, horrible feelings. His parents gave M. & I one of his unfinished canvases, as well, which we will collaborate on finishing. It is covered with screen printed candy hearts in B's patented "trash-fer" method, but the candy hearts say "Fuck You". I am so grateful to his parents for allowing us that deep honor, and it's daunting. My last good talk with B. was sitting around in the print shop helping him cut out those little hearts, procrastinating on doing my own work. We discussed the future, his work -- he was excited. He had been making tremendous strides, breaking through to new territory.

So, I've been thrust by bad fortune into the role of advisor to the family of my dear friend, who are struggling to decide what to do with his vast body of work.

We hung all of the work we could find and fit on the walls last night, and had a beautiful memorial. The family wanted it to be like an art opening, the community handled everything, worked together to move his work, hang the show, bring food, flowers, make a brochure, etc. I made a powerpoint of all the pictures of him and his work I could gather together, and playlist of his favorite songs. Another friend passed around a book for everyone to write a surrealist poem, it's something this artist did whenever he gave an artist's talk, his tradition. My husband's band played (they were all his friends, too, and he was a fan), by the last song the entire band had tears in their eyes and could barely play, but still played fiercely, it was breathtaking. Beautiful tributes from many friends, one friend stepped up and sang a lovely folk song in a tenor rasp that had everyone sobbing by the second chorus. I managed to hold it together to say a few words. I'm guessing there were about 250 people there -- his students, his friends, family, and admirers.

The hard part was everyone wanting to buy the work (and coming to me about it, since he's shown mostly in my gallery), and me having to gently refuse them, the family has decided to delay any decisions regarding the disemination of his work, which I think is smart. He was an emerging artist on the cusp of a brilliant career, and just coming into his own, so his most recent work is seminal, and incredible as well. He had been building up multiple layers of gel medium and airbrushing, with reflective elements underneath, really cool.

At this point, all of us who loved him want to continue his career for him, in spite of the anger many of us are feeling towards his actions. I feel that the goal is to build value for his work and get him into good collections with what's remaining -- there ain't gonna be any more.

I desperately want one of his paintings -- I have many of his prints, but no paintings. The family allowed me and another friend to take a partially finished work that we will collaborate to finish. But I've decided that, rather than a selfish need to own one, I would rather that it go for a lot of money, and if I can manage to pony up, fine, but I will donate it to a museum where I can visit it, there just isn't enough of his work to hoard. I know which one I want, too -- one of his last paintings, still on the easel, almost finished. A long, horizontal image of a hand firing a gunshot through an egg, shattering it, with a brilliant lime green background. Juicy. We had been in the midst of working out a trade when he died, I thought we had plenty of time. A huge missed opportunity.

It's difficult to turn people away who want a piece. But I think it's wise. And I've been telling people who want a piece that the only way for his legacy to truly live on is if we can manage to build his career the way he could have if he was alive. And unfortunately, that means building value into the work, trying to get into known collections, generating museum interest, getting articles written....it's daunting. But I owe him big, for more things than I can even name. And I believe he's a talent worthy of doing this for, although it veers dangerously close to the "art dealer" status that I'm trying to escape.

Based on the advice I got on Craigslist, I rushed over to his house as quickly as I could and spent nine hours there gathering every scrap of paper, sketch, or piece of writing in his studio. His family, feeling the need to purge, was basically throwing almost everything out. I'm worried that there are things that they wouldn't have known were important, it was as if they just needed to stay as busy as possible, and I can completely relate, I did the same thing this week. (Making phone calls to all of our friends, and the press, however, is the most horrible task I have ever had to perform. I wouldn't wish it on anyone, each call is just heartbreaking. Every time I dialed my heart beat faster and it got harder and harder to get through the whole sentence. I finally resorted to a mass email, it was impossible to do anything else.)

A friend of ours who is not an artist but an ardent supporter and one of his bigger collectors is going to put together a database of all the work. We photographed it all and carefully wrapped it for storage at a family members' house. She built him a website and wants to write an article about him.

I'm working on the exhibition end. I have one small museum interested in a show, but I'm going to check the larger ones first. We're also planning a tribute show, and several of us are going to work on a canvas he had started for inclusion in a Dia de los Muertos altar next year. We're going to catalogue his library with another librarian friend, all of his source material, notes, and sketches. Many of his sketches were digital, so we're working with the family to get those sorted out. (The family, by the way, has been incredibly cooperative, and although they are a little guarded and protective, who wouldn't be. I think they know we all share their goal for his legacy.)

This artist also used a rather unique system for creating paintings based on a list of numbers that corresponded to different things. (example: #11 = Bee, #45 = medication, etc.). When he wanted to create a painting he would buy a quick-pick lottery ticket, and the numbers would determine the imagery in the painting. While I was going through his work and his papers I managed to figure out his list, I'm only missing a few numbers. Prior to his death, he and I had talked numerous times about curating a show where we would give artists his list and a lottery ticket to create a work using his system. We're planning on doing this as a tribute show, and using the funds to generate income for his scholarship fund. (This is something he always talked about doing if he "made it big", those fantasy conversations all us artists seem to love to sit around having.) In the event that his work is someday sold, the sales will go into this fund.

This has all been an enormous learning experience, and I'm still figuring it out. I'm also dealing with an array of emotions from immense sadness to intense anger, coupled with extreme exhaustion from the past two weeks, so excuse me if for rambling, I hope this all makes sense tomorrow. Or hell, I wish any of it made sense, but I think maybe it never will.

All of the cynical motherfuckers of the world can flaunt their detatched hipster irony, but it won't change the fact that this is the one thing guaranteed to happen to any one of us, and if we, as artists, want our work to outlive us at all and not wind up in thrift stores we better start doing some estate planning. There's no guarantee that someone else will have the patience or foresight to know what to do with our work, sorting through our messy records and trying to piece things together. I know I don't want to leave that job to my family, now. My records are a mess, my work is scattered everywhere, not properly wrapped or stored, my slides haven't been organized for years. It's holding me back, and if something were to happen to me, why should someone else have to deal with it?

Bunch of lessons, still sorting through them. It would be the first time Brandon taught me stuff, but sadly, it may be the last. It's time to get my life in order, NOW. No more fucking around. I am more committed to getting things organized than ever.

Phew.

Dammit.

I miss you, B.