Over the past ten years, Peter guided and supported me through two Master’s degrees at UIC and a number post-graduate art & life bumps.

In this time I had the pleasure of learning from a teacher who had a remarkable sense of wonder—one who could accurately be called “wonderful.”

I recently re-read a quote from his Facebook page where he called me “an eternal chrysalis” and couldn’t help but respond with scrunched up eyebrows and a smile because the statement was paradoxical, like a hidden message inside of a complement. It felt like a critical complement—both puzzle and poem to be “eternally in chrysalis"

It is an unusual mentor who communicates in poems.

When I learned of Peter’s death, I hunted down one of the most memorable messages Peter sent to me, in much needed sympathy to some wild superstitions I was expressing about a hawk:

He said, “There is nothing to living beyond the dead. There is just what that is, with all its cruel banal sublimity: we are…”

Peter, your courageous thinking is still in motion in me. At a loss for poetry, I return, word for word, what you wrote me when I needed it, “you are good and I miss you.”

Rebecca Beachy

The Summer of '72

I’ve known Peter a long time – our whole lives really. Our parents were friends, our Dads worked together, first at Yale, then decades later at West Virginia University in Morgantown. Something was always up in those Morgantown summers - swimming, rafting, guitar playing, poetry reading, drinking up the three-two beer and the humid super-pollinated air. Then Peter and I moved on, building our lives in different cities. We kept in touch through the occasional letter or phone call. But there was one night around 2006 – we were both in Morgantown visiting our respective aging parents. Peter and I stayed up late with a bottle of fairly bad Tequila and made up for lost time. We could easily have stayed up all night - he was the youngest fifty-something I ever knew. It was exactly as they say, as if no time had elapsed at all. He was that kind of friend – a lifelong friend. (Come to think of it, he coached me through my first-ever Tequila way back when, salt, lemon, shot, repeat.)

I wrote to him and his sisters Susan and Marty when their parents died. He called me when my mom died in 2012. After that it seemed we were finally going to re-connect - something about the departure of the old folks made me think even harder about passing time. He had moved to upstate New York with Maureen. We must get together. We wanted to. Time passed – that’s what it does. This summer would be the summer. All I had to do was send a note, make a call, take the 2 hour drive. This summer, this July. September at the latest, for sure.

I’ve been taking comfort from the memories and comments on this site. Peter was so loved by students and colleagues and friends and of course family. Everyone’s trying to make sense, to come to grips, to deal with the grief. Remembering and sharing helps. As Peter said to one student, don’t worry about getting it all in, telling the whole story – it’s ok to tell a little part of it. So, in that spirit, I offer these few memories.

The summer of 1972 was a rainy and very cool summer in Morgantown, West Virginia, a fine summer nonetheless. We ran together, a core posse of Peter and I and a tall, lanky red-haired guy who led us on our escapades of danger and great fun. We were University brats, shaggy, full of poetry and songs in that summer of George McGovern. We did things that were breathtakingly foolhardy, things involving rivers and lakes and fast water. Once on a rope swing deep in the woods, Peter swung way out over a swimming hole. He forgot to let go and swung back. His trunks got caught in some bushes – nothing serious, but he shouted to us grandly, “I’m being torn asunder!” To which our red-haired friend responded, “The college boy is being torn asunder!”

He turned me on to Charles Olson and Robert Creely. I turned him on to James Tate and Charles Simic. He advised me as to the best version of Paradise Lost or the best translation of the Inferno. He loved to expound, but the exaggerated tone in his voice telegraphed that maybe he was putting himself and all of us on, just a little bit. I never saw him bummed out. He was a good guitar player. He played “Willin’” by Little Feat, to this day, as far as I’m concerned, it’s his song:

I've been from Tucson to Tucumcari Tehachapi to Tonapah Driven every kind of rig that's ever been made Now I've driven the back roads So I wouldn't get weighed And if you give me weed, whites, and wine Then you show me a sign I'll be willin' to be movin'

Years later when I first heard Pink Moon by Nick Drake on that VW ad, I thought, well that’s Peter Hales! (I heard Pink Moon on the radio this morning as I was writing this.) Even back then Peter was a good songwriter. We made the rounds that summer, and one night at Judy Linsky’s house he played two originals for some guys from the local hippy-psychedelic-country band. The first song was called “There’s Still Some Broken Heart Way Down Inside.” The guys loved it – LOVED it. Peter whispered to me that they loved it so much that he was afraid they were going to rip him off. The second song was called “From Here to California.” I heard it a few times that summer – maybe more than a few, he wasn’t shy. But I know I haven’t heard it since then. The chorus really stayed with me, all these years. I eventually became a songwriter myself, and since I could only remember the chorus, I had it in mind to learn the whole thing from Peter and play it on a gig sometime, maybe even record it. Just one of the things I was looking forward to this July, September at the latest. I’m hoping the entire song may find its way to me somehow, but for now, here's what I remember:

It’s a long way from here to California to the snows of the Sierra and the sad sea crying To the hills of Santa Cruz where the bells rang To the diamonds in your bay eyes when I sang to you To the diamonds in your bay eyes when I sang

Peter, thanks for the song and for everything else, friend. I will always miss you.

Jon Albrink

Peter Bacon Hales

From Eric Sandeen, Peter’s American Studies colleague

I first met Peter in the Denver airport. I had just reviewed his William Henry Jackson book for American Quarterly and had then invited him out to the University of Wyoming for a lecture. With his hand in mine, he recited the only sentence in my review that was not fulsome in its praise of his work. And then he gave me a big, mischievous smile. And that was the Peter I knew. He was committed to his work and intensely interested in people. He was a showman but he also relished all the preparatory work – the exploration and constant questioning that make the presentation of an idea memorable. I have seen him in action over the years, most dramatically at an American Studies meeting where from the front row (and deep in a different technology of 35 mm slides) I saw him in full art history presentation mode – two projectors firing salvos of slides, Peter in a crisp, white shirt with sleeves rolled up, leaning over the elevated podium looking like a buccaneer on the prow of a ship. Or, more viscerally, racing down California highway 101, Peter at the wheel talking even faster than the speed he was coaxing out of the car, to arrive on time for our presentations in San Luis Obispo. Carousels in hand – lock and load – we raced off to our sessions, papers flying. Life and scholarship were linked for Peter and both were adventures.

I am pretty sure that I can remember every time that I met Peter. He filled a room with his presence. He was one of those people whose ideas you could admire but whose whole approach to his profession reassured you that this was a profession worth a lifetime’s investment. He arrived at one American Studies meeting with an apology – “Something’s come up. I’ll make my presentation but I have to apologize in advance that I’ll have to leave immediately afterwards.” Or something like that. It was a typical Peter performance – rapid fire, encyclopedic, suggestive, generative. As he hurried down the aisle, it was almost as if people were trying to grab him, to force him to stay and elaborate, to help them connect their thoughts with his. At least, that’s how I construct this memory because that is how I feel now. With a new book just now published, with a life’s agenda incomplete, I don’t want him to leave.

Eric Sandeen, University of Wyoming Fulbright Professor, University of Nijmegen, Netherlands

My friend Peter

What was it? 35 years? Right now, it seems like just an instant. Since our last trip together to Jazz Fest, our friendship was exclusively by phone - many times stuck in my car talking in the Arizona heat, trading one more story, one more insight, one more revelation, big or small.

It's really hard to believe we won't be talking again, at least on this plane. I miss you, but I am really really happy that we got to share a bit while you were here.

It's a little story that brings it home to me. We were talking about the songs your band was playing, and I asked you if you did any Lyle Lovett. You mentioned North Dakota, which is my favorite too. And you said how you had to let a woman in the band sing it, since she was the only one who could get through the song without starting to cry. Me too - I had exactly the same problem.

Wish you were here to sing it with me.

Straight on till morning, my dear friend.

-Rick

Below is the lovely obituary written by Peter's sisters, Susan and Marty Hales:

PETER B. HALES HALES--Peter Bacon. (November 13, 1950 August 26, 2014), an acclaimed American cultural historian, photographer and author, and a joyous musician, died in a tragic bicycling accident near his home in Stone Ridge, New York. Born in Pasadena, California, Peter grew up in Guilford, Connecticut. He graduated from Haverford College in 1972. At the University of Texas http://www.legacy.com/memorial-sites/university-of-texas/?personid=172341760&affiliateID=186 at Austin, he earned his MA in Photography and American Studies in 1976 and his PhD in American Civilization in 1980 under the mentorships of Garry Winogrand and Dr. William H. Goetzman, respectively. His early academic career led him to the University of Illinois http://www.legacy.com/memorial-sites/university-of-illinois/?personid=172341760&affiliateID=186 at Chicago in 1980 where he became Professor of Art History, Chair of the Art History Department (2006-2010), and Director of the Study of the U.S. Institute for Scholars (formerly American Studies Institute). He retired in 2010, was named Professor Emeritus, and continued to teach until 2012. Peter and his wife Maureen relocated from Chicago to their home in Stone Ridge, NY in 2012, where he focused on research and writing. When his most recent book Outside The Gates of Eden - The Dream of America from Hiroshima to Now was published in April, he was immersed in new projects, including a photographic and cultural study of the American freeway. Earlier books include Atomic Spaces: Living on the Manhattan Project (1997); William Henry Jackson and the Transformation of the American Landscape (1988); and Silver Cities: The Photography of American Urbanization, 1839-1915 (1984; revised and published in 2005); as well as numerous essays and articles, the spectrum of which reflect his broad areas of interest and expertise. A natural community builder, Peter embraced life in the Hudson Valley with his treasured wife Maureen, developing strong friendships and a conservationist's sense of place. As an accomplished guitarist and songwriter, Peter sought out and found friendship, collaboration and community with musicians wherever he lived. As a passionate cyclist, Peter often rode over 200 miles a week with a team, a partner or solo. Beloved husband, dedicated father, loving brother and uncle, mentor and friend to many, Peter is survived by his wife Maureen Pskowski, son Taylor Hales, daughter Molly Hales, sisters, Susan Hales and Marty Hales. He is predeceased by his parents, Milton Reynolds Hales and Harriet Bacon Hales. Donations may be made in honor of Peter Hales to the Rondout Esopus Land Conservancy, where he served on the board. RELC - Peter Hales, PO Box 144, Accord, NY 12404 All are invited to share memories and photographs at: www.peterbhales.squarespace.com

Peter Bacon Hales

Today’s Art History gathering brought so many memories rushing back of that wacky, wonderful, incandescent Peter Hales. Many mentioned "His office." The dog, the classical music, the bookshelf, his bike, the lamp, and the utopian, convivial atmosphere that he was able to magically create within our brutalist architecture and crumbling walls. He was both quintessential idealist and absolute pragmatist- just like Addams and Dewey. Others mentioned his “hyperbolic praise” - we were all graced by his ability to make each one of us feel special and appreciated. Peter’s verbal felicity and his ability to speak in poetry and write circles around everyone- even when it was about the most mundane of matters. Reading his old emails will forever be a source of joy. His love and respect of the students- I remember serving on a MA thesis committee with him, utterly astounded at the quantity of edits, questions and critical generosity he had for the work. Almost everyone mentioned his great advice that he offered on all matters great and small and in all times, because he cared: “Buy a bike helmut,” “Don't talk about reification so much it dates you!” “Teach whatever you want and only what makes you happy.”- a sampling of some pieces of advice he offered to me… I so regret never telling him thank you, thank you for helping us envision and found the MUSE program. I will miss him dearly.

Thank you to everyone who has shade their memories. They've been a great comfort. A few people have asked for a copy of the eulogy that I read at my father's service in Stone Ridge. I'm posting it here, unedited, with the disclaimer that it was written to be read aloud:

When I was twelve or thirteen, my dad and I decided to make our own Christmas tree decorations. Somehow one of us got the idea that it would be nice to have a “natural” Christmas tree, decorated with pine cones and with strings of nuts and berries—that sort of thing. My dad bought bags of popcorn and mixed nuts still in their shells. But stringing them together turned out to be an unimaginably labor-intensive and frustrating task. The popcorn crumbled to pieces when we tried to put a needle through the kernels. And the nuts didn’t prove much easier to work with. If you’ve ever tried to just crack a walnut, you’ll realize the futility of attempting to poke tiny holes through those thick, tough shells. My dad ended up getting out one of his power tools, an electric drill—the kind you might use to drill through a solid wooden wall if you needed to hang a picture. And then he painstakingly drilled through each individual nut in that colossal bag, while I sat next to him on the couch and strung them together.

That was my dad. No task was too time-consuming, too monotonous, or just too "maddening" to be worth the effort, if it might bring a smile to the face of someone he loved. If it might bring a little more beauty to the world. Or if beauty proved elusive, then at least a shard of truth.

You see, my dad was an expert spinner of tall tales, willing to stretch the limits of believability in order to color a story as vividly as it seemed to live in his own memory. But for all that, he was a lover of truth as well. Not truth with a Capital T, not the Truth that Critical Theory dismantled, but the glimmers of truth that you recognize by the way they resonate inside of you, like a bell striking, its vibrations reaching all the way to your fingertips. I feel that now in my dad’s writing and in his photographs. They cut straight to the heart of the matter, showing you something that it feels, somehow, like you knew all along, but just couldn’t…quite…see. He certainly knew me as well as anyone ever has. But he also saw the best version of myself. I have tried to live up to the version of myself that I saw reflected in his love, and I know I will continue to do so, as we all will.

And that Christmas, with the homemade decorations? Well after all that drilling and threading, our string of nuts barely reached once around the Christmas tree. So my dad just hung it up vertically instead, weaving it back and forth along the front of the tree like a garland. And then he stepped back, admired the effect, and declared it a great success. As he looked at that bare Christmas tree with its one disheveled string of half-broken nuts, I could see that my dad’s face was lit with joy.

Of all the many things that I will miss about my father, this is the one that I will surely miss the most: his joy. His unbelievable capacity for joy. I have never met anyone who was so ready to be moved to tears by life’s small treasures. Who could feel such wonder at the things that the rest of us learn to see as mundane. The early evening sun reflected off of the trees behind the hayfield. The flash of a cardinal’s wings, red against the snow. The lip-smacking pleasure of a dirty martini. The feel of grass under his feet as he walked, barefoot, to the barn.

When I was 18 and struggling through a difficult period, my dad wrote to me. He said: I hope that in the midst of all of this, you are borne up by the ocean of love on which you float. And I was, even then. My dad had a knack for knowing what to say, especially when life seemed bleak. Especially when you weren’t quite sure if you had the strength to keep going, or if you even wanted to try.

So I will end with this wish for you all, from my dad.

I hope that you are swimming in the ocean of my father’s love, and that it buoys you up. Even now, even when it is his death that is dragging you down.

And dad, I hope that you are feeling the ocean of our love. I hope that you are floating on it.

-Molly Hales

Peter

  • The UIC Art History department had a small gathering for Peter this afternoon. I said a few words, and because I know how important it’s been to me over this past week to read others’ memories of Peter, I’m sharing those words here:*

I met Peter in the fall of ‘98. It was my first semester of grad school (the first time around), and he was teaching 510. I’d already heard about Peter, through Hannah, when I’d visited campus the year before. She told me, within fifteen minutes of meeting me, I’d adore him, and she was right.

I’ve thought a lot about what I would say today, whether or not I ought to write it down—and I figured, to be safe, I would—and the more I thought about what to say and all the different, wonderful, ridiculous, beautiful memories I have of Peter, the more I could hear him to say to me, just like he did that semester in 510, “Come on, Cass, you don’t have to worry about this. You’re never going to say it all, so just be okay with saying some of it, and trust that the rest will come later when it needs to. For now, just tell us one thing, one thing that matters. And tell us why.”

And I knew that Peter was right. More than that, I knew, for those of us who were his students, that that’s what mattered. Peter never expected or wanted us to get it all; what he wanted for us, what he expected of us, was for us to keep asking, and for us to tell him—and, more importantly, to tell one another—why it mattered, whatever it was.

And if it mattered to us, it mattered to Peter. Peter invested himself in us, and he was the best cheerleader in the world. During that semester in 510, and again and again after that, I managed to earn and sustain a certain reputation in Peter’s eyes as an iconoclast, a rebel—something he knew a thing or two about—and I was always willing to challenge the canon, often sophomorically so, I’m sure, but never without spirit and enthusiasm and conviction. And I was able to do that, so fearlessly, because Peter modeled for me, for all of us, how to do that. Peter dug himself in, and he encouraged us to do that. That is, Peter gave us courage—our own, and his—to question, to challenge, and to trust ourselves…and to trust that the rest would follow when it needs to.

*I am greatly honored to call Peter my teacher, my mentor, and my friend. I miss him tremendously.*

 The UIC Art History department had a small gathering in honor of Peter this afternoon.  I said a few words, and because I know how important it’s been to me over this past week to read others’ memories of Peter, I’m sharing those words here:

 I met Peter in the fall of ‘98.  It was my first semester of grad school (the first time around), and he was teaching 510.  I’d already heard about Peter, through Hannah, when I’d visited campus the year before.  She told me, within fifteen minutes of meeting me, I’d adore him, and she was right.  

 I’ve thought a lot about what I would say today, whether or not I ought to write it down—and I figured, to be safe, I would—and the more I thought about what to say and all the different, wonderful, ridiculous, beautiful memories I have of Peter, the more I could hear him to say to me, just like he did that semester in 510, “Come on, Cass, you don’t have to worry about this.  You’re never going to say it all, so just be okay with saying some of it, and trust that the rest will come later when it needs to.  For now, just tell us one thing, one thing that matters.  And tell us why.”

 And I knew that Peter was right.  More than that, I knew, for those of us who were his students, that that’s what mattered.  Peter never expected or wanted us to get it all; what he wanted for us, what he expected of us, was for us to keep asking, and for us to tell him—and, more importantly, to tell one another—why it mattered, whatever it was. 

 And if it mattered to us, it mattered to Peter.  Peter invested himself in us, and he was the best cheerleader in the world.  During that semester in 510, and again and again after that, I managed to earn and sustain a certain reputation in Peter’s eyes as an iconoclast, a rebel—something he knew a thing or two about.  I was always willing to challenge the canon—and I’m sure, often sophomorically so, but never without spirit and enthusiasm and conviction.  And I was able to do that, so fearlessly, because Peter modeled for me, for all of us, how to do that.  Peter dug himself in, and he encouraged us to do that.  That is, Peter gave us courage—our own, and his—to question, to challenge, and to trust ourselves…and to trust that the rest would follow when it needs to. 

 I am greatly honored to call Peter my teacher, my mentor, and my friend.  I miss him tremendously.

memories

I was very sad to learn of Peter’s death. The news moved me a surprising amount given my distance from Peter. My contact with him was as an undergraduate engineering student at UIC in the early nineties. I had Peter for two semesters of History of Photography. I found him to be a compelling, insightful, and engaging professor.

Though outside my major, I remember being drawn in. I had a number of in-depth discussions with him about the Columbian Exposition. Somewhere in the conversations it came out that he was working on a book about the Manhatan Project. This was a topic on which I was very interested and later when I was a grad student I stopped by his office to discuss Atomic Spaces and his views on various cold war issues. I don’t remember the specifics of the conversation, but I do remember being struck by how generous he was with his time and how perceptive he was in his analysis.

I am not one of the people that could call Peter a friend, but I am one of a larger group of people that was touched by what a special guy he was. While I was contemplating his death, I was talking with my wife about how I was somewhat perplexed my feeling. I’ve had little direct contact with Peter but yet feel very sad about his death. She pointed out that of all my non-major, undergrad professors, he is the only one for which I can remember his name.

He was an inspiring person. Knowing that I will never again happen to catch him on Chicago Tonight, or come across new book of his makes me sad. Peter’s community has lost a great soul. My thoughts are with his family and friends. I am very sorry for your loss.

-Curt Preissner

I wish I could create a worthy tribute to the joyous energy that was Peter. I would tell a rich and witty story, but lack the eloquence. I would write a poem, or sing a song to him, but these muses have never spoken to me.

I wish I could have been there for his memorial, to share the tears and to be part of the celebration of Peter’s life. As I look and see the happiness, the love and life in the pictures shared here, there are so many emotions, so many ways I feel gratitude for having known him. All I can do here is to try to say in a few stumbling words what Peter meant to me. And no matter how many times I write and rewrite, it just won’t come out right. But I have to try, and say at least one thing I left unexpressed.

Years ago, Peter helped me through the darkest hours of my life. Quietly shared experiences, confidences, and single malt told me I wasn’t crazy, and that love and hope can be real and painful and worth struggling and striving and living for.

I was never able to thank him or even really tell him – I’ve always been crap as a friend – but Peter understood, no, knew well the darkness I was in, and helped me open a door to life and to happiness. So beautiful to see he had found his, and so excruciatingly sad for those who love him most that he was torn from them.

Thank you, my friend. I shall always cherish you in my heart.

Karl

Peter Hales

When my daughter, Zoë, was about two months old, one of the graduate students had a party. I don’t remember whom, but there was plenty of good brew and greasy food. I was only in my second year of teaching and a little uneasy, having been pregnant for all of my first year at UIC. A member of the ‘have it all’ mindset, the stress of being a working mom in a university without daycare was just dawning on me. I was a typical, frenzied, first-time mom. I remember that Peter grabbed tiny Zoe with confidence. She fell asleep in his arms and we sat on a frayed, green couch and talked about SoHo in the seventies (he had lived there too), our shared love of guitar music (he was also a musician), the joys of touring by bicycle (he was warming up to that), performance art and the incredible pleasure of a life in books. That was 1995 and versions of that moment played out over and over and over the years. My girls always looked forward to seeing him at department events. He was handsome, brash, opinionated and knew something about everything and everything about some things. That’s nineteen years ago. That little baby is in college now and grieved his passing with me. “I’ve known him forever” is what she said.

I came to trust Peter in that most private place of academics…the rough draft. Peter was the first reader of my first and third books. He could be trusted that way, responding with illegible lines that somehow swirled out the general sense of “Yes, this works” an upward swish of broad curve, a check or a star, and “are you freakin’ kidding?!” clearly indicated with a big X, a NO, something squiggly up the side, or even (was it once or more?) a frown or what I took for a frown, bisected and angled lines across the bottom. That image of his pen dancing lightly across other people’s writing is one that really sticks. He was a kind of choreographic advisor to other people’s mental gymnastics, whether the thing landed with an ignoble ‘thud!’ or took flight.

Astonishing narratives hung on and around Peter like so many flickering lights. Like that department function nineteen years ago, my most vivid memories involve his story telling. Like the time he was pulled over in a van in Texas. Or the Quaker meeting, his kids’ escapades with friends or abroad. Was it Africa? Taylor’s mountaintop wedding. Molly’s travails with doctors. While I don’t recall the details of these stories, I recall vividly the explosive enthusiasm with which he told them. Since leaving Chicago, these would be shared far and wide in his Facebook reflections, shared, as they were, with an ever wider circle o f friends. Pure poetry. Really fun. Lovely.

Remembered by Hannah B Higgins

-- Hannah B Higgins Professor, Interim Chair School of Art and Art History (m/c 201) University of Illinois Chicago 929 West Harrison Street Chicago, IL 60607-7039

Even though I wasn’t a student of Peter’s, I learned such a great deal from him. I admired the breadth of his interests and knowledge and how he brought it all together and made connections with it all, and how all of it was infused with care, and human-ness, and fun. He wrote me in March to let me know how much he liked my newest work, and he wanted to be sure that I already had or would buy a better camera. He gave me very detailed suggestions. He referred to my new images as ‘early work,’ implying that this would be a long significant body of work, and thought I should have good prints for this phase since he foresaw change as I dove deeper. He also was confident I would harness the ephemerality (his phrase) in real time more as well. His support and encouragement meant so much to me. I looked forward to sharing more with him and knew he was going to help me see all the possibilities (and all the weak spots too) because his scope was colossal, and I so admired how he brought it bear on his perception of artworks. I’m so glad to have this small written record because to have his respect and understanding meant so much to me, I respected him so enormously. And thanks to the beautiful words of so many at the memorial I do understand his huge-yeah, overflowing-joy to be at the center of all his dazzling intelligence, generosity, consideration, concern for justice, and love of laughter.

-Pamela Fraser

brilliant

I thought I’d seen everything in academia…until I met Peter. Wow!, where was this rare-gem-of-a-man, the “Beautiful American,” hiding all these years? Selfishly welcoming the fact that I entered this very special person’s intellectual chamber I was set on a new course: to strive beyond being rigorous and to become brilliant. For Peter, being brilliant was no effort. Here was a nova of charm and intellect burned so bright and generously. And so, since the day-to-day pressures of the campus is left behind for both of us, I am thinking we are embarking on a long and joyous intellectual journey—that is cut off when the e-mail that was supposed to arrive from Peter arrives from elsewhere. With a hole in my heart, I am trying to come to terms with his sudden absence and to recover the purpose that Peter inspired in me.

Gökhan Ersan

So long ago

I really knew Peter through Barb and so my memories include both of them and are influenced by the way Barb spoke of him, her deep love for him evident in the stories shared. In those days Barb and I were struggling through the non-profit dance world of the early 1980's. That struggle, however, included many good times: beverages at Sheffield's; dinner at their home always included coffee afterward; the purchase of the house in Evanston; the birth of children; chili cook-off at the house in Evanston with Taylor as a little boy; and Peter's recommendation to me for a wedding photographer. I remember his laugh, his wry sense of humor, and his brilliant mind. I am saddened by his tragic death.