An Oregon giant dies at 69: "We're made up as much of what we've lost as what we've gained"
The news came this Sunday morning, as news so often does, via Facebook. A mutual friend posted something sad and cryptic, about losing a good friend the previous night, but she named no name. I scrolled down a little more, and came on another post, from his longtime close friend and gallerist, Charles Froelick, along with a picture of Rick looking not lean and energetic and on the brink of sideways laughter, as I suspect I'll always think of him, but gaunt and reflective, as if moving slowly to somewhere else, someplace private and unbreachable.
"I'm gathered with incredible people who have broken hearts and strong spirits," Charles wrote. "Rick Bartow passed away last evening after bravely battling congestive heart failure. His family and close friends surrounded him with love as he exited Earth. His poetry and genius will live on. More info and service plans will be announced."
So there it was. And I found myself responding not first as a journalist - here is news, and it needs to be told, and I must tell it - but viscerally. This wasn't just a public loss, but a personal one as well. I had written about Rick, this extraordinary Oregon artist and man, several times, and I knew him, not well, but in certain ways deeply: He had told me things and shown me things that people don't always tell and show when a stranger asks to step into their lives for a while, and that humility and generosity created some sort of bond.
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