The Brooklyn Rail

I remember once being with Graham in Ménerbes, France. The plan was to head out before dawn—to catch the morning light.

Graham didn’t drive... he told me once it was because he got too distracted by seeing the world. I arrived a little ahead of schedule to pick him up, and in an effort to turn the car around at the end of the narrow drive, I managed to get it stuck—half on, half off a ledge. It was one of those surreal moments where you realize things aren’t going quite to plan.

I walked back up to let him know there’d been a bit of a hiccup. No painting just yet—we had a minor rescue mission on our hands. He came pottering down the road, calm as ever. He looked at the car, then just quietly started scanning the area. Without a word, he began gathering rocks from the roadside. No dramatic effort, no brute force—just an intuitive, steady sort of problem-solving. This was Graham. One rock at a time he created a makeshift support to ease it off the ledge. He seemed to approach life as he did a painting, with creativity and knowing that moving something just a fraction could give a phenomenal outcome. 

Eventually, thanks to his persistence, we got the car free. But already, the light had shifted—the moment for painting had passed. But that didn’t seem to matter much. He still wanted to go and look, to see what the morning had become, even if the brushes stayed in the bag.

If we’re lucky, maybe once in a lifetime, we meet someone whose presence subtly alters the course of our lives. For me, that person was Graham. He wasn’t just an artist or a thinker—he was someone who moved through the world with a unique openness that invited others to do the same.

He had a different sense of time than most people. It could be frustrating at times—he never hurried, even when there were schedules to follow. But that was because, for him, being in the moment mattered most, and giving people the time to be fully heard.

Watching him talk with others—whether friends, students, fellow artists, donors, or trustees, was like watching someone fully present. He had an unquenchable curiosity and listened deeply. Every interaction felt personal, deliberate, and when he was critiquing works, he was generous, but also as he received information he was able to hone in on that one area that was neglected. 

Graham taught me, too, how to look—with an artist’s eye and a patient mind and with heart and passion. He had an extraordinary ability to see the world—not just observe it, but see it, deeply. He had this rare gift of pointing out color and moments that most of us overlooked. It wasn’t grand or performative; it was subtle, thoughtful, and illuminated what was really there. You can see this in his art. Whether he was making work, talking about art history, walking down a city street, or looking out the window of a train, he made the ordinary feel profound.

I had the joy of traveling with Graham over the years—to Italy, Australia, and various corners of the United States. These weren’t trips in the usual sense; they were more like wandering explorations. One weekend in Italy—he decided on a whim, to head to Siena before colleagues and students arrived. That turned into a three-day adventure across central Italy, chasing Piero della Francesca’s work, traversing from Montefalco to Arezzo and on to Rimini, sampling wine, talking art. These trips were spontaneous, adventuresome, and so very Graham. He lived for those moments—unrushed, unplanned, always fully engaged and always with a mission, mostly to view an artwork.

I remember on these trips and then again in class later how animated he became when speaking about art—from prehistoric cave paintings to the serene intensity of Bonnard. Whether hearing him describe the thumb pressing into the eye of the soldier in Piero della Francesca’s Resurrection or asking students to consider the care and consideration of Euan Uglow’s color changes, his passion was contagious. Listening to him talk made you want to rush to the nearest museum or pick up a brush.

I spent years with him in the studios as a privileged observer watching him work his magic with students. His feedback was both contextualized with reference to other artists but also  individualized and forensic to the work. He understood the anxiety of students as they doubted their choices or doubted their skills. One by one he would encourage them to change this color or that color, and not just any color, but the lemon yellow, with a hint of viridian and a touch of Rowney rose; or move that mark, and then see the result  begin to work in building form and volume.  With this, he enabled them to go on the journey of really looking, have the ambition to get the work just right, and to be courageous and take risks. 

His studios unveiled the man. The first one I saw was his time capsule studio in London that I packed up and moved to New York for him, then, his Soho studio … three steep flights up on Broadway and you’d enter what felt like a living archive of creativity: canvases everywhere, sketches pinned to the walls, books stacked in every corner, the scent of paint heavy in the air. It was chaotic in the best way. His final studio in Long Island was more accessible and it was there that I had the privilege to sit for him while he painted my portrait. Watching his steady hand, feeling the intensity of his focus—it was an experience I’ll never forget. Him, insisting that I tilt my head a little more to the left. That space was more than a studio. It was his sanctuary.

Graham planted ideas and questions, not necessarily the answers we wanted, but what we needed to hear to allow each of us to continue on our own journey. He made people feel capable of more than they believed they were. He never pushed; he encouraged. He made you feel like you could grow, and that whatever path you chose to take was already yours—you just had to start drawing, painting, or making and continue with curiosity. 

Graham was a friend, a mentor, a fellow traveler through life’s detours. The ultimate painter/adventurer. To have known him was to be given a gift, and his influence will stay with me always. He was one of a kind. I’m endlessly grateful to have called him my friend.