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Memorial Eulogy "I keep thinking these last three months must be all a dream and I'm going to wake up and this will all disappear. And I'll go back to my piano piece I'm working on, make some intriguing discovery, call Morty, stick the phone inside the piano as I've done a million times, and play the new passage for him. And we'll discuss it for hours, all its implications, both of us tripping off each other's thoughts, more excited about these musical ideas and thought and art than we could possibly be about anything else. But of course, it's not going to happen." These past two years were great for Morty. In 1986 there were many 60th birthday celebrations, including a wonderful festival at Cal Arts. After about four days of concerts, the celebrations ended with the orchestra performing a graphic, sort of "indeterminate" rendition of "Happy Birthday to you" while a twenty-foot plastic birthday cake slowly inflated--to reveal a nude dancer inside. Cal Arts...they loved him there. In the past year he wrote five works: "Palais de Mari", a piano work; the music to a play by Beckett called "Words and Music" (a recording that¹s soon to come out); a large orchestral work, "For Samuel Beckett", premiered at the Holland Festival this summer; a work for chorus and percussion called "For Stephan Wolpe"; and his last work--a quartet for piano, violin, viola, and cello. He taught at Cal Arts, San Diego, Banff, and Buffalo the last year. He was looking forward to a new future with his sweetheart, Barbara Monk. They were just married this past June at a wonderful ceremony in Montreal. We were all there. It was only a few days later that I went to Buffalo to be with Morty and Barbara for what we thought at the time was a simple operation on a small tumor in his stomach. That was when we got the devastating, hopeless news. Morty did have radiation and chemotherapy. We all hoped for a turnaround, for anything, even until the last couple of days. During June and July, Morty was scheduled to speak and have performances at a number of festivals in Europe. As it was, he was able to go to the Middelburg Festival in Holland and be with Aki Takahashi and other close friends, hear the premiere of his last piece, and give a whole series of his famous four-hour lectures to the composition students who had traveled from all over Europe to hear him. At some point during the summer, Morty told me that he wanted me to speak at his funeral. I really didn't think I could do it, yet I knew that I must try. It might not have been completely a personal request, but maybe also a composition lesson. Earlier today I read through what Morty had said about Varese, Frank O'Hara, and Philip Guston at their memorials. And I remembered him standing, so large, head slightly bowed, as he read for Philip. He had that brilliant ability to place these great men in History, to cut through all the trafe and to say in just a few words what it was that would make these men immortal. So what am I supposed to say? Tell you what I think, what I know? That he is, without any doubt (and I do feel I'm speaking objectively)--the greatest composer this country has ever produced? That I think the 20th century is going to come down to Stravinsky and Feldman? That he has changed the dynamic of thought and action in music; that he has created the only type of music that has a possibility of hope for our future? Many of you will agree with me; others may think me brainwashed, but I don't really feel it necessary to say these things. History will show Morty right and these statements will prove true. No discussion will change this. Morty was one always sensitive to endings--and how he orchestrated the end of his life was no different. His love for Barbara, myself, and all of his friends; his generosity and courage; his immense will and spirit; his energy an dignity--all seemed to grow to superhuman proportions these last couple of months. And his sense of humor! Oh, there were terrible jokes. Jokes like, "Okay, girls, let¹s not have any more post-Morton's." Or his reason for traveling with Barbara to her family's summer home in Canada. Quoting Cyndi Lauper, he told me, "Dying composers just want to have fun." And one day, while ordering his lunch in the hospital, I remember asking Morty if he wanted some blueberry pie. He just looked at me, and he said disgustedly, "Colored cement." I remember wondering also if he was trying to deal with the fact that he might die. And I asked him once about this. He said, "No one knows better than I how to handle artistic uncertainty." From the first tough news through all the hopes of the treatments to the end, Morty had treated this problem as though it were another composition--exploring options, dealing with the facts and reality, and orchestrating the moves. Tonight he was scheduled to give a talk at John Cage's 75th birthday celebration in Los Angeles. The title of his talk was "Practically Alive." Interesting title. I wonder how he would have tied it into John's music. Morty was in the hospital for two weeks before he died. Until the last day he fought, and we all hoped the treatments would work and there would be a turnaround. Barbara and I were with him constantly, holding his hand, bringing his favorite foods from home, talking about music with him, and giving him all love and support. Friends called from all over the world, and Morty was just delighted to speak with everyone. It reinforced his sense of himself and gave him courage. He was 'Morty' to the end. His mind was strong; he had control over everything. There were instructions to me on exactly how many times I should wash and rinse his hair; how much milk should go in his oatmeal, and how fast we should stir his milkshakes (he had a special tempo for this activity). The final day he realized he was dying and made his good-byes to Barbara and me, refused all treatments that day, and that night, after Barbara and I had left, he got into his favorite chair (where he spent most of his time sitting), and left all of us. There was something he said to me that I would like to share with all of his friends here today because I think it applied to them, too. I was with him for a week while he was in the hospital, and then I had to return to New York for a few days. As I was getting ready to leave, Morty said, "I'll miss you." Trying to be practical, and to keep his hopes up -- I reminded him: "I'll be back in just a couple of days." "No," said Morty, "after I'm dead." At first it struck me as odd -- How could he miss me after he was gone? Then I realized what he was saying. We all loved and treasured Morty; he was one of the great minds of the century. And at the same time, he realized he might not have been 'Morton Feldman' without the unconditional love and support of all of his friends. He needed us as much as we needed him. And he will miss our love and friendship probably more than he'll miss his own life. We'll miss you, Morty. © 1987 Bunita Marcus |
