Saturday Grumps Reset

Today I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Well, not really, I almost always sleep on the same side of my bed, but you know what I mean. Groggy and grumpy, even a dog-walk with friend T and dog-friend M didn't lift my spirits. After a 45-minute session with my myotherapist, however, I felt, literally, reset. 

It's a 5 block walk in 90-degree weather with 53% humidity, so one would think this would set the grumps right back on track, but it really didn't. Maybe because it's cloudy so the heat didn't feel like laser beams on my skin? In any case, I felt a bit lighter on the walk home, which let me see some fun street scenes. I didn't take pictures, but here's what I saw, and enjoyed seeing: 

Two shirtless Cambodia men, older with slight paunches, sitting on small plastic chairs under an umbrella, playing chess with pieces that were quite tall. 

A coffee stand surrounded by and filled with plants, giving a very verdant vibe, with a sign next to the cash register that said “Life won’t sparkle until you do" among other motivational posters. 

A Cambodian woman, covered from head to toe with floppy hat, long sleeves, gloves, pants, socks, and shoes, sitting on her parked moto with three similarly dressed little girls behind her, all intently watching a shirtless Cambodian man water plants with a hose. 

Two hopeful tuk-tuk drivers leaning towards me as they were driving past, asking, "Tuk-tuk madame?" without slowing their speed, smiling slightly when I shook my head. 

It's funny how just observing the world around me in the moment can be so pleasing. It's easy to forget to get out of my own head, out of my own way, so that I can do this more. 

Laos Photography Tour - Part I

Nothing like rebooting the blog after almost half a year, by using it as a space to show off some photos!

I'm doing a photography tour in Laos with Nathan Horton Photography (link is to this particular tour). My group has seven other photographers plus Nathan and Lao guides, the first of whom is Phonsy (pronounced Pon-see). We all met Monday night in Luang Prabang at Sanctuary Luang Prabang Hotel on day one of the tour, a lovely space with comfy rooms and gorgeous grounds. Many of the other photographers have done multiple tours with Nathan as well as other photography tours... I'm definitely the baby!

Day 2: Luang Prabang

On the first morning, we headed out at 5:30am to observe and capture the daily morning ritual called 'Tak Bat', or giving alms to the monks. After that we had a quick coffee break, then headed to a local market. Back at the hotel, I got a one-on-one technical overview from Nathan on the basics of photography, tricks and tips for my DSLR cameras (I have two, only because one was declared lost with my shipment to Cambodia and later found!), and a very basic tutorial on using Adobe Lightroom Classic. After a bit of relaxing and lunch, we were off to see Heuan Chan Heritage House, where we had a few models in traditional dress to photograph. We took the two lovely (and patient!) ladies to Wat Xiengthong, with beautiful reflective mosaic exteriors as well as gorgeous golden inlay doors. 

This is my first photography tour and it was fascinating to have Nathan there to give pointers on settings and backdrop and composition. Being the newest, it took me awhile to ask questions - it's intimidating! - but he told me that if I didn't, he'd assume I was good to go. So... I asked a lot of questions, and he was a patient and fun teacher. 

We then walked through a local street market and headed off to Mount Phousi, from which we watched the sunset along with a couple hundred other tourists. This also began what I have dubbed Nathan Horton's Boot Camp - in the next few days we would climb many stairs and hills, getting a great workout. 

Tak Bat

Tak Bat

Tak Bat

Street market goods

Street market goods

Traditional dress at Heuan Chan Heritage House

Traditional dress at Heuan Chan Heritage House

Wat Xiengthong

A family returns from their temple visit

Sunset from Mount Phousi

Day 3: Luang Prabang & Around

Today was a long but exciting day! We began with another go at capturing almsgiving. I struggled in the early morning darkness but found some fun angles as sunlight started saturating the sky. Then it was a box breakfast on the drive to Kuang Si Waterfall, where we arrived before anyone else and so got a lot of time to fiddle with nature and water shots. I learned about neutral density filters and how limiting a crappy tripod can be. When I got frustrated not getting the type of shots everyone else seemed to be getting, I remembered to ask questions... and Nathan loaned me his tripod and showed me how to use my neutral density filter and utilize a time lapse. Later, we visited a H'Mong village and stopped a few times during our drive to photograph Lao countryside and farmers. In the afternoon, we spent a few hours on a boat, cruising up the Mekong River and enjoying fantastic weather. The boat took us to the Pak Ou caves on a cliff facing the river and housing a variety of Buddha statues. On the way back, the boat stopped at a small, abandoned island temple, and then we caught sunset back in Luang Prabang. We ended with a fantastic dinner of local foods. 

Tak Bat amidst luxury

Kuang Si Waterfall (and my first try at using a neutral density filter with time lapse!)

Side of the road farmer

Ban Xangkhong Artisan village and H'Mong
traditional wear

H'Mong traditional wear (and joy!)

H'Mong traditional wear on kids

Pak Ou cave shrine

Luang Prabang pier and the elusive F22 starburst

Day 4: Drive to Phonsavan in XiengKhuang Province

Today we drove along twisting mountain roads to get to Phonsavan in XiengKhuang Province. We stopped regularly to capture the countryside and to visit a Hmong village. Lunch was at a very local place with delicious noodles. Because the roads are in very poor condition, the drive took longer than expected - we were on the road for over six hours!

Roadside stop

Kitchen at our lunch stop

Ban Phouthat Hmong woman with traditional
instrument

Ban Phouthat Hmong woman in traditional wear

Day 5: Plain of Jars

Up before sun today to drive and take a short hike to the first Plain of Jars site. These Iron Age-era jars marked burial sites but not much more is known about who used them or how the jars were transported to over 90 sites, each with unique tribes of local peoples. We visited three different sites, of just seven that are safe to visit. The others have not yet been cleared of unexploded ordinance remaining from the U.S. bombing of Laos in the second half of the 1960s. Did you know that Laos is the most heavily bombed country in history per capita? I didn't, until visiting the Mines Advisory Group (MAG) museum, which simply lays out the devastating impacts of this terrible fact. We also visited a huge Buddha statue.

Sunrise at Plain of Jars site #2

Plain of Jars

Short hike to Plain of Jars site #3

Plain of Jars site #3

Phonsavan temple with Buddha

View from Plain of Jars site #1

Plain of Jars site #1

Sunset at Plain of Jars site #1

Cruise Control

 Not much to write today. Last weekend and this one I've been taking it easy, so nothing exciting to report. Last week I made sleep a priority, after realizing (with the help of my FitBit) that I was getting an average of less than seven hours a night. I know myself, and eight a night would have me at my best. This has also been an opportunity to practice setting reasonable goals, as opposed to 'perfect' goals. At a gut level, I want to set my goal at eight hours a night. However, I'm thinking back to some advice a health coach gave me once: don't set goals to be perfect; set them to improve. Although it feels antithetical to me, I set my goal at seven hours a night. And in my first week, I achieved that goal five times out of seven. Woot! I'm going to continue with this as my goal until I get seven nights in a row. I'm not sure what the next goal will be, but I'll try to make it a baby step further... maybe two weeks with seven hours a night. 

Other news: three weekends ago, I went on a nice trip to Kirirom with Jacques and two girlfriends and another dog. We had a nice 3-day weekend of the outdoors: drinking wine by the river, hiking, horseback riding, and fresh air. Also, I recently booked myself a special trip in late November, a two-week photography tour of Laos. 

With that, here are a few fun photos from recent exploits:

Trying to get dogs to take a selfie is hard!

Cute little Japanese restaurant in Phnom Penh
called Eeny Meeny Miny Mo has this
fun wall mural.

Giddy-up, Kirirom.

Hidden, Hiding

Left caption: Poor Lifechoices Coach
Right caption: Financial Ruin Advisor

 

I mentioned before how Eriq was largely an unknown to me, beyond what he chose to share. At the time, what he shared seemed like a lot: he spoke frankly about his past and current struggles with addiction and mental illness, a reckless lifestyle, living homeless on the streets of L.A. He also talked about his preferred future, which included being surrounded by adopted young people, appreciating the bounty of each day, and enjoying the simple things in life. He asked for help on some things but refused it or denied needing it in others. 

When we put on a solo art show for Eriq's work in order to raise money for his cremation, I looked anew at his art, wondering what I'd missed, and how. One man that had delivered food to Eriq routinely stopped by the art show, and was stunned by it; and not in a good way, necessarily. He had only known what Eriq showed him: a bright, funny, kind disposition, with depth and love enough that the deliveryman had purposely carved out fifteen, twenty minutes in his route just so he could stop and chat when he delivered Eriq's food. [Contextual note: in Phnom Penh, food delivery is extremely common from all kinds of restaurants and food prep businesses.] This man said he saw hurt and pain in Eriq's works, and he couldn't reconcile that with the man he'd known, in brief snippets. 

In the photo at the top of this post, there are two works hanging next to each other. Eriq did so many of these types of characters, often with distorted facial features. These are more rounded and realistic that the ones he was working on recently. I once asked him if they were self-portraits and he immediately responded with, "No. No. Well, not intentionally. I suppose all my art shows something of myself. But no, definitely not a self portrait." It's hard, though, not to wonder if his characters were all different ways Eriq saw himself or aspects of himself, whether intentional or not. The labels below are his quirky imaginings, which were on many of his smaller sketches and works. Eriq's labels were often quirky and playful, the lighter side of his art, in my opinion.  

Below are a couple of pieces I want to share; how they make me feel; and some anecdotes around them. In a video he made showing his artistic process on the above piece, Eriq starts out: "Well. I was watching Instagram this morning, like a fool." He goes on to to demonstrate how he goes about deciding what comes next. He also shows another silhouette he was working on and commented that while he liked it, there was "nothing challenging going on." The eight minute video ends with, "It's messy, it's not like they show on Instagram. They're lying to you." This video was made ten days before Eriq died. 

One of Eriq's last, unfinished
pieces.

I remember seeing this piece in his studio and feeling kinda freaked out by it. It bothered me, partially due to its unfinished look with the guideline sketches changing weekly, partially because of the vivid red colors, and partially because of the monster-like features. I decided to purchase it, and now it lives in my closet, hidden behind hanging clothing, to be brought out when I need reminding that an unfinished work - like Eriq himself, maybe - contains a whole lot more than the initial impression given. 

 

Possibly unfinished. Seen in
multiple orientations.

This is another unfinished work. I know this because when Eriq was finished, his paintings were covered in clear epoxy; this one is not. The texture of the red, the gorgeous teal background, that odd, messy shape. What is it? Why is it that way? This piece also made me feel uncomfortable when I saw it in Eriq's studio during classes or visits. It feels forbidding to me. Now, I can't help but feel that it's symbolic somehow; anger, rage, hurt, blood, turmoil, burning smoke roiling... was this how Eriq felt inside? The lens he struggled through? 

I don't remember seeing this one before. It felt
both bright and dark to me.

My first impression with this piece is that of a tumbleweed, or something like, blowing across the yellow field behind. Others said it evoked a heart with thick skin, or damaged exterior. The yellow is bright, layered, and a bit more consistent than my photo shows. The red and brown object is made of painted, layered, torn or crumpled paper. The entire thing has a clear coat of epoxy over it and the piece is quite large. Looking at it, I feel confused. It's not something I can relate to 'before'. 

Terrible and Beautiful

In life, we are loved for who we are, for our differences and specialness. In death, we are all the same, we are just this; just bones. 

-- Mr. Lim, the tuk-tuk driver

This is not a pretty post. Possibly darkly humorous, but underscored with a bit of horror and a lot of sweat and definitely a fair amount of cultural misunderstandings. 

I want to preface this first by admitting that this post is mostly me processing Eriq's death and cremation. There are pictures below, which may seem inappropriate but is not unusual amongst Cambodians. 

Secondly, I have to say that it's frustrating to realize how little I really knew Eriq. It felt like he told me quite a lot about himself, but on meeting others who knew him, learning some of his history, and most especially on viewing more of his art and writings... I knew him not at all. So everything I write here about him is my perception and conjecture. The nice thing is, everyone who has spoken to me about Eriq saw one thing similarly: he was a real character, a magnetic and funny man whose light shone bright, outwardly at least. 

Eriq was alone, and I believe he was lonely, too. Estranged from his family - his siblings, his adopted son - he had come abroad to live his best life - this I know because he told me so directly. Eriq had been to Cambodia before, and met Mr. Lim the tuk-tuk driver at some point when trying to open a small hotel. They became friends of a sort, beyond expat and hired driver but I couldn't say how far beyond, except that Mr. Lim clearly honored Eriq and has been dejectedly sad since his passing. 

While I knew him, Eriq lived alone, except for his two small adopted-in-Cambodia dogs, in whom he took much joy. He deplored being around negative, gossipy people. He enjoyed dropping in on art events, chatting with those he knew, and then bouncing right out again. 

Monday, April 24: I was at work when a friend from the consular section came to my office and told me of Eriq's passing, of his being found by the landlord, of his having died alone (but with his dogs) sometime over the weekend. I didn't believe it, was sure that it wasn't the Eriq I knew, who I'd seen the previous week and texted with just three days before, on Friday. When I was shown his passport, I knew it was true. Then it was guilt: why hadn't I checked in more, knowing he wasn't feeling well? Why didn't I insist? It still didn't sink in, though. When I got a text asking if I'd like to join a small group of Eriq's friends for drinks to discuss and remember? Then, then it felt real. 

One member of the group, a neighbor of Eriq's, related how once the authorities were called and the body removed, he watched police ransack Eriq's apartment, taking various items. We later discovered that his electronics and designer clothes and shoes had all disappeared. When I walked my dog past his apartment building that night, I saw a pile of bedding, a mattress, and some clothing tossed on the street nearby. I felt sick.

The small group decided together that we would make sure that Eriq was not alone in being farewelled from this world. We contacted Eriq's siblings, found on Facebook; got permission from them to sell some of Eriq's work in order to pay for funeral arrangements; worked with the landlady to go through and handle Eriq's remaining belongings; and we arranged for his cremation. 

Last Sunday was the cremation. First, three Western friends, including me, and Mr. Lim the tuk-tuk driver went to the funeral home. Don't picture a stately, solemn, clean building. No, this was an open air, squat, ground floor place. The Cambodian heat and humidity was bearable but ever-present. Eriq's pine coffin - more of a pine box, really - rested on two sawhorses. Two funeral wreaths stood in front of it, one with his name and another with 'Rest in Peace', as well as a small table on which we placed a framed photo of a cheerful and jaunty Eriq. Mr. Lim was our translator and helped move things along. 

A monk arrived in his robes of bright orange, along with an elderly man dressed in white pants and a white shirt. White is the color associated with death and funerals in Cambodia. They chanted together, sometimes in cadence and sometimes in echo or counterpoint. It lasted for several minutes and when they finished, they left. Mr. Lim translated a question for us: did we want to see Eriq's body before we went to the crematorium? The three Westerners said no. I can speak only for myself: I knew Cambodians did not embalm the dead; that Eriq had died over forty days earlier; and that I wanted to remember my clean-faced, bright-eyed friend as I had last seen him. Mr. Lim chose to view the body, so the rest of us took a step back. We heard the cover removed, a moment of silence, and then Mr. Lim ran a few feet away to vomit into a group of potted trees. The three of us Westerners stared at each other mutely, then clambered into the tuk-tuk when Mr. Lim said it was time to go to the crematorium. Eriq's pine box was loaded into a minivan, which we followed for about a fifteen minute drive. One familiar thing: the minivan had it's hazard lights flashing and we kept right behind it, our very local-flavor funeral procession staying together for the whole drive despite motorcycles weaving this way and that through the slow moving traffic. 

In Cambodia, I have learned, there are crematorium where the people who tend them live, sprawling complexes of ramshackle houses made from boards, dirt roads, and cement and iron-black metal crematoria ovens. 

That's right, I said it: ovens. It felt ghoulish, and it was depressing: the ovens were encased in small structures with steps leading up and a covered area in front with room for a coffin and a small table for ceremonial items. A chimney reached skyward and I couldn't help but think of concentration camps from the Holocaust. 

The minivan was unloaded - pine box, wreaths, and all - and set up in front of great gaping black oven doors. We waited for a few other friends to join us - we were maybe nine in all - and then set up another table draped in white: incense, Eriq's framed photo, lotus flowers brought by the others. We took turns lighting incense sticks and placing them in the pot of sand. Then we spread out letters and art pieces, made by Eriq's students and friends, on top of his pine box. We murmured and we surely said a few words. We lit more incense. 

And then the crematorium workers moved everything into the oven. They motioned to a large metal rod with a flame at the end, and Mr. Lim and I took it together to light the area underneath. Then we stepped back with the others and watched as the fire grew hotter. There was not much to see, and after about twenty minutes, we all departed to reconvene at Eriq's art studio for a little wake. Before we left, Mr. Lim told me that someone would have to come back a few hours later to retrieve the remains. He mentioned something about bones and I explained that we wanted his ashes in the urn. He shook his head. 

At that point, we all thought that we would receive ashes placed in the simple urn that was part of the cremation costs. I volunteered to return with Mr. Lim. After about an hour at the wake - a nice affair looking over Eriq's art, chatting quietly, drinking sangria - I went home to rest. All too soon, it was time to go back to the crematorium. Mr. Lim picked me up for the thirty minute drive through traffic and heat. On arrival, he asked me again about the bones, and I repeated that we wanted the urn, with ashes. Finally, Mr. Lim explained that Cambodians don't deal with ashes, that this would be very strange, and that instead we should make sure the best bones were retrieved. Flustered, I didn't respond, waiting to see what would be brought to me. It should have been obvious what was about to happen: we didn't go to the funeral home to simply pick up an urn; we were right back at the crematorium, in front of the oven structure where we'd bid Eriq farewell. 

As I watched, four young men with shovels cleared out the space below the oven used earlier. They moved all of the... debris? remains? with shovels to a spot on the pavement ten feet away, spread it out carefully. Then they produced sticks and tongs and squatted around the ashes to pick out the largest bone fragments. I stood, sweating in the heat, grimly fascinated and a little bit in shock, watching them poke around the ashes, embers and bones, gently moving the latter to a flat basket. Mr. Lim explained that the bones would be washed in coconut water before the best ones were placed in the urn. I didn't ask, couldn't, what constituted "the best." 

When they were done, they buckets of water over the remainder of the ashes and shoveled it all into a garbage bag, which was placed onto the floor of the tuk-tuk. I carefully climbed in, feet to the side, and off we drove. The next stop was the river, where we got onto a large wooden party boat belonging to a friend of Mr. Lim's. We motored out to where four rivers intersect, including the Mekong and the Tonle Sap rivers, to put Eriq's ashes in the river. Mr. Lim lit an incense and chanted for a moment; then he took one corner of the bag, I took the other, and we upended it. I thought we'd pour the ashes into the water, but instead a second bag with the ashes inside tumbled straight into the water. I cried out, but Mr. Lim assured me that it was ok, tossing the first bag in after the first. I cried out again, but it was too late. We motored back to shore. I felt as though we'd just dumped garbage into the river. We had, in fact, but Mr. Lim seemed completely baffled by my response. 

Before we got off the boat, Mr. Lim asked me how much the cremation had cost; when I told him, he shook his head sadly and told me we'd been cheated. Then, he suggested we visit a nearby pagoda to ask the monks there if they would accept Eriq's urn and watch over it. I agreed, not expecting another forty-five minute drive through heat, humidity, and traffic. The day's shocks had numbed me and I was ready to go soak in my apartment's AC, to process things. Instead, we drove to Mr. Lim's favorite pagoda, where he searched for a monk-friend of his. After a few fits and starts, he found out his friend had just left to go pick onions, and would be back in fifteen minutes or so. 

I took a deep breath, and told Mr. Lim that it was time to go home. He begged me to wait for his friend, then went to speak with some women washing dishes, then talk to someone on his phone. When he came back, he was beaming: he had called his friend, who agreed to accept the urn. I blinked, not quite understanding why we couldn't have just called in the first place, but stayed quiet. We trundled off and an hour later, I was at my apartment. Mr. Lim had explained that he would pick up the urn the next day and take it to the pagoda. We should make a donation, he said, in money and in food and beverages for the monks. We should do it in person, he said, for good karma and in honor of Eriq. He would help us arrange it all, he said. 

I agreed, bid him farewell, and, stunned and tired and feeling grungy, went to my apartment to ponder the day's events. 

Would Eriq have laughed? Or partway through, would he have stage-whispered to me, "I'm bored, let's go," as he had at a couple of art events we attended together? Would he have rolled his eyes, slack-jawed in disgust, and made a pithy and snarky judgment? 

I will never know, because Eriq is gone. But I like to imagine his possible reactions. It makes me feel better. 

Because that was a terrible day, one that didn't give me much closure or sense of farewell. It was hot and sticky, raw and disturbing, real and brutal. 

Kind of like some of Eriq's art. That's a post for another time, though. 

Beautiful and Terrible

Eriq Henry Madsen (1971-2023)

 

8/27/2021: Mark introduces me to Eriq
at Sra'Art gallery. 

The first time I met Eriq was on August 27, 2021. I had arrived in Cambodia fifteen days earlier and it was my second day out of my mandatory international arrival quarantine period. Completely overwhelmed by Phnom Penh, I jumped on the opportunity when my friend Mark - who I'd met a couple years earlier during my assignment in Bamako, Mali, and who had met me as I stepped out of quarantine in my new home city - invited me to an art gallery happy hour. After a brief but exciting ride on Mark's motorbike, we stepped into Sra'Art gallery. A small crowd of obvious expatriates milled about, holding coffee mugs and alternately murmuring to each other and gazing at the artwork on the walls. It all felt vaguely dangerous and risqué, and not just because of the artsy people cleverly clinging together in small cliques, French accents real and fake floating through the air: after all, there was still a loose lockdown in place, and a ban on alcohol. 

Mark introduced me to one of the artists showing his work: Eriq Henry Madsen. I vaguely recall chatting with him and noticing his eccentricity, his force of character, and his downright exuberant friendliness. His confidence and direct, connecting engagement made me feel both seen and slightly intimidated by his purely artistic mind. 

The next time I saw Eriq was March 26, 2022. The community liaison office at the Embassy had arranged a sip'n'paint activity and I'd signed up. The instructor: Eriq. As I sipped my wine and stared at a blank canvas, completely at a loss, Eriq gave a brief talk on emotions and art and experiencing creativity rather than having a goal or final product in mind. As everyone around me started dipping and dabbing, chatting merrily and - to my mind - instantly creating art, that field of white just glared back at me, daring me to try something. I recall Eriq coming to talk to me, forbidding me to repeat my oft-used excuse of having lost out on the artistic gene lottery because my older brother had hogged it all. He encouraged me to have fun, and just put my brush into a color and put something on the canvas. Enjoy the experience, he reassured me. Don't try to make something great. Just be myself and put my emotion into color. The result has hung on my office wall ever since, a reminder that playfulness and color need not have a structure or a reason, that merely existing is enough. Every now and then I turn the canvas and enjoy a new perspective. Is it art? Debatable. Did I have fun? Oh, yes. 

On November 11, 2022, I was sitting at Enso Café, enjoying brunch and reading my book at one of the outdoor tables. All of the sudden, someone was talking to me: it was Eriq. We pinpointed how we knew each other - both of us Mark's friend, me as the sip 'n paint attendee, him as the expat artist - and had a brief catch up chat. We got on the topic of art classes and Eriq mentioned that he was working on starting a community of people doing art: explicitly not artists, but people interested in building community and doing or learning art. In what felt to me a step in a new and slightly alarming direction, I gave him my number and asked him to let me know when he got things started. He promised he would

Art is for everyone.

Two weeks later, Eriq added me to a group chat, and the week after that was my first art class with Eriq. I spent many Saturday afternoons after that, painting with Eriq and a handful of other students - sometimes more, often fewer. Most were quite talented and a few were, like me, just dipping my toe into the artistic landscape. Eriq was a kind and patient teacher: when I couldn't decide what to do, he gave me an easy exercise with some basic concepts to hold in my mind, and that was the beginning of an 8-session piece for me, my first piece of intentionally made art. Eriq always had a project ready to introduce new and interesting concepts, but was never tied to his plans. At the beginning of every class, he reminded us that the goal was to have fun, get to know each other, put paint on the canvas. We were welcome to jump on his train of thought, or do our own thing. 

Eriq was funny, friendly, snarky, brilliant, and terribly in the moment and frank. Over the course of several classes he shared that he was HIV positive, gay, a recovering addict, estranged from family. In late December, he texted me an invite to check out a rock climbing gym with him and another art student, a teenage girl. Off we went, enjoying the silliness of getting barely ten feet off the ground and plopping onto the mats, then wandering down the street to get ice cream. That's when I learned Eriq was a father, and a grandfather. He'd adopted and spoke so engagingly about his son and his experience as a dad, how he loved being surrounded by youthful energy and creativity and emotion. 

The following weekend I invited Eriq to try archery at The Playroom, which also had axe throwing and board games. He agreed immediately and we spent a great afternoon together shooting arrows, gabbing over lime sodas, and shouting Austin Powers quotes at each other ("yeah baby, work it, let me see the tiger, yeaaaaah baby!") while snapping pictures with our phones. Eriq brought out the silly and fun, adding in snide commentary on what he saw around him and never failing to buoy me up, whether I was up or down or just in the moment. 

Eriq invited me to art openings, encouraging me to come for just a few minutes. Sometimes we'd stay longer and other times Eriq would sigh impatiently, look me directly in the eye, and say, "I'm bored - let's get out of here." Then we'd walk along the bustling, dirty, motorcycles-whizzing-by streets of Phnom Penh, commenting on what we saw and thought and felt, and go our separate ways for the evening. 

Bullseye!

He checked in on my a lot, and almost never accepted the same from me. He was complimentary towards me, at times gently nudging me to be less critical of myself and at times less gently telling me how to tell the world to go screw itself. "Nobody's got time for that nonsense," I remember him saying often, about negativity or gossip or judgmental people. 

Eriq and I had dinner on my apartment building's rooftop on several occasions, one or the other of us yammering on about whatever was on our minds. I enjoyed listening to him imagine and plan and wonder. He always ordered the same thing from Enso's: the salmon dinner, croissant and nutella bread pudding, and lime soda. 

In February, a former foreign service friend of mine came to visit for the weekend. We went to an art show with some of Eriq's work on display, an apartment-turned-studio that was hot and stuffy, but full of vibrant artsy types. We stayed less than thirty minutes, but between that and a trip to Eriq's studio, my friend got a sense of Eriq and commented on the evident friendship he saw between us.

In April 2023, Eriq wasn't feeling well. He canceled a class and turned down my offer to bring him food or conversation, saying he just needed to rest. A few days later, a colleague at the Embassy gave me the news that Eriq had passed away. I was in denial, then overcome by guilt, and finally, just terribly, achingly sad. A pre-planned trip took me back to the U.S. for a month, where I alternated remembering him fondly and remembering him sadly. 

Eriq was a shining light that I was truly lucky to have glimpsed. 

Oh, Eriq. I miss you, my friend. 

Living, Breathing Art

Eriq started this piece for a 
commission, but was never
paid for it. 

The piece took shape and it
really bothered me somehow.

Finished, it appealed to me.
Title: In the pursuit of greatness
Goodness lights the way.




My Teacher, My Friend