A year ago today Richard Kehl left the earth. It was unexpected. Earlier in the week he had sent me an email with a treasure chest of collage images, but including a rare picture of himself, looking at the camera as though directly into the storm, the cosmos, the self, the i/thou of human connection— as well as a portrait of his beloved. One has to wonder if he had a premonition. He included two sentences about presence, and art and love, and I carry them with me like amulets in moments of doubt.
This week I have been haunted by loss, companioned by the parachute we are sometimes offered by those who see into us, and know what we need. I had studied with Richey at the University of Washington when I was getting my BFA in painting. He was universally the teacher most likely to inspire this one-sentence review: Richey Kehl saved me!
He was the one who saw into each student and asked them to step into themselves, not to copy someone else, not to get an A, not to be fawned over with praise, but to go forth. And yes, I was one of those would would say, “he saved me.” I still have the visual notebook he required we keep and add to each day, and it still contains my DNA. The pages are burnt with the acid of time and wood pulp, the magazine photos have the unmistakable tint of bad color separations that Adobe now tries to sell us as vintage filters on an annual subscription.
And I am still the gambler’s daughter.
It was not until I re-met Richey in 2012 and visited his studio that I became acquainted with the idea of “Scout.” Over a decade later the idea continues to gather resonance. The essential solitude that I have experienced as an artist and a seeker often feels suspect: why don’t you have grandchildren? Why aren’t you at a party? Why are you taking pictures of some broken down dumpster or the bleached grass and bramble ridge of Kite Hill when there is neither wind nor kites?
If you are a Scout you brush the questions off. Your job is to be on the ridge, peering through the duck blind, catching the meteor, questioning the agate, or parsing the ordinary with a tuning fork and making conversation that leaves your companions either laughing or unforgettably puzzled.
It is comforting, this idea of the Scout. We are alone, but not alone, because to be a Scout is to be part of The Scouts— there are others out there.
Richey, you are so loved, and not forgotten.
xox,
all of us
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