Work Friends

Donene Williams, HUCTW

I think about Peter every morning when I make coffee. Peter and I shared a love of coffee, we had the same taste for a strong brew, and we'd check in with each other when one of us wanted a cup, to see if the other also wanted one. These days, making my coffee at home in my kitchen, it's become a nice part of my morning routine to think of him as I get the morning joe going.

Peter and I shared an office for many years on the first floor at 15 Mt. Auburn, in what we called The Deck Room. And then as the office shuffled around and reorganized and The Deck Room was becoming a meeting space, we requested that we stay together in the same room as our office moved up to the 2nd floor. The room itself didn't matter, but we cared very much about staying together, along with Carrie.

There would be a point, almost every day, sometimes more than once a day, we'd be in the office, when someone would be telling a story and Peter would have a Seinfeld reference. And then one of us would pull it up on the computer and we'd gather around the computer and watch and laugh. And laugh. And laugh.  Some of the laughter was at the clip itself, some was for the relevance to the story that jogged Peter's memory, and some was for the very fact that this happened every day. The laughter was infectious, and I see him as I write this, holding his hand on his belly, eyes closed, laughing so hard that he couldn't speak. And then of course that made us laugh too.

He and I developed a habit around little metal boxes, like the kind that Altoids come in. They just seem so useful, and shouldn't be thrown out. There was a small collection of them on his desk, whoever was finishing a box of Altoids or similar would leave the empty box for him. We started putting small pictures inside for him to find later—Big Papi, Kramer, Kelly Ann Conway, Drew Faust. When asked what he'd use them for, he'd say, “I don't know, I'll figure out something.” Once he told me he wouldn't bring them home until he had a certain use for them, because Andy says I bring home too much stuff already, and that he was forbidden from bringing home any more random pieces of wood, found on curbs or trash bins. I told him I get it, I too have to resist all the good trash that is set out as semesters end and students come and go. We'd often tell each other about some magnificent something or other we saw on the curb on the way to work, "A perfectly good bureau, oak!" for example.

Bill Jaeger, HUCTW

Of all the wonderful things that Peter did around the Union office, I think maybe my quiet, low-key favorite was the way he would enforce the recycling rules for paper and bottles/cans – and I mean that literally: not the fact THAT he would act as recycling enforcer but HOW he did it. 

How many times did it happen over the years – a hundred? A thousand? Peter would stop into my office to ask a question or tell a story, and take up a position with his hands on his hips and a pen behind his ear. But he wouldn’t stand still for long. As we talked about the main question or idea, without any extra commentary or gesture, he would reach calmly and quietly into the trash bucket and systematically lift out pieces of paper or plastic bottles to place them in the adjacent recycling bin. He never missed a conversational beat; it was all one smooth and graceful interaction. No muttering or judgmental expressions, even though it was entirely clear that the corrective work only needed to be done because someone had messed up. It’s such a perfectly emblematic memory for me, of Peter walking gently upon the earth and, with no apparent effort or strain, helping his friends to do well and do right, with no acknowledgement needed or expected.

Lynn Wang DeLacey, HUCTW

Peter would ride to Mt. Auburn St. and lock his bike to the sign post near the crosswalk in front of our building.  He would bring in his healthy salad and open a can of sardines in our kitchen at lunchtime. We'd talk about sports—his love of golf and my love of tennis. He'd often ask me if/when I thought about possibly retiring, as he pondered his decision. Peter would regularly pop into our front office @ 3pm to ask if anyone wanted coffee. There he'd look into our trash and recycling barrels and move any items that were supposed to be in the recycle container over to the correct bin. He made us all laugh with his Seinfeld jokes. He was a great problem-solver and good judge of people, protecting the vulnerable and trying to get them the best deal possible! We are so sad to lose him.  

Craig Allaben, UMass Amhert Gallery

I really loved Peter and considered him to be one of my best friends, even though, as painful as it is to acknowledge, we got together much too infrequently over the span of nearly forty years of knowing each other. When we did manage to find opportunities to meet up, however, there was always an easy rekindling of the embers of our bond and friendship.

Peter and I met at the University Gallery in 1980 when we were both students at UMass assisting George Trakas in the installation of his site specific work, Log Mass: Mass Curve. In a letter written from his studio at Rutgers in 1986, Peter cited Trakas as one of his idols. He was searching for his artistic voice and felt his ideas were taking shape, combining painting and sculpture in constructions made from found scraps of wood.

Peter had come over to work on the Trakas installation with camera in hand from the Physical Education Dept. on the other side of the UMass campus. Art and sports found a common thread in Peter’s life. The most fun example of that came in the form of a stickball game. At the risk of incriminating the institution or any participating museum professionals, I’ll explain. At the close of one spring semester Peter, we had disassembled and packed up the last exhibition of the school year. All that remained in the main gallery, a 40’x60’ underground windowless space with concrete walls, ceiling and four columns, were the remnants of packing materials, including discarded wads of packing tape. It’s too long ago to recall how it all got started, but wads of tape became balls, and broom sticks became bats. Various architectural reference points were established to demarcate singles, doubles, triples and home runs. The quality of the tape balls became issues of exploration and experimentation. Packing tape, duct tape, electrical tape and masking tape were all given their due trials. This was all great fun, nothing got damaged, and no one was injured. The two adhesive tape balls in the photo represent the ultimate evolution in stickball technology and were labeled, appropriately, “FINE HANDCRAFT, Official weight” with an indication of “SOFT” on one and “HARD” on the other. The soft one is the dirtiest, so I guess it was the favorite.

A May 1991 letter began as a thank you to the many hands that collaborated with him to realize the Split(Kiva) installation at Zone Gallery. His letter continued, though, with an admission that his trips back to see the piece had been “a little disappointing.” He reflected on a conversation we’d had about accepting that every work may not do everything you’d hoped it might, but that future projects offer opportunities to work through evolving ideas. He worried, however, about when his next chance would come. Well, next in this letter he shared his “exciting news” that he and Andy had just bought a house! “It has consumed my thoughts,” he wrote, “in many ways it will be like another piece—a true collaboration.”

The last time Pete was out, just after I’d retired in the summer of 2015, we pulled chairs into the backyard. It was sunny, and we talked about our work, our houses, the things we’d accomplished and problems we‘d solved and how we’d solved them, the things we hoped to do and the challenges we faced, our families, our friends and, you know, life. Shoba and I really enjoyed the time spent with him that day in our backyard.

Karen Marek, Fogg Museum

I knew Peter because we both worked in the Fogg Museum at the Harvard University Art Museums. I don’t remember how we met—we worked in different departments. I do remember him coming to my office at some point and recruiting me to become an AFSCME member. Although I’ve always valued unions, I wasn’t keen on joining, but somehow he convinced me that it was a good idea, and I ended up joining him and others in marching to support benefits for part-time workers. I’m still inspired and moved by his commitment to Harvard workers and especially to the communities he was part of and cared so deeply about. Anyway, I found it hard to make friends in the Boston area, but somehow through various casual conversations Peter became a very generous and supportive friend. Sometimes he’d walk me home, since my then partner and I lived on the way to Peter’s and Andy’s place, and I would find myself in conversations with him about not-so-casual matters, like middle age and mortality. He was a generous and supportive friend to many of us at the Fogg, coming to see me in plays produced by my theater company and going to see other colleagues play in their band.  

After I left the Boston area, whenever I got to go back for a visit, I always made a point of connecting with Peter, and he and Andy would let me stay with them and made me feel very welcome. They once paid me the honor of staying with me when they visited the Bay Area, which made me very happy. We did a random walking tour of San Francisco, and I remember Peter being particularly drawn to construction sites, which I now always look at differently. These are just scattered memories over the ~30 years that Peter and I knew each other, most of those years on opposite sides of the country, communicating and visiting very sporadically, but always able to pick up where we left off. I’ll never get used to his no longer being on this earth, and I’ll always be grateful for his friendship.

Danielle Hanrahan, Fogg Museum

Dude

I called him Dude 

He called me Dudette

He was a warrior 

As was I

He fought the good fight 

As did I

His was a heart forged by the battles, of gold 

Mine hardened, like steel, as these things can do

We were creatives 

His was clay 

Mine was color

He kept my secrets 

I kept his

He had my back 

I had his

We had cancer 

I lived

But he died

But while he lived 

He lived

He called me Dudette,

I called him Dude. Oh, Dude

Becky Hunt, Fogg Museum

I mostly remember a gentle person with a twinkle in his eye, who often seemed on the verge of laughing. I greatly admired the work he did for the union at Harvard, which must have been a frustrating trial at times. His commitment to equity and fairness and to trying to create a better workplace was inspiring. He always seemed to be fighting the good fight to benefit the lives of others around him—a commendable battle. We will miss his presence.  

David Kalan, Fogg Museum

My friendship with Peter began roughly 25 years ago, when I joined the Registrars department at the Fogg and shared the “preparator” position with Peter. We were happy half-time workers (proud HUCTW members!), working together over the next 14 years as part of a group that became colleagues and a museum family. We were happy to be there a few days a week and fortunate to have ample time to pursue our own projects and pleasures. It was an easy friendship to cultivate: our similar studio backgrounds and interests, and progressive politics dovetailed immediately. But it was Peter’s warmth and openness that was the real foundation, camaraderie and compassion. 

We had a weekly ritual that was part of our official job responsibilities: University Loans. The museum owns a small, self-contained collection of 2-dimensional works that has accumulated over the years, pieces that could be borrowed by any university employee with a secure work space and a few budget dollars to cover a nominal installation and rental fee. With minor exceptions, it had all the endearing qualities of a Romanian orphanage after the collapse of the Soviet Union. Every Tuesday, the unlucky registrar who was supervising the program would compile a list of pieces to be installed or retrieved from the 4 corners of the Realm of Veritas. Peter and I would reluctantly accept the list, silently praying that it was short and very local. The list itself, no matter how many copies we started with, could be misplaced at any point. The collection was stored in the Sackler building and the means of conveyance was a decrepit box truck that would have embarrassed the Beverly Hillbillies.

On a nice spring day, it could actually be very pleasant to cruise the streets of Cambridge or Boston with our hapless cargo, catching up on politics, projects and general gossip. The goal at each stop was to do a professional job and make our clients happy—and move on as fast as possible. I’m pleased to report that we had a very good batting average. But the true objective – and the one that Peter and I took most seriously – was to find the best possible option for a coffee break. The criteria: A decent and fairly priced cup o’ Joe; a somewhat legal parking space for the jalopy; an appropriately welcoming atmosphere; and extra points if the café sold day old pastries that were still edible. High standards, yes, but Peter and I were professionals!

The last time I saw Peter was, like most of our encounters over the past decade, unplanned and had the wonderful spontaneity of a chance encounter with a good friend. It was at the opening of the last ceramics sale. I had already seen Peter’s great set of pieces—and purchased another "favorite.” We spent a nice block of time catching up. Despite some dicey health news, he assured me that everything would be OK. A month later, when the beast beneath the surface emerged and the futile race to survive unwound, I lamented that I was not able to be with Peter one last time. Then, I gradually realized how special my last minutes with Peter in the ceramics studio were. Love you, good friend, Peter.

Karen Manning, Fogg Museum

I like to think of this time as a pause for Peter, that his life had such impact on so many of us that when he left so quickly, so unexpectedly, we all just stopped, to cry, to reflect, to laugh, to give thanks, to say goodbye, to grieve. Peter was such a special and unique individual. We all loved him very much and feel so grateful to have known him.