Thomas Rubick, "Return of the Return" - self-portrait ©
I lost my sensei today.
Thomas Rubick was my primary graphic design professor when I lived in Oregon, he was the best teacher I ever had, and he passed away Sunday morning just before 8 a.m. Pacific time. He had brain cancer; he and his doctors thought he had it beat with chemo this past summer, but it came back much worse once autumn arrived. I've promised to always speak of him in the present tense, a high respect afforded only the greatest of artists, but I can do so only when it doesn't end up confusing the timeline.
When he died, it was three hours later here on the East Coast, and what I was spending my Sunday morning doing was -- of all things -- drawing a three-panel cartoon on a bristol pad. I was having trouble rendering an expressive hand gesture, and I was thinking about him. I was remembering a time back in school when I stayed up all night on a deadline and completely screwed up an illustration by putting somebody's thumb where the pinky would be. Thomas made me draw 50 hands if I wanted to save my grade. Twelve years later, wearing through the pad with pencil scratches and eraser snibbles, I could swear I felt pressure coming from over my shoulder.
I didn't find out until much later in the day that he had died.
This wasn't a random spiritual experience or anything. I've been thinking a lot about Thomas for the past seven months, and I wrote extensively about him here back in March. Mostly, I've been racked with regret that I didn't keep in better touch beyond annual three-paragraph Christmas cards (his were always signed, "Your Sensei"), and that I never figured out the proper way to say farewell while I still could. But that's what people do. We're programmed to take things for granted, to forget about things when they're present and abundant, to despair and panic when their scarcity and absence become evident.
