Dignified.

Rick Bass remembers his buddy, Russell Chatham ...

Russell was an eternal boy, a giant boy, a hawk, a hunter, a peasant, a philanthropist of heart. He was a passion artist, a ferocious critic, a savage warrior in a losing battle. The more he lost the war against contemporary culture, the more dignified and noble and exasperated he became. He did not let his anger make him brittle or bitter; he simply burned, then went quietly back to that place where genius lives.

Like any genius, part of it was clear and simple, right there in front of us, easy to see, while another part of it was forever unseeable. With each painting, he pulled something living out of that swollen current, a nugget, the solid material of time, able to be held, admired — so breathtakingly beautiful — then returned, backward into itself, into the layers of it that lie beneath us. As if we are magnanimous, powerful and in control — deciding what goes and what stays. Is this not what the angler does? Is this not what the painter does? Deciding which palette, which brush, which line? A man or woman in a first garden, picking up a dab of clay, then breathing — perhaps gently at first, but later with a maelstrom — his or her inspiriting breath, animus, into the clay. As the fish, in its own way, breathes animus into the angler. Back into the angler. And the painting, back into the painter.

Excellent.

An excellent album ...

Excellent.

An excellent album ...

Study.

Rick Bass' remembrance of his friend, Jim Harrison ...

He could talk, for sure, and did, but I loved most watching him listen. People brought him things — fine bottles of wine, great cuts of meat, wonderful cheeses — and he did not dislike this in the least. There are restaurants in Paris, whether small cafes or elegant dining rooms, adorned with a black-and-white photo of a middle-aged squinting one-eyed fat man. We ate in elegant restaurants with long white tablecloths in Aix-en-Provence, and at outside tables along sidewalks, on porches and patios. He loved L'Hôtel de Suède, where a horned owl lived in the heart of Paris.

Whether in one of those places, or in Manhattan at Elaine's (always the lamb), from the minute he sat down he was ready to eat. He would study the wine menu at some length but would order a bowl of olives immediately. In France, he liked that dogs came into restaurants and sat calmly at their owners' feet.

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