Today is the one-year anniversary of the shooting death of Masumi Hayashi, artist, photographer, friend. Her neighbor, artist John Jackson, was also killed. The man who took their lives is in prison with a life sentence.
I'm supposed to be writing/finishing an article on the four exhibitions of her work being mounted this fall, but all I can think about is her, her laugh, her kindness ribboned with irony. Watching her son, Dean, grow up. Learning about the daughter she gave up for adoption (they found each other just in time).
She entered this life smack in the center of one of America's great shames: a Japanese internment camp called Gila River, in 1945. She left this life in a presumably safe building in Cleveland.
We have her work as testament and multiple memento mori.