Arrivederci Michael

On the passing of a dear friend

Michael Venezia died yesterday, in his beloved Umbria. He was 89 rich, magnificent years old. I took this photo the last time I saw him—we knew it would be the last time, as he and Carol had decided to forgo the mercies of the American end-of-life machine for the gentler approach in Italy. They departed a few days later. It was a chilly day in January, and we had a great afternoon together with a typically excellent lunch in their gorgeous “sky loft” in Williamsburg, surrounded by his paintings and Carol’s photographs, against the backdrop of one of the best views of Manhattan imaginable.

The thing about Michael was that he was one of those people who always felt like a little parade, a celebration, a respite from the rigors. He had a terrific medium-grit gravelly voice with which he’d opine (don’t get him started on the politics), encourage and nurture and—always—share his cackling sense of humor. Some of his jokes (mostly rude) were actually funny, but every single one of them was absolutely hilarious, thanks to his delivery and his own joy when reaching the punchline, even when he’d told the same joke a million times. He excelled at cracking himself up!

But my most resounding memory of Michael was when I saw him on the verge of bursting into flames, the most vividly gates-of-hell vision imaginable. Here’s what happened: Michael and Carol had come over to the old house in Pound Ridge for a cookout and overnight. I made a huge fire in our rocky fire pit behind the barn, and after dinner the four of us sat sipping a bourbon (possibly more than one) and yakking it up to the accompaniment of a hooting barn owl. Duston and Carol decided to head back to the house before me and Michael; we could see them silhouetted in the kitchen windows, dancing like banshees, the music cranked up (although, mercifully, they were far enough away that we couldn’t hear it). Eventually Michael (who was a mere 82 years old at the time) announced that it was time to go to bed. He hauled himself out of his Adirondack chair, stumbled on one of the rocks that surrounded the fire pit, and pitched head first into it.

The fire, at that point, was at peak-ember stage. The logs were all burned, leaving a seething red bed of coals, about five feet in diameter. I looked down in a state of total disbelief at my magical friend lying in a fetal position on his side smack in the middle of the coals. My first thought was that I wished I had my camera on me! As horrifying as it was, it was also strangely beautiful. Luckily I didn’t, so I reached down to grab his hand as he reached up to grab mine. He put his other hand on a rock, and in one swift motion we had him back on his feet.

Which is when things got a little bizarre. Because he was pristine! There he was, in a sturdy pair of trousers and a sensible shirt with a light cotton anorak for the slight nip in the air, and he brushed himself off, and I brushed him off too, and we checked and…nothing! His cheek, which had been touching the coals, was unscathed. His hands were unblemished. His hair! His clothes! Completely unsinged! It didn’t seem possible, although in retrospect the entire time he spent in the inferno was probably about half a second; in those situations time slows, and it frankly felt like a fraction of a century. (He wasn’t totally unscathed—it turns out he broke two ribs, but at least he wasn't immolated!)

I feel infinitely richer for having known Michael. I truly loved the man, and always felt privileged to be one of his friends. And in a final, typical, flourish, his last wish was to be cremated, and for his ashes to be sprinkled in the sea around his ancestral Sicily so that, as he put it, he’d at last be able to learn how to swim!

Arrivederci, amico mio. The world is a dimmer place without you.