Joe Schick

I loved Jack (and Sara). By chance, I met them in Penn Station in 1970 (I think) and was instantly and completely taken by them. I went to a couple of Rinpoche parties (they were always sexy and fascinating; the parties, I mean, but Jack and Sara too) and I have a memory of being invited to a small ceremony with the Dali Lhama. But mostly I ran into them — our circuits seemed to be in sync — on the street, in the park, everywhere, surprisingly often. There was something wonderful about seeing them and since Sara was often working, wonderful to see him and just talk. He was funny. He was sharp. He radiated. He had a goodness about him, with a little wickedness in the mix. He liked women. We were friends and like friends it didn’t matter if we didn’t see each other for a couple of years, we’d pick up where we left off. This went on for about 15-20 years, periodically and warmly. Sometime in the early 1970s, I had a brief “involvement” with the spectacular, enchanting, and mysterious Tao Wolfe and spent some time in the apartment on 24th Street where J&S and others lived or hung out, I don’t recall. That picture of Jack and Tao is spot on, they were who they were in that image… We rarely talked about what we did. I owned a recording studio in Soho where he came by once or twice, and I knew about the magnificent banners at Shambala, first through another artist friend, Sharon Powers. Truth is, I don’t remember a lot about those times or those years and, you know, I can’t claim to be one of those people who was there at all the important moments of his life. I only know, as I knew then, that he had a beautiful spirit that I reveled in when it was around and that we had a kind of guy brotherhood that was a lot more about being brothers than hoods… The last time we met was to do Kyudo, the art of Japanese archery, and I came to the dojo and practiced with him, I think. I think it’s a lovely way to remember Jack. Kyudo is about finding the spiritual unity in things without aiming for them, it is the doing of a thing without overriding purpose, without keeping score, it is archery without purpose other than dwelling in the harmonious moment of arrow, bow, form, and target. And in that way I remember Jack. It didn’t matter where were going, only that we would journey in a way that felt kind, and conscious, and ready to share and receive what arrived. No score, thank you very much. Bye Jack, we’ll do well to run into each other again and stand and observe and laugh in the temple of lovely colors and no expectations…
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