The more work he did, the more credit he gave away, until there was nothing left for himself.

    Rel was an example to many who knew him, though I’m sure he was never aware of it, and was too humble to conceive such a thing being possible. Consciously or not, he lived a life of service to other people. By that I don’t mean he was in anyone’s service; simply that he enjoyed helping other people when he could. It was the role he was most comfortable in. He did not think highly of himself and shied away from parties and most social engagements. But if you asked him for a favor his eyes lit up — he had bright blue eyes full of wonder — and acted like you had given him a special honor.

    I worked with him for the first time when he was thirty-four years old. To me he looked young for his age and I was immediately struck by his exuberant courtesy. On our first trip together he beamed at the old lady inside the tollbooth we passed leaving Richmond, and asked, “How are you, today, ma’am? Isn’t this a beautiful afternoon?” He also had a way of waving thanks to drivers who let him into a line of traffic, as he said, mostly to himself, “Thank you, Citizen.” For in his mind, I think, we were all citizens of a republic, and that role conferred a responsibility to behave well

    In the art handling business, he was a senior and respected member, even when he was young — for the business itself was young, and he was one of the first people to get involved in this unusual occupation. He wore his experience lightly. He was kind to new employees and used a kind of Socratic method when training them. “What is your opinion on how we should do this?” he asked about an installation or packing problem; and after listening patiently to the reply, offered his own suggestion, with the preamble, “If I may venture an opinion…” If you accepted his solution, he bowed his head slightly, acknowledging your generosity. That was only the beginning. The more work he did, the more credit he gave away, until there was nothing left for himself. “Well: it was his idea!” he said, or “That fellow brought the 18-volt drill!” At the end of a large project he seemed bemused by the possibilities of teamwork and the kindness of so many people willing to accept his assistance. 

    A few years ago Rel helped me build my porch, and he was always the first to arrive in the morning, with an incredibly tall cup of coffee from the 7-Eleven across the street from his apartment. He was gracious enough to act like there was nothing else he’d rather do that weekend, and with that attitude of readiness, immediately set to work. As the day wore on he willingly accepted water and more coffee; but it was very difficult to give him food. He looked vulnerable if he thought he was being offered too much, put up a front of stoic indifference, and chewed a ready stick of gum instead. It was the same way on the trucks. Occasionally he drank some milk, but most days he starved himself, saving his money for something more important. On long days this worried me, and I occasionally found ways to trick him out of his discipline. 

    One Saturday Rel and I were assigned to do an installation at a law firm downtown. It was a straightforward job that turned into a slow nightmare because the lawyer in charge could not make up his mind about anything. He had the art consultant chasing him up and down corridors, and we followed, lugging paintings and holding them against the wall. Then he’d consider the aesthetic possibilities of various heights and placements for the works, dismiss an idea and try something else. Through this Rel never complained to the client but chewed his gum more and more thoughtfully. This went on until 6 pm. By that time we were doomed. There were 65 paintings to hang, and neither of us had eaten since breakfast. The art consultant was kind enough to offer dinner, but Rel showed his usual reluctance to accept food. I think he also felt that by accepting a favor from the client he would be condoning the behavior that got us into the mess in the first place. He stood his ground. When my (very large) meal came he made his usual show of indifference and chewed his gum while I scarfed it down across from him at the conference room table. I could tell he was starving. About halfway through I made a sigh of contentment and began carrying the leftovers away. He looked up in alarm.

    “Are you throwing that out?!”

    “Sure,” I replied, “unless you want some.”

    “Well if it’s going into the GARBAGE, yes I do; thank you very much!”

    For a long time I wondered where Rel put the money he saved by skimping on meals and little things most of us take for granted. Occasionally he talked about buying property out in the country, but the idea seemed more wistful than concrete. After awhile I discovered he had a remarkable collection of movies. He kept up on everything being released, read reviews carefully, but never went to the theater. If he found a movie intriguing, he put in a pre-order at the video store and waited for his own copy to arrive months later. Rel treasured his videos as pristine objects and if he lent them out, they were protected in a padded bag. There was no evidence of them if you walked into his apartment: but if you asked about his titles he smiled proudly, pointed out one closed cabinet after another, and invited you to open them. Inside, arranged in alphabetical order, was a truly eclectic group of stories, ranging from brazen thrillers to incredibly subtle movies almost no one had heard of. To him they all offered some clue to human nature. Even in what I considered bad movies there was a twist that fascinated him, and he returned to a pivotal moment again and again wondering what motive brought a character to the brink of departure. I think he often looked at his own life the same way, and never found a trajectory that was satisfying or understandable. 

    Rel’s humility was the bedrock of his politeness and he tended to elevate the meaning of other people’s lives just as he deprecated his own. He had a particular respect for many of the artists he worked with, and once told me, “It’s wonderful to have a dream; I respect anyone who has a dream.”  In his dealing with other human beings he was acutely aware of boundaries between them, both of property and propriety, and it showed in his sometimes very measured words. A friend of mine remembered going to a house in Georgetown to pick up a painting with him, and when the client opened the door, Rel introduced himself: “Good afternoon, sir.  We are here from Artex to pick up your painting destined for New York; and I would like to inquire if we may enter your house to pack it appropriately.” Some people, meeting Rel for the first time, thought his courtesy an elaborate ruse, but he was too vulnerable to be insincere. His courtesy was genuine and sometimes a genuine defense against encroachments on his privacy. Even when he was upset, unless he’d really lost control, he apologized in advance before cursing. “Excuse me,” he’d say, “and pardon my French, but…DAMN!” If he decided he didn’t like someone his discipline held most of the time — there were exceptions — but his words became dark and witty. Many years ago he was describing a museum job he left because of a dispute about overtime pay, and the more he talked about it the angrier he got. Finally he collected himself in mid sentence, and instead of going into more detail, left the topic with an overview. “It was a wonderful place to work — if you have the appetite of a buzzard.” 

    Every fall, without fail, he took off time to hunt deer. It was a passion that seemed to go against his gentle nature; but it was a passion. Even so he had a disciplined approach to choosing his targets. He only killed old bucks. He snorted contempt at hunters who shot at anything that moved, and if an appropriate target did not show during the season he was not disappointed. I believe that what really appealed to Rel was being in nature for two weeks with old friends, and the act of putting a bullet into a gun was incidental to the other pleasures of the hunt. He came to love and admire deer. Once he described their hooves to me.  “Do you know what the bottom of their hooves is like?” he asked. “They’re soft! They’re SOFT!” 

    The last few years I worked with Rel I don’t think he shot anything. He set the bar higher as far as what he allowed himself to take; and took nothing. Yet he came back from the season satisfied, and I like to think of him sitting in the woods where he meant to make a home, always at the ready: listening to the breeze and watching the animals he loved.

Darick Allan