Yesterday morning, Paul Wagner died in Santa Cruz. He was 74.
I shot this photo of Paul, maybe in 1996 or 1997, as we prepared for a series of what we called "microconcerts" that he and I produced together at the Santa Cruz LGBT Community Center.
Paul meant the world to me, for reasons I will need to write about in pieces in the coming days. For the moment all I can say is that I would not be who I am today without him. Deeply generous and kind, he quite literally saved my life, and not just once. Paul taught me so much.
Paul was a stellar musician and songwriter. He had a sharp mind, a wicked sense of humor, and deep compassion. Our conversations were epic and then I got too busy to have epic conversations across time zones, and that meant that when he died we hadn't actually spoken in a couple of years; our communication largely limited to Facebook interactions, and so talking about silly things like how I just could not understand what he saw in Justin Bieber's songcraft.
In the days since I learned he was hospitalized I found I had so many questions for him, and I hoped that when he got back to his home — his spaceship-like home — we could have one of our two-hour phone conversations and I'd ask him all these questions and he would give one of his signature belly laughs and answer me with more questions.
Those who have been following my blog may be aware that I've been struggling to find the purpose of art and writing at this time, and while that specter is still haunting me, I've found that one small thing I can do is connect the dots on Paul's behalf, and to describe his constellation in the firmament from my vantage point. To tell a story of queer and artistic family-making.
It's too much to do all at once, so stay tuned and in the coming days I am going to tell you a fuller version of my story of Paul Wagner, a bona fide star.
