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Michael Hurson

THE PHONE RANG early, usually the harbinger of some sort of trouble from New York or London. I paused before answering, uncertain if I was ready, without a cup of coffee for comfort, for whatever it was that wanted my attention so badly. I picked up the phone and unexpectedly heard the voice of an old friend. “Michael died—yesterday, of a heart attack,” she said, before launching into a needlessly guilt-ridden account of signs missed, opportunities not taken. Michael Hurson was a sweetly funny man, a quick-minded friend as well as a remarkable, if too little appreciated, artist whose loss this past January at age sixty-five remains difficult to accept.

In recent years Michael had found a home in Garnerville, New York, reigning over a small community of artist friends in nearby Nyack. He often traveled to the city, to meet with friends and his longtime dealer, Paula Cooper, and to see shows.

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