For Tom — IFSF PUBLISHING

Tom my friend flew off last night into the wild blue yonder, a blue state.

We stood by his hospital bed late morning yesterday, 5 of us, as Tom traveled in and out of consciousness. It actually looked to me like he was thinking, if such a thing can be said. I told him I loved him, held his hand for a few moments, made small talk that sounded smaller and smaller and smaller: I did my best, it was the best I could do, the best any of us could do at the time.

Tom my friend, a unique. That was my title for him, a unique. I don’t know that he liked the title very much. He didn’t say he didn’t like it, he just never said that he did. Sometimes we called him Tingalls, taking the T from his first name and joining it to his surname; that name he didn’t like and so we stopped using it, either in his honor or in deference to his intelligent sensitivity.

Tom might have been the most social person I’ve ever known; by social, I mean open, available, present, interested. It seems to me now that if someone invited him someplace that was interesting to him he’d go, not matter what. One of us bedside remembered how many students he’d taught over the years—40 years at CCA (California College of the Arts)—hundreds, maybe thousands. His studio, Ingalls Design, was just across the street from the college. He designed 6 books for my imprint, IFSF Publications, and was teed up to do a 7th book, but…

The first time I met Tom was at a book-launch party, 2008 or 9. He was busy talking with someone else, a famous woman poet whose name I could drop but won’t. Over the years Tom’s large circle of friends widened my much smaller circle—writers, designers, photographers, painters. I’m not saying Tom understood the world any better or worse than I do, but I can say he was completely engaged in it in a way I can never seem to be. Buddhism is a big part of it, a non-judgmental kind of gratitude that seemed to accept both the good and the bad.

We sure had a lot of fun together. Many good talks, many good meals, looking at lots of art, playing as much golf as we could when we could. Tom had stopped drinking years ago, but had no problem uncorking a good bottle of wine, often a wine for which he’d designed the label, sticking his nose inside the glass while swirling the wine, and either pronouncing it ready or not ready, always without drinking it. Tom’s friend Bill Stout, who we’d formed a monthly art discussion meeting either at Bill’s place in North Beach or at mine at 1972 10th Avenue, has just learned about Tom dying. He calls Tom ‘a compatriot’; Bill couldn’t have said it better I don’t think.

Just four days ago Tom sent me a sketch he’d made while in the hospital based on the title of a book I’m trying to write—‘The Hole in My Father’s Head’. I’d sent him a picture of my father taken in 1950, the year I was born, along with the title. Tom texted back that he loved the title of the book and that he’d take it from there.