Deceased July 23, 2008

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In Memory

Harris Wulfson, composer and musician, died suddenly on July 23, 2008.

I met Harris freshman year in music class and we grew closer over our time at Amherst, culminating in senior year when we had singles in Milliken sharing a bathroom. Living so close, I saw not him not only as the one-man carnival that he was with his bands, projects and friends, but during trying times as well, when he was obsessing over music projects (which always came out perfectly) or frustrated over unrequited love.

It may surprise people to know that Harris had an intensely private core and would not talk about certain things even if you basically cornered him; he was so funny and charming that it let him hide, in a way, behind his wit. This may be a peculiar time for such an observation, but it’s important as context to how consistently kind Harris was despite his moods. As an artist, and a postmodernist one at that, he expressed himself not only through his music but his actions and words, which were consistently funny but never mean. I don’t remember him ever being rude to anyone. Whatever dark thoughts he had in his head, maybe there would be a moment when they rattled around, but what came out of his mouth was funny, ironic and observant. That kind of contract with humanity can’t be taught or maybe even learned; it is intrinsic as well as rare.

Harris and I were a lot alike—ethnically, intellectually, even physically—but I remember thinking of him as the better man for the sweetness and warmth (but never sentimentality) of his personality. He was, in a word, gentle, and the contrast between this essential nature and the biting truth of his observations—which were so upbeat and ironic that they hid a melancholy that perhaps he didn’t understand himself, but is a hallmark of great art—had a magnetic pull upon all of us who knew him. His art, to which I always looked forward, was just like him: imaginative, playful and captivating. He was, himself, a kind of living artwork in one important way: if you knew him, even a little bit, it caused you to go places you never would have expected. Intellectually and emotionally, you ended up on a journey that was not only delightful, but meaningful and enriching, furthering you along in your connection with humanity. We, the audience, dearly loved him for it and are heartbroken to think of going on without him. I should add (he would appreciate this) that the act of writing these words will only distort the unknowable truth of who Harris actually was. Finally, my mind used to wander, and still does, that Harris and I would have had a lifelong love affair had we not had the mutual misfortune to be heterosexual. But as he would have surely agreed ... nobody’s perfect.

Lukas Kendall ’96