James N.A. Howell

Charlie’s Uncle Jim died yesterday morning at his home in New York. It was not unexpected but was a blow just the same. He and I go back a long, long time. Many of the firsts of my life are all tied up with him.

We were classmates at Stanford but, in one of those twists of fate, I met him through his brother, Morgan, with whom I went on a blind date after the Big Game in 1954.  Morgan was in the Marines, up from Camp Pendleton to visit an old prep school buddy. The rest is history – Charlie’s family history, to be precise. I married Morgan; my Stanford roommate Sandy married Jim. Although neither Jim nor I stayed ‘until death do us part’ with our starter spouses, my only child Charlie and Jim’s only child Karen are first cousins.

I first flew in an airplane with Jim – a Cessna something-or-other I think. He had to fly so many hours a month (or a year?) to keep up his license and asked me to go with him now and then. I don’t even remember if he owned or rented that plane. I do know that he was the only pilot I ever felt relaxed with. Ever.

The Howell Men, 1957 – Morgan, Chick, Jim

I first ‘tuned into’ folk music through Jim. He played the guitar, composed a little,and loved off-beat kinds of songs. He played with a group of friends, one or two from Stanford and several from Menlo College, but as a few of them got serious about their music and were demanding more of Jim’s time, he opted out. Jim, Sandy, Morgan and I went to their first gig at the Hungry i in San Francisco – The Kingston Trio.

He was our first visitor (except for my folks) after Charlie was born – a proud uncle with absolutely no clue of how to approach a days-old baby. But, somehow, they bonded and have remained close for all those years. In many respects, Charlie is more like Jim than like his own father – certainly his artistic ability and his whimsical humor come from Uncle Jim.

Exhibition at Charlotte Jackson Gallery, Santa Fe

I first learned something about the Northwest School (of Art) through Jim when he and Sandy settled on Bainbridge Island and Jim began to get serious about his painting. He ran up against a few walls when he tried to exhibit in Seattle Galleries – he was a little too edgy for them. Finally, it was Polly Friedlander who gave him his first show – a decade or so before she showed up in Oysterville.

Jim came into his own in the art world when he moved to New York City with his second wife, Joy. It was a long time before he conceded that he might be classified as a minimalist. He worked for decades with shades of gray. No other color.  And just last summer I learned in one of those six-degrees-of-separation things that a man I’ve met through neighbor Bradley, Kevin Berry, has one of Jim’s early paintings hanging in his Seattle office.

Jim, Out for a St…roll

Sometimes hired me to write descriptions of his work for catalogues or for promotional pieces. We would have long conversations (in person when he was still on the West Coast and by telephone when he moved East). I had to work hard to understand him and to represent his thoughts in words. Nyel always said that I seemed to get into a “zone” or on a “wavelength” with Jim when I was interviewing him. Absolutely true. He was head and shoulders beyond my understanding of everything, not only art—probably the only true “intellectual” I’ve ever known.

I treasure the painting he gave to Nyel and me on the occasion of our marriage. But mostly I treasure all of the memories I have of him. My life was enriched through my friendship with him. No doubt about it.