Dear Dear Kevin Killian: A Collected Memory
Douglas Kearney
Grand might sound old-fashioned, and maybe it is. But that’s what comes to mind when I think of Kevin. To me, Kevin was grand in person, in personage. By no means in the sense of putting on outsize airs, but there was something about him that overflowed with a generosity of spirit. A kind of luxe good. I remember once seeing him between events at Artist’s Television Access over on Valencia—there was a coming and going feeling to things—he was leaving and I was staying. I think the program I was on was starting later than late, maybe. I can’t remember. Anyway, we chatted for a bit, and as was typical when I saw him, I kept saying in my head over and over: “That’s Kevin Killian! That’s Kevin Killian!” in recognition and in wonder. The writers I learned about as a student at CalArts have always meant something different to me than all the others—their vitality seemed less managed, constrained. But Kevin’s kindness struck me thusly. He wasn’t going to be able to stick around for the whole gig, but that was ok. I knew how he felt about the work. And besides there was that grandness, the warmth in the conversation that left me feeling: “I must know Kevin better than I thought I did.” Now, I can only wish that were so.
We will all stay awhile and we will all go. I hope we can be as kind, as warm as Kevin while we’re here, between the events.
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