A few days after hearing Edmonton arts writer Gilbert Bouchard was missing I read a friend's comment on Facebook in which he expressed hope that Gilbert was not really missing but was actually just hanging out in a hotel room "watching cable and ordering room service."
Sadly, as I think my friend knew on some level and as many feared, this was not the case. Last week police found Gilbert's body in the North Saskatchewan River, another kindred creative queer brother drawn to the murky darkness of the mud-bottomed river.
Years ago I remember reading Gilbert's food reviews and being so annoyed by them, yet every week leafing through the pages to find them. I devoured them, secretly loving them, wanting to belong to the funny cosmopolitan world he created, full of great restaurants and Scooby-Doo friends.
Once when I was trying to figure out how I could get involved in the Edmonton arts and culture scene I waited outside the sound booth at CJSR until the end of Acultural Cocktail, a radio show Gilbert hosted with his friend Suzette Chan, to ask them if I could help out somehow. In my mind I can still see how adult and cool they looked to me—a world beyond what I knew. I think they were wearing all black and had sophisticated smiles on their faces. We chatted for a minute. They gave me some quick advice and suggested I contact them at a later date. I never did get back to them. I think I was intimidated. I never asked Gilbert if he remembered this incident.
Years later I had a chance to meet Gilbert again when he reviewed one of my art shows. We met for lunch to discuss the art and it was obvious within minutes that he had already taken the time to view the show, and had put some thought into what he wanted to say about it. In many respects he knew more about the themes that I was working with at the time than I did. Upon reading the article that came from that lunch I remember wishing I were as smart as Gilbert made me sound.
From then on in we would see each other around. We would have quick little conversations at art openings, restaurants, theatre lobbies, and I would always leave these tiny times wiser than when we first said hello. I left every conversation I had with Gilbert amazed at his breadth and depth of knowledge on any number of topics, and glad for his generosity in sharing what he knew, what he thought.
One time specifically I ran into him before I was about see the film 300. I remember wondering to myself afterwards if I would have hated the film so intelligently and fully if it hadn't been for the brief history lesson he gave me beforehand.
It was also during that same conversation that Gilbert gave me two gifts that have made me a better writer. The first gift was the only lesson in journalism I had ever received up to that point; how to write articles in a pyramid structure—the most important information at the beginning of the article and the least important (and therefore the easiest to edit out for space) at the end of the article.
The second gift was a piece of advice he gave me that I never figured out how to take. It was after we had discussed 300 and I told him that I would be contributing to Queermonton. He expressed his misgivings to me about writing a queer-focused column, warning me not to become a "gay writer." He said I ran the risk of being pigeonholed as a writer, that once I started with such a specific focus it would be hard to branch out. His words have stuck with me ever since. At times they haunt me and now, in the face of his death, the words hover just out of reach.
In many ways I think Gilbert was always looking to mentor developing and ever-expanding minds. I think part of my own grief in Gilbert's passing is that I never fully took him up on his kindness.
One of the most rewarding conversations I had with Gilbert was one in which he told me what he remembers of when the AIDS crisis began. He shared with me that he, like many of the men and women he marched with, cried with and struggled against the silence with, were socially progressive but privately conservative when it came to matters of the heart and sexuality.
There was something so tender, real and sweet about this admission that in that moment I saw Gilbert more clearly than I ever had before.
Goodbye, Gilbert. You are missed.
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