Steven Langhorst, friend
I met him in 1990 in Santa Fe. He and Marianne were living in John Sloan's studio. My wife and I took a spring break trip to visit Steve and Marianne. I had never met them. And I really wanted to go on a float trip in the Ozarks, but what the hey. It was something different. Didn't see much of Steve that trip as he was studying in Albuquerque during the week. But Santa Fe and Steve were different. I fell in love with Santa Fe right away. Through the years we visited them several times in New Mexico and when they would return to St. Louis. I'd say our friendship really bonded when one night in Santa Fe the four of us went for an evening stroll up a dusty arroyo. Steve had his bottle of tequila and I had my bottle of wine and our voices were in fine tune as we sang to the stars. Outside the casita Steve and Marianne were renting were some junked and rusting Triumphs that Steve was painting. He loved junk and turned it into beautiful art.
Steve’s Way
As the news of his leaving us was told
I expected the sky to darken, colors to wash away.
His pencil crossed a page
And the line became in real time
Her face, hair, breasts, legs, fingers
Or the equally sensual curves of hills, valley, rocks, streams.
His brush stroke and the clouds broke
Sunlight spilled onto paper, shadows danced, bright rays burned.
His hand becomes a brush
Spreading paint to become the lake, the mountain, the forest.
Colors mixing into true visions of what you need to see.
His mind made beautiful metal scraps, wire fence, ancient autos, dying trees, withered landscapes.
Our eyes opened to brilliant visions and new lessons of worth.
His fingers could reach into the palette and snatch a fish, releasing it gently to swim through his painted lake.
While standing tall among the trees and mountains he honored,
Steve was the art he created.
He leaves us stacks of paintings, layers of his life.
A path on the canyon rim,
The rock pool drying, aged and gnarled moon lit pine, scrub brush in the hot dust,
A sky full of dazzling stars, soothing flowing currents, multi- hued rocks and mountains,
A gentle landscape of slices of paint captures the heart of the land ……
The beauty of his pictures came from the beauty in his mind, heart, soul…..
Through the trees the hawk swoops and I listen to the words in my head of his passing
Expecting the news to turn the sky black and the colors to drain from sight
Yet the clouds become golden in the blazing sun, the sky appears brilliant blue,
The mountain shimmers in passing colors, and the trees sing a whispered song of blended green.
That’s how it all appears looking through his eyes as Steve paints another day.
Steven W. Langhorst, November 6, 2010
A few years after Steve passed, my friends, Chris and Karen, were planning a return to Yukon where we had traveled with Steve back in 2006. Steve had always wanted to go to Yukon to paint. We managed to get him to travel with us on a almost 3 week camping and fishing trip. He had the time of his life and painted some amazing work. And he was such fun to camp with. His story telling fit right in with the rest of our stories. And he always had a song or two to sing. Usually some silly song.
When Mary Anne heard that we were returning to Yukon she asked if we would take some of Steve ashes with us and scatter him among the sites he enjoyed painting. She put together a yellow leather pouch. And I carried Steve with me back to the Yukon. It was a great trip like of our adventures up North were. We visited some of the same sites and at each one we would share some story or two about Steve and then share some of his ashes with the Yukon.
On our trip to Whitehorse, we stopped at Miles Canyon which frames the magnificent Yukon River. We crossed above the river on a white bridge in the sunshine. Took a path upstream a little ways to a rock out in the middle of the river. Chris and I walked out to the rock above the river. Waved at some paddlers down below. Evening was approaching. It was a great place for us and Steve. Chris and I each said a bit about Steve. Talked about what a great character he was and a very special person.
Besides carrying Steve I had also carried a small bottle of Cuervo. We toasted Steve swallowing shots of tequila. It was a fitting ceremony for our friend, but something seemed lacking. I turned to Chris and suggested we should sing as we ended the ceremony. I had no idea what to sing. I was hoping Chris could come up with something fitting. We were both emotional at the moment and not really thinking too clearly. Chris had nothing. So finally a song popped into my brain. Something special that I knew Steve would appreciate. And though I am a lousy singer I belted out with all the talent and love I had........and the sound of "Tie Me Kangaroo Down" was hear throughout the canyon.
When I finished the verses I could remember we share Steve's ashes with the river.....and followed them with a shot of tequila. And by now Steve is somewhere in the north Pacific.
I love you Steve.