Tonight we attended the memorial held for Albert Morse, who died on January 22nd.

I knew Albert for about 6 months a few years ago, when I worked for him. He was in his mid sixties at that time, walked with the aid of a stick, and smoked a pipe at regular intervals throughout the day. He had a great presence, twinkling eyes, a great white beard, long unruly white hair, and more stuff than he knew what to do with. He was a real collector, a lover of “great items”, things that he prized not for their monetary value or status symbolism, but rather for their aesthetic pureness, their functional brilliance, their conceptual genius.

He was a lifelong photographer; he had boxes full of slides, prints, negatives, dozens of cameras, and many tips for me. He was a great reader; I remember driving a truck with 40 boxes of his books that he’d somehow managed to “lend” to some poor woman back from San Jose at 2AM, and then schlepping them up and into some studio space that he had rented with his ladyfriend. He was a voyeur; he loved to read hooker ads on redbooksf, and to view erotica and porn; for a while he took pictures of naked people with paper bags over their heads, the bags featuring self portrait caricatures.

He was a keen bicyclist; he had two recumbant bicycles, which were his favorites, and perhaps half a dozen others, when I knew him (as well as, of course, boxes of parts) — one speaker at the memorial tonight described the time when he decorated his houseboat with bicycle frames. He had sore, aging, feet, which he’d soak for 1/2 an hour in iced water. He was a voracious eater; eating out for lunch, sometimes he’d order two or three main courses. He had statuettes, sculptures, paintings, pipes, walking sticks, watches, shoes, hats, masks, wigs, tools, bags. He drove a beat up VW bus. He loved the flea market. He loved to hear about people, about the trips they were on, the movies that they were starring in.

He loved “weirdism”.

In the mid sixties/early seventies, Albert represented several prominent underground comics in court, including the author of Fritz the Cat, R Crumb, and others, against obscenity and copyright infringement charges. He lived on a houseboat in Sausalito, not far from Alan Watts, whom he visited with on several occasions. He attended and befriended psychotherapists throughout his life; when I knew him he was a great fan of James “Revisioning Psychology” Hillman.

He claimed to be a recluse, and to have few friends (the only two I met during those six months were a pair of Berkeley nudists, artists,) and yet at the memorial tonight there were 60 people in attendance. There was a naked wiccan lady who played didgeridoo and sang, some relatives who sang hasidic prayers, an older gentleman who played peruvian prayer bowls and sang repeat-phrase dirge, as well as many a speaker with a good word for him.

He was a unique man; I’m lucky to have known him; he will be missed.

SFGate Obituary

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