Please leave your memories of Jim as comments to this page. Two of Jim’s high school friends left comments on here before this page was available. Others left their thoughts on Jim’s first post here. And here.
Update: Jim’s brother Johnny has written “A Brief Sketch of Jim Hsieh’s Life, 1944-2008″. Read it here: jim.pdf
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January 29, 2008 at 3:58 pm |
A TRUE TRUSTED FRIEND FOR 37 YEARS ” A GREAT HUMAN BEING”
HIS TWO SON’S ARE A TESTAMENT TO JIM .
January 29, 2008 at 4:41 pm |
Jim, I met you the first day on my new job with Whitfield Art Agency. We celebrated many birthdays, holidays, food and life over the last 25 years. You helped me pick out a guitar before I knew how to play it and showed me the chords. I so enjoyed those Sat afternoon guitar lessons-my Saturdays with Jim. I will always remember you singing Elvis songs with my mom. I thought there was a lot more time.
January 29, 2008 at 7:45 pm |
I think it was 1970 when we first met. Between then and now, God only know how much art we produced, how many songs we traided, and how many laughs and tears we shared. Saturday before last, we shared a dinner table and swapped songs until the late hours. We had no idea it would be our last time which is the way it should be. He taught us all he could. It’s up to us to carry on.
Godspeed, my friend. I support you in your journey.
January 30, 2008 at 7:28 am |
I first met Jim in 1978 through another artist named Jeff Wright who has long since passed. Jim and I shared many views on drawing,painting and the world. He introduced me to a tecnique using rapidigraph pens on a myston sprayed surface and I showed him how I was working with Prismacolor pencils on top of water-color and Dr. Martin’s Dyes washes ,which he took to a new level. Jim shared a secret with me only a few new about, that I tried to hide that I had a color defecincy in my eyes, never passed color test in my entire life. While I was painting large scaled murals I would get tired, my colors would get muddy looking, Jim would come over to the studio and label my tubes of paint and arrange them hot to cool to help me out. Did it on his own. Every thing this man did he did with passion including helping friends bury their animals. After learning of my German Shepard Sheba’s passing Jim called to tell me he was sorry to hear about Sheba. I told him I had just gotten back to east Nashville from Dickson County burying Sheba and recieved a call from Eichelberger that I buried her in the wrong spot and I had to come back and move her to the other side of the tree ,Jim said I’ll come and help. I said Jim it’s tornado weather out there it’s really scary ,he said we need to be quick about it then. We met on the hi-way and went out there. I was scouting out and clearing a place to put her and Jim was digging up Sheba and I heard SHIT LOOK I turned around he was pointing to the sky the bottom had dropped out of the very dark clouds and formed a twister coming up the valley towards us. I said here Jim you dig the new hole and I’ll get Sheba I know how she’s in there.She was all wrapped up in plastic. He started to dig like crazy. After I had gotten her out and carried her to the new spot Jim had a hole big enough to bury a cow. Laughingly I said damn Jim we don’t need to go to China! Covered with mud and totaly soaked we put her in and covered her over and picked up the tools and headed for the car, keeping a eye on the sky the entire time. I said Jim where’s the pick-axe he started to laugh and said I think I buried it with Sheba. I said oh well lets get out of here .I loved Jim and his spirit and always will….. See ya maestro thanks for being there for me!
January 30, 2008 at 3:52 pm |
I met Jim when he was my next door neighbor in 1980. We began writing songs together, one of which took 25 years to complete. Jim loved that song. He gave birth to it. He would revive it every few years and say, “We have to finish that song.” My usual response was that I thought we had finished it. We recorded it about a year ago. We made a routine of watching Titans football together for several seasons. I would always insist on a half-time walk. Invariably, we would miss a key play at the beginning of the second half. He eventually learned to say, when I insisted on the walk, “How far are we going?” I know that Jim will remain an inspiration to all of us who loved him and who were fortunate to have been loved by him. How many people have that much love to give to so many? Love and peace to you, Jim, and to all your friends.
January 31, 2008 at 5:13 pm |
I’ve known Jimmy for 47 years, since junior year at high school. He, ChenTze Wu and I were “the three musketeers” for as long as we could be. There were ony 36 of us in this graduating class; not something you see these days in classes of several thousand students. And so we were overjoyed to reunite 24 of us in 1998, including Jimmy. Jimmy and I picked up almost where we left off: laughing, writing songs, playing the guitar, singing duets, putting down tracks on the first take. It was magic. Susan Breining really touched a nerve as I read her notes. I thought we had more time too. But I will always cherish the nights, the songs, the laughter and the fun we could generate without spending a dime, sprinkled over these last 10 years. If we had only spent more time. Rest in peace my friend. You had so much love to give and I know you felt the love of so many in return. Can there be a more fitting epitaph?
February 1, 2008 at 1:54 am |
Jimmy was always the cool one. After spending the first decade of life as part of a solitary circle of five Fans, being presented with a quartet of cousins came as a wondrous surprise. They appeared one by one, these family members with the funny last name that defied pronunciation at first glance, staying with us now and then and bringing a taste of being grownup into our Chinese-almost-American childhoods.
Nancy mothered us, Johnny made us laugh. Lucy’s flirtatious short skirts evoked an “Oh, wow!” in my blossoming awareness. And then there was Jimmy, eighteen years old to my ten, so laid back, so cool, so different, so sexy(?!!) , so…un-Chinese. Jimmy, who amused us with his drawings and cartoons—Robin, the Boy Wonder, whimsically sketched with the spandex super-hero uniform stretched over the heroically expanded breast of a real robin. Of course the shirt was red. Jimmy, who played the…guitar? Chinese children played the piano or the violin, and we played CLASSICAL music! Not Jimmy, who sang down-home American to a hillbilly beat. Jimmy, who didn’t become a doctor or lawyer or scientist like good Chinese kids were supposed to do. Jimmy who married a white girl!!! Jimmy, who became a parent and suddenly, in my eyes, grew up.
Jimmy eventually disappeared from our lives except for the occasional family gathering. Such are the perils of time and distance, and now, I shall never get to know him. Still, as I reflect upon our moments together all those years ago, Jimmy lives on in my memory as a unique being. While my parents never played the What All Good Chinese Children Do game with me—thanks, Mom and Dad—Jimmy was the first ever CHINESE free spirit to enter my awareness, showing my by example that it was, and is, OK to be different. The last time I saw him he was singing “Red Sails in the Sunset,” all by himself with no accompaniment.
Jimmy was always the cool one.
February 1, 2008 at 8:30 am |
It has been helpful for me to read the thoughts and view the scenes of Jim’s friends and families. Thanks. Lots of other people are reading them too. This site has had about 900 visits a day for the last couple of days. A surprising number of those visitors come late at night. I would guess those are a combination of local folks who are grabbing a little time when they can – like me tonite – and folks in faraway time zones. Like you Cristina.
Jim has been the closest of friends to me for 35 yrs. DiAnne introduced us, and we became friends quickly. But I don’t know how. I was 21 and green and timid and arrogant and obnoxious. Jim was a little older, but he had also done stuff. He had a beautiful young family; he had created things; he had been to faraway time zones. I don’t know how we became friends, but it was one of the luckiest things that ever happened to me Over those 35 years we shared births and deaths, marriages and divorces, happy accidents and tragic ones, and a lot of time. Jim has shared my good times and bad times, and he allowed me share his. We all know how Jim can draw you in – like an IMAX theatre – once you are there, YOU ARE THERE.
And we have shared a lot of mundane time. In recent years, as old bachelors bitching about politics and difficult-to-maintain houses – and talking about women – like we were still 14 – like we aren’t really. I don’t know how to say how much I miss him. How much less interesting my world is now.
The other day, someone close to Jim said, “I knew Jim when he wasn’t perfect.” It was funny and true. It might be tempting, under the circumstances, to be sweet and pollyanna about it and say that he was a perfect “Jim Hsieh”. But that would discount how he had gotten better and better – and better and better. Continuous improvement. A function approaching its limit. Because we can’t be perfect really.
Jim was always talented (read the bio Johnny wrote on the page above), but he got more and more skilled – always funny, but he got more amusing – always smart, but he got more knowledgeable. There are so many things I admire about Jim, and I admire even more how he strove to be better, to be a better person. There are so many things I admire about Jim, but there is one singularity. He was the kindest man I ever met.
February 1, 2008 at 2:31 pm |
Dear Jim,
During 30 years of friendship we consoled each other when my daughter and your son died just several years apart; we raised many a glass before during and after Beer Camp; and we giggled like girls, made-up atrocious puns (your favorite kind) and sang Everly Brothers songs (you like an angel, me off pitch) while painting three murals together.
And now there’s no more. And you’re not here to console me.
I loved you then and I’ll love you still,
Barry
February 4, 2008 at 9:06 pm |
Everyone remembers Jim’s vast artistic and musical talent–he could always reduce our family to sentimental tears with his rendering of “Old Dog Shep”–but I also appreciated his gifts as a dishwasher. After dinner, he would come in, roll up his shirtsleeves, get an apron, and take over the sink, telling us all about he learned his profession in the kitchen at Interlochen Music Camp and (I think) working at camps in the Catskills.
He will certainly be missed around our table.
February 5, 2008 at 4:25 am |
I knew Jim back in the late 70’s I guess, when he worked some with my Dad and his folks at IDG. Daddy always loved Jim a lot, and spoke of him with that twinkle in his eye. As for me, like some of the others who have written about Jim here, he seemed pretty perfect really. And we even snuck in a couple of dates. But hey, the times being what they were, and me being the person I was and what not, we sort of lost touch. But over the years, I’ve kept up here and there with Jim thru the grapevine, and thoughts of him have always made me smile. The gentleness and sweetness is what I remember most clearly down the tunnel of years, oh and the humor. Those of you who have spent all these years with him and will miss him so, there are no words really, to say how sorry I am. Please accept my deepest condolences.
February 14, 2008 at 9:11 pm |
My son Jubal told me of Jim’s passing a few days ago. It came as a shock, of course; you never think of someone so full of life being ABLE to die.
Jim and I met and grew close in 1974. when Jubal and Loren were 3 and Brent was 8. We shared grief over recent separations and struggles of parenthood, as well as love of music, songwriting, cooking, and excruciatingly awful jokes. He taught me to cook Chinese and to speak the few words of Mandarin I know. Chief among these, perhaps, was “Hsieh,” which means “thanks.” An entirely appropriate name for Jim, as I reflect on his place in my life.
For one Valentine’s Day, he gave me an original pencil drawing of a smiling Appalachian woman holding a fiddle. Later, he included it in one of his private exhibitions.
A vivid memory of Jim is his note-perfect renditions of Marty Robbins’ songs; I can hear him singing “Don’t Worry ‘Bout Me” right now in my mind. His own songs often harbored the already-mentioned linguistic puns, although he could be as sentimental as the next country writer. Once we demo’ed a song he’d just finished, called “Honey, Please Come Over,” with Kim Young and I singing harmony.
Jim was a wicked tease, of course–part of his charm, if one could take the flak!
I’m glad that in recent years we reestablished contact via e-mail. When Jubal finished his degree in graphic arts a few years ago, Jim evaluated his portfolio, then graciously offered himself as a professional reference.
During a visit to Nashville about that time, Jim, Bud, and I had a warm and hilarious reunion dinner, laughing over memories and catching up with present situations. At one point, Jim said he was “heartbroken” when we ended our romantic relationship. Surprised, I said I’d had no idea. Without missing a beat, he added, with a shrug and his sly grin, “Well, I moved on.”
Later, Jim and I had a long conversation about our own spiritual paths, which had led each of us in similar directions: he told me that after the tragic loss of his baby son a few years before, he had returned to the Episcopal Church and rediscovered his spiritual roots; indeed, with his now-gray hair and lean body, he did look like an old ascetic sage. I shared with him my own journey into the Catholic faith and my decision to live on the grounds of a traditional monastery as a religious hermit.
That was the last time I saw him, though we traded e-mails occasionally, and I looked forward to seeing his art in the Vanderbilt Magazine. As someone has already said, the world is a less interesting place now. But I’ll bet Heaven is a livelier one.
Hsieh-hsieh, Jim. See you before too long.
February 19, 2008 at 9:14 am |
Jim was a freelance illustrator in the 1970s. I was a freelance writer. Two little mavericks in our way. We had music in common too. We hit it off immediately.
Jim enjoyed and was very adept at wordplay. Last October (2007) we had lunch and I put an idea on the table for a song we might write. It was a title: “Noah’s Arkansas.” Jim laughed immediately. He was up for writing the song together. A little more than a month passed and he called to have lunch and we did. And he presented me with a song entitled, “Noah’s Arkansas.” I listened to a home demo on CD. He had worked it all out. It was terrific. I was a bit upset, I admit. “Jim,” I said, “I thought we were going to write the song together,” “Hey, Mark,” he said, “we did. You wrote ‘Noah’s Arkansas’ and I just filled in the gaps.”
Once when Jim and I went out to Yobi’s tree, Jim told me that Will Campbell used to call the infant, “Yobiboy.” Jim, the visual artist, pictured the letters of Yobiboy in his mind and recognized that the word is a palindrome! He had moments like that, brilliant moments. Flashes of insight.”
I look back now on the many, many Friday nights I had dinner with Jim and Barb in their home and I am thankful and grateful.
I had just sent Jim an email around January 21st or 22nd. It was a You Tube link to Jim Reeves singing, “Oh, Danny Boy.” In the email I asked him if Jim Reeves had influenced him. I noticed that both of them carefully articulated lyrics the same way. I never received a reply to my email. But Brent told me that, yes, Jim Reeves was one of Jim’s favorite singers and that he had influenced him early on.
Sunshine or shadow, Jim Hsieh was consistent. Always open, kind, accepting. With a quick and ready smile.
July 24, 2008 at 11:35 pm |
Jim and I were fellow students at Wabash College and resided in Kingery Hall. We used to jam on our guitars when we should have been studying. We even did some taping in our communal bathroom to take advantage of the accoustics ( echo chamber). Jim taught me some of Elvis’ songs and other songs of the day. Jim was one of my best buddies on campus. I wish I had kept in touch with Jim after we left Wabash but you know how that is.
My condolences to Jim’s family Bob
December 4, 2008 at 10:16 pm |
Thank you for your condolences, Bob. I visited Jim at Wabash a few years before our marriage in 1965. I was at Western Michigan University and when we married we lived in Chicago and were both in school there–Jim at the Art Institute and I at U of Ill Circle Campus in Social Work. Our children, Brent and Loren, now 41 and 38, have never visited Wabash, but our first son’s middle name is Travers since we met at Interlochen, which is close to Traverse City, MI. I’m glad to know you remember him. We had some great times of course too, in spite of our divorce after 10 years. He was a terrific father.
Carolyn