Derek was both one of the least sentimental people I have ever known, and one of the greatest lovers of the arts I have ever known. This seems an unlikely combination. He was an economist and brought an economist's skepticism and rationality to almost any subject. You would suggest something he thought fanciful (a word of his) or dubious and he'd look over his glasses and respond, "Weeeeeellllll ..." and leave you to defend yourself, or withdraw it.
He was a senior economist at JP Morgan, then JP Morgan Chase & Co, and bought his clothes at the Salvation Army and was fond of getting breakfast at what he would call "supercheap" diners, because why would you spend more? And he gave enough money to the Metropolitan Opera every year that they would give him tickets to dress rehearsals and working rehearsals and list his name in the program, which they don't do for any old donor. For a wonderful time there, when I wasn't working regular hours, I could meet him on a Monday or Tuesday afternoon - he was working regular hours but the cadence of his job meant that he could skip out for the afternoon early in the week on a pretty regular basis. We'd get to sit in the fancy boxes, and maybe we'd end up seeing the first act twice, or skip the second act, or whatever. But we'd be there in that nearly empty, silent hall - the contrast would make you realize how noisy people are even when they're being silent - and see some of the most transcendent moments you'll ever encounter in a performance.
I had thought I hated opera until Derek started us on it, first Reg and then when Reg started working regular hours, me as a poor substitute. He delighted in having converted us both.
And he was, this unsentimental person, full of delight. He was so fond of Reg, who brought out a side of him he rarely wanted to admit existed. There he was, this major donor to the Metropolitan Opera, coming to Off the Hook performances, and I'd be vaguely embarrassed at the relative quality of our work, but every now and then he'd comment afterward about how good a particular show was, and we'd know we'd nailed it.
There wouldn't be any Falconworks without him. Not much of one, anyway. He bankrolled our first real production, "Out of the Bag," during which we all learned what a money pit theater can be. But he didn't bat an eye - well, maybe he did, but he kept funding that and other shows, especially "Fixing the Album" and the big production of "Salome" that we did at the Brooklyn Lyceum that kickstarted us into being a real company. Apart from being fond of Reg, Derek saw his talent, and kept supporting it, through lean years when we were suddenly grappling with the relentless reality of payroll, and through - well, there haven't been any fat years, but if that ever deterred Derek he never let it show. The cliche that comes to mind is that he never asked questions, but that's not true at all; he always asked questions, always looked at our financials and budgets and said, "really?" But he never wavered in his support.
Apart from Falconworks - much more than Falconworks - he kept Freedom Theater afloat through an even larger number of lean years. And in that respect it might seem wrong to call Derek unsentimental, because any sensible person would have abandoned ship years ago, and an economist knows well the notion of sunk costs. But I think his determination to make Freedom succeed wasn't some form of nostalgia about the past or his personal connections; he was determined because he thought the work was valuable and worth doing.
(The Freedom experience did, however, give him a strong antipathy toward mixing art and real estate; whenever anyone suggested that Falconworks might acquire a space of its own he would tilt his head back suddenly, roll his eyes, and say "No, no, no ....")
He liked basketball, which always seemed unlikely. He would take New Jersey Transit and then Septa all the way to Philly, a habit that used to drive me nuts but which I've since learned (in fairness, he was going to Philly a lot more than I did). He would invariably arrive at the train station or the opera with thirty seconds to spare; how he managed to do so on public transit I never understood. He had more real estate entanglements than I could keep track of, or he, nearly. He remained friends with his exes, which led to some of the real estate entanglements. He wore bowties, which he enjoyed as a kind of trademark. I'm not sure he owned an overcoat. He took me to see Eugene Onegin, which remains one of the most moving arts experiences of my life. He used to wrap up his toast after breakfast at a supercheap diner and bring it home with him, which I've also since learned. He used to joke about how the little technology project I'd signed onto at Citibank seemed to be a guarantee of permanent employment, about which he has not yet been proven wrong.
Once, maybe a couple weeks after September 11, he said, "If you're a gay man who has lived in New York City for the past 20 years, you've seen so much death that this doesn't seem exceptional" - words to that effect, I don't remember the exact quote. That may seem cold, I suppose, but it wasn't; it was as somber and as honestly heartbroken as anything else anyone said in those sad days.
He was embarrassed by anybody making a fuss about him. When Falconworks gave him an award at our benefit a few years ago, he sort of said, "Yes, well, all right." When he accepted it he climbed to the stage and gave, ex tempore, a lovely explanation of why it was worth supporting an organization like Falconworks, and heartfelt.
He is the maybe most loyal friend I have ever had. I am far more broken up about this than I had expected to be. How I will miss him.