In the fall of 2001, over coffee on the lawn outside Westminster's clock tower, there was a typical conversation that could have been on any other day about the professors my friends and I had that summer.
Many of us were fortunate enough to have been placed in an Introduction to Philosophy course, taught by Doug. This conversation could have been swept away, past the reaches of memory, had it not been for a friend of mine who said: "Most professors just publish, publish, publish. But Professor Wright - he's the true renaissance man."
It was the first time I had ever heard that phrase, and I had to ask my father later that day just what, in fact, it meant.
And when the meaning was finally unveiled, it was something that sat at the brim of my mind in every subsequent interaction with Doug. Over time, I realized, that it was true - not out of the dictionary definition; though Doug's fascinating with visual arts, with sculpture, with literature and philosophy and great poetry, with music and sports certainly qualify him for that.
But for Doug, his renaissance is something far deeper - it is the very DNA of his world view, unbridled by tempestuous curiousity, that every day and every moment is a new birth.
For years he must have heard the same naive thoughts from his undergraduates on modus tollens and modus ponens, and yet every lecture he would invite the thoughts of his students, pacing excitedly and chanting in a low voice, his hand undulating to beckon further discourse: "That's cool, that's cool, that's cool."
And one spring day, he stopped the class mid-discussion of Acquinas and said: "Enough of this. I want to show you something."
On the chalkboard he drew, with perfect sides and angles, a shape. "What is that?" we asked.
"It's an impossible triangle," he said.
And it was. A Penrose Triangle, I learned that it was called nearly a half-decade later, but then, on the black slate cast in spring light, filtered through the windows of Webster, was a shape in both two dimensions and three, all at once - it made no sense, both possible and impossible.
Some of my classmates may have forgotten it, by now, but that vision that Doug gave us that day, became a renaissance for myself - shaping the eye with which I look at the world.
When I think now about the believable, the fantastic, the audacious, the beautiful, the cruel--I think of it through the lens of that impossible triangle, and the entire weight of the world is easier to bear.
Even the weight of cancer, of ill news, and of a timeless friend whose time will be far too short.
Doug, 22 years ago a friend wrote this for me. It reminds me of you and they way I felt after seeing Madame Butterfly with you. Your heartfelt and effusive enjoyment of the grandeur of Puchinni's score and the incredible sadness of the story itself was so refreshing! I felt as if we had stepped together.
"I and a friend stood together in a large crowd; Looking around I could see naught but heads. Turning to my friend I said, "Come-let us step but one step above all the rest." So we stepped; And saw wonders none of the rest could see, for they saw naught but heads. Soon others looked and saw us standing above the rest. Turning to their friends they said," Come-let us too step but one step above all the rest." So they stepped. And soon, looking around I saw naught but heads. Turing to my friend I said, "Come-let us step but one step above all the rest." So we stepped."
You are a man who has always taken that extra step to see the wonders of the world. I have never formally been your student, but I have been your student nonetheless. I hope I will always seek that extra step. Thank you for being you.
I had the pleasure of meeting Doug for the first time in my first class of my first semester at Westminster College. I was fresh out of High School and didn't know anything about the college experience; sitting quietly in the first row, I had no idea what to expect. And in came Doug, larger than life, booming about something in that great voice of his.
And that was it. College became less about memorization and more about the theatrics of learning. Not content to simply learn about the fallacies of arguments, Doug put on '12 Angry Men' and dared us to find fault with Henry Fonda's logic. In film courses, Doug wasn't content simply describing scenes; he would paint them the same way he would paint a canvas, lovingly and with a careful eye. When words couldn't describe John Wayne's acting in 'The Conqueror', Doug took it upon himself to recreate his favorite bad lines, relishing in the over-the-top performances.
Later came Experiencing The Arts. If ever a class pushed the boundaries between formal education and world experience, it would be that class. When asked my fondest college memories, the list is usually dominated by experiences from the class; learning interpretive dance; building kites; creating sculptures from trash; drum circles in the courtyard. The joy of art is in the process, something illustrated beautifully in a way that no-one but Doug could have.
If Doug is anything, it is passionate. And Doug's passions are contagious. Perhaps the most contagious of all of them is his passion for living... for enjoying every moment, and for appreciating every warm summer afternoon.
Thank you, Doug, for your lust for life and unending desire to make the day your own. You've made the world a more vibrant and colorful place with infinitely more possibilities than anyone could have guessed.
News of your condition, Doug, brought me to tears.
You were my professor in an introductory philosophy course years ago; and while my training in philosophy ended on the last day of that semester, perhaps you will indulge me once again.
While perception may be reality, interaction informs our perception and, in doing so, creates reality.
The human species is an interdependent one; we are by nature inclined to assume certain behaviors and develop certain thought processes in response to our interactions with one another. In other words, consciously or not and often despite our best efforts to the contrary, we not only define ourselves but are veritably shaped by the expressed thoughts and actions of others.
And this could not be otherwise; in our physical existence, we would all succumb quickly to the dangers that lurk around us were we not capable of redefining our thoughts and actions in response to our experiences. In this sense, we are the lasting reflections of the environment and, particularly, of one another.
I wrote a paper focused on the eternal validity of consciousness that you described as one of the most creative you had read over the course of your career. You inspired confidence in me; you encouraged me. And I have since embraced life in ways that I had neither planned nor imagined.
Truth be told, it is unlikely that you remember me or even my paper. But I remember you well. And while you may not recognize it, I am your reflection, as are many other individuals whom you have encountered.
And your reflection in us all is not obscured by the infirmity that now afflicts you. In that sense, you, sir, will live on longer and more richly than the great majority of us.
In the fall of 2001, over coffee on the lawn outside Westminster's clock tower, there was a typical conversation that could have been on any other day about the professors my friends and I had that summer.
ReplyDeleteMany of us were fortunate enough to have been placed in an Introduction to Philosophy course, taught by Doug. This conversation could have been swept away, past the reaches of memory, had it not been for a friend of mine who said: "Most professors just publish, publish, publish. But Professor Wright - he's the true renaissance man."
It was the first time I had ever heard that phrase, and I had to ask my father later that day just what, in fact, it meant.
And when the meaning was finally unveiled, it was something that sat at the brim of my mind in every subsequent interaction with Doug. Over time, I realized, that it was true - not out of the dictionary definition; though Doug's fascinating with visual arts, with sculpture, with literature and philosophy and great poetry, with music and sports certainly qualify him for that.
But for Doug, his renaissance is something far deeper - it is the very DNA of his world view, unbridled by tempestuous curiousity, that every day and every moment is a new birth.
For years he must have heard the same naive thoughts from his undergraduates on modus tollens and modus ponens, and yet every lecture he would invite the thoughts of his students, pacing excitedly and chanting in a low voice, his hand undulating to beckon further discourse: "That's cool, that's cool, that's cool."
And one spring day, he stopped the class mid-discussion of Acquinas and said: "Enough of this. I want to show you something."
On the chalkboard he drew, with perfect sides and angles, a shape. "What is that?" we asked.
"It's an impossible triangle," he said.
And it was. A Penrose Triangle, I learned that it was called nearly a half-decade later, but then, on the black slate cast in spring light, filtered through the windows of Webster, was a shape in both two dimensions and three, all at once - it made no sense, both possible and impossible.
Some of my classmates may have forgotten it, by now, but that vision that Doug gave us that day, became a renaissance for myself - shaping the eye with which I look at the world.
When I think now about the believable, the fantastic, the audacious, the beautiful, the cruel--I think of it through the lens of that impossible triangle, and the entire weight of the world is easier to bear.
Even the weight of cancer, of ill news, and of a timeless friend whose time will be far too short.
Possible and impossible, all at once.
-Ned Stanley
These are the teachers who shape our lives! Thanks for sharing this, Ned ... it describes Doug so well.
ReplyDeleteGenette
Doug,
ReplyDelete22 years ago a friend wrote this for me. It reminds me of you and they way I felt after seeing Madame Butterfly with you. Your heartfelt and effusive enjoyment of the grandeur of Puchinni's score and the incredible sadness of the story itself was so refreshing! I felt as if we had stepped together.
"I and a friend stood together in a large crowd;
Looking around I could see naught but heads.
Turning to my friend I said, "Come-let us step but one step above all the rest."
So we stepped;
And saw wonders none of the rest could see, for they saw naught but heads.
Soon others looked and saw us standing above the rest.
Turning to their friends they said," Come-let us too step but one step above all the rest."
So they stepped.
And soon, looking around I saw naught but heads.
Turing to my friend I said, "Come-let us step but one step above all the rest."
So we stepped."
You are a man who has always taken that extra step to see the wonders of the world. I have never formally been your student, but I have been your student nonetheless. I hope I will always seek that extra step. Thank you for being you.
Philina
I had the pleasure of meeting Doug for the first time in my first class of my first semester at Westminster College. I was fresh out of High School and didn't know anything about the college experience; sitting quietly in the first row, I had no idea what to expect. And in came Doug, larger than life, booming about something in that great voice of his.
ReplyDeleteAnd that was it. College became less about memorization and more about the theatrics of learning. Not content to simply learn about the fallacies of arguments, Doug put on '12 Angry Men' and dared us to find fault with Henry Fonda's logic. In film courses, Doug wasn't content simply describing scenes; he would paint them the same way he would paint a canvas, lovingly and with a careful eye. When words couldn't describe John Wayne's acting in 'The Conqueror', Doug took it upon himself to recreate his favorite bad lines, relishing in the over-the-top performances.
Later came Experiencing The Arts. If ever a class pushed the boundaries between formal education and world experience, it would be that class. When asked my fondest college memories, the list is usually dominated by experiences from the class; learning interpretive dance; building kites; creating sculptures from trash; drum circles in the courtyard. The joy of art is in the process, something illustrated beautifully in a way that no-one but Doug could have.
If Doug is anything, it is passionate. And Doug's passions are contagious. Perhaps the most contagious of all of them is his passion for living... for enjoying every moment, and for appreciating every warm summer afternoon.
Thank you, Doug, for your lust for life and unending desire to make the day your own. You've made the world a more vibrant and colorful place with infinitely more possibilities than anyone could have guessed.
News of your condition, Doug, brought me to tears.
ReplyDeleteYou were my professor in an introductory philosophy course years ago; and while my training in philosophy ended on the last day of that semester, perhaps you will indulge me once again.
While perception may be reality, interaction informs our perception and, in doing so, creates reality.
The human species is an interdependent one; we are by nature inclined to assume certain behaviors and develop certain thought processes in response to our interactions with one another. In other words, consciously or not and often despite our best efforts to the contrary, we not only define ourselves but are veritably shaped by the expressed thoughts and actions of others.
And this could not be otherwise; in our physical existence, we would all succumb quickly to the dangers that lurk around us were we not capable of redefining our thoughts and actions in response to our experiences. In this sense, we are the lasting reflections of the environment and, particularly, of one another.
I wrote a paper focused on the eternal validity of consciousness that you described as one of the most creative you had read over the course of your career. You inspired confidence in me; you encouraged me. And I have since embraced life in ways that I had neither planned nor imagined.
Truth be told, it is unlikely that you remember me or even my paper. But I remember you well. And while you may not recognize it, I am your reflection, as are many other individuals whom you have encountered.
And your reflection in us all is not obscured by the infirmity that now afflicts you. In that sense, you, sir, will live on longer and more richly than the great majority of us.
I wish you the very best.
Respectfully yours,
Andrew Shaver