News | Calendar | Bulletin Board | Features | Swaps | Workshops
Storytelling Tips | About the Center | Resources | Contact us!
 

Remembering John Colligan

 
 

Our community has lost a dear friend and colleague — John Colligan, who passed away on December 31st. John was a storyteller, composer, teacher and good friend to many of us. He was a Board member of the Storytelling Center for nearly two decades. He was also a much loved music and drama teacher at St. Hilda's and St. Hugh's School for ten years. On Jaunuary 11th, Bill Gordh, Regina Ress, Laura Simms, and Ron Sopyla spent time in each of the classes telling stories, talking about John, and listening to stories from the students and teachers. John was clearly loved by both students and staff, both for his supurb teaching and for his humanity. We are all deeply saddened by his passing.

Below are some of the memories and tributes from the storytelling community. We also invite you to read about a special visit with John's students at St. Hilda's & St. Hugh's School on January 11th, 2008.

John and I served together as members of the Center's board for almost twenty years. He was central to the survival of the Center, doing the thankless job of heading the nominating committee, finding new board members and getting us all to supply the information to keep our bureaucracy functioning. But John's spirit influenced the Center so much more deeply than simple board duties. He played the piano at our desert parties. He always volunteered to lead swaps. He opened St Hilda's, the school where he was the music teacher, to our events. He always responded when called upon with grace, and humor, dedication and his own love of storytelling.

I loved to talk to John about music, but I also enjoyed talking to him about Japan and his Japanese stories. He told me how he used to hike on the paths above Kyoto, discovering small shrines and beautiful vistas. He traveled to Ireland and in recent years became a wonderful teller of Irish epics. Whether big or small, his stories revealed the landscape of his soul, filled with wonder, magic, melodies and humanity. John, you gifted us with such adventures. Thank you.

Gerald Fierst.

When I saw John's name on my computer, I thought it would be announcing a recital of his music or a political event. I'm in tears. I can't believe it. John was dear to me. I watched him grow and find himself and make a place in others' lives and those of his students. It's devastating. We will miss him, his humor, his Irish stories, and his music.

Memories bubble up. The early days at Lillian's when Billie Ballou and I drove him home and heard about his family, his days in Japan and realized his erudition — and enjoyed his wit. In his early days, he specialized in silly stories and tongue twisters which kept us all giggling in awe. We suffered along with him in his first couple of teaching jobs which were tortuous. John and I made several audio tapes for Team Productions, which I think was a subsidiary of the New York Times. They were for very little children and we played all kinds of voices people, animals, articles of talking furniture etc. What fun. And I hope that that if any family has a tape machine anymore there are children out there hearing John's voice.

How happy we all were when John and St. Hilda's found each other. And I know they appreciated all his talents. What a wonderful summer it was when they sent him to Ireland! How lucky we were to hear him playing us into the dessert parties. In his too short life with us he found his niche, was liked and loved and left us all with music in our hearts.

Carol Lewis.

One thing that strikes me about John was how avidly, and tenaciously he pursued his passions for music and storytelling. He held fast to his dreams. Something to be admired.

Ron Sopyla.

A memory… Fifteen years ago, John is sitting in my living room telling the Orpheus myth, gently, quietly, with poise and poetry. At the moment in the story when Orpheus is at the threshold, about to return back into the world of light and life he calls back to Eurydice: "The world welcomes us, it is a miraculous rose of a thousand crimson velvet petals." I never forgot that image — the world as a rose. To this day whenever I tell that story I always remember John and his gentle but passionate vision of blossoming, fragrant hope. An angel by any other name…

David Gonzalez.

John was so engaged with music, teaching, storytelling and life.

Jackie Pine.

I first met John nearly twenty years ago when we both started serving on the board of the Storytelling Center. I remember he reminded me of John–boy from The Waltons. There was something about him that seemed from another time and place; an earnest, honest quality, that was wonderfully refreshing, and a warm, sometimes sly sense of humor. He had long hair then, pulled back in a pony tail. Well, in time, the pony tail went, but his perpetually disheveled non–fashion sense remained the same. About ten years ago, John, Abike Jontayo, and I went to Rochester to shoot story segments for a video series. John decided that his wardrobe was lacking the appropriate clothing, so the day before leaving, he went shopping. The day of the shoot, we were in the studio, and John asked me if he looked alright. I looked at his new, wrinkle–free pants, his new, wrinkle–free shirt, his neatly combed hair. Everything seemed to be just perfect, until I noticed that I could barely see his eyes because his glasses were so smudged. Well, his glasses may have been smudged, but his vision was crystal clear. He knew what was important to him, and what was not.

Although we worked together on the Sandbox Stories program for seventeen years, we were never there at the same time. But one warm and sunny July afternoon, I went to see John tell stories. John showed up with his ubiquitous straw hat, and a large bag, and soon had the kids gathered around him, sitting in the sand, in the sandbox. It was a small group, very much an intimate storytelling situation. I was listening to the stories, but I was also watching the kids. He did a Japanese story with the Japanese story cards that he had. They were enthralled. Then he did "Master of All Masters," and had them all giggling. I honestly don't remember what else he told that day. But I remember the wonderful sense of warmth. Everyone there was just beaming with pleasure. I will miss having that pleasure.

I miss John. I miss knowing that he is there, in the world. He was a very rare find. He was simply, a very good man.

Eleni Constantelos.

I am so very very sorry. John was a unique and talented man.

Peg O'Sullivan, The Connecticut Storytelling Center.

John was a remarkable being. In his presence we were gifted by an incredibly lovely spirit. We often say that something, a force or a power, comes through someone. But John was that. When he told a story, his entire being was joy, every cell in his being yearned to speak to us. Always with extraordinary simplicity and humor. John's music was splendid, he was a first rate musician. His storytelling events were always delightful and the children he worked with very lucky to be so inspired. We experienced an angel.

David Elyha.

I'm so sad.

Donna Minkowitz.

I'm wordless.

Diane Wolkstein.

John was indeed one we could all call a Good Man, one of principle and good heart, moved by the music of the world which came from within him and without, and shared lovingly with so many. We need to each think of John and his melodic smile and be thankful for his having been a friend and sharer of kind words and creative ideas.

Mike Seliger.

My heart is so saddened by the news of his death.

Peninnah Schram

It just happened that John and I were both up at the Banff Centre in Canada at the same time. I was there attending a workshop when John was there as an artist–in–residence in the Leighton Colony. We shared some lovely meals together and he invited me to the cluster of beautiful, individually crafted studios set in the pine woods where the Leighton scholars worked. You can only visit that section of the Banff Centre property by invitation of the artists.

John took me past a gate, pointing to the sign that made it clear that no one but the artists and their guests were permitted to pass. We were like a couple of kids, me being allowed into the forbidden zone, and John, I would guess, happy to have someone from his New York life witness the gift he had been given by the Banff Centre, a gorgeous setting and all the tools he needed to work on his music.

In this studio, filled with sunlight and pine–scented air, John was working on setting Rilke poems to music. Besides the piano in the studio, he had a state of the art computer and a composition program named Sibelius. He also had the company of other musicians and artists from around the world. He was so happy there, pleased to be a working artist among other working artists, delighted to have the time and the tools to seriously work on his music. I am so glad I was able to share the experience of Banff with him and to see John so proud and happy.

I have no memory of the Storytelling Center without John. We'll miss him, mightily.

Regina Ress.

John was such a gentle, talented and caring human being.

Rita Auerbach.

We were sitting around a table at the Boat House in Central Park after storytelling, in the rain in September and John was telling a friend, at length, about a new composition… laying it all out in detail. It's true, he was too young, and so very interested in his music and students.

Julie Della Torre.

I will miss his gentle humor and captivating stories.

Jean Hale

The first time I met John it was through the Storytelling Center, and his gentle nature was immediately apparent and clearly something special. Then I met John again, through the annual retreat at the Rowe campsite in Massachusetts — here was another world we both shared. And here too, John shared his gifts with the men on retreat in ways that helped us laugh and open our hearts. And then I met John in yet another world we shared. While I grew up Jewish, and John was Catholic, I describe myself as a Jewish Buddhist; he called himself a Zen Catholic. I began to wonder why it had taken us so long to get to know each other — since we had so much in common. And now I am sad for all the worlds we will never get to explore. I admired his commitment to the kids at his school. He helped me be a better teacher. I will miss him a lot.

Mark Horn.

He was always such a great support to me with storytelling; I am so sad.

Julia Morris.

John's kindness, gentle ways and unending good humor run deep in my heart.

Jennifer Jacobson.

Sweet, sweet John.

Composer, musician, scholar, storyteller, lover of language, humorist, learner. Above all, learner. Always learning.

John and I would run into each other only three or four times a year, usually at storytelling events, yet when we talked, I felt a deep sense of connection. We'd often discuss the Japanese language, which I was learning and which he knew. He'd tell us of his current musical projects and goals — he was always moving forward, clear about what he was researching, learning, attempting to create. He was also excited by the various music teaching workshops he attended. And he spoke with admiration of the Texas Storytelling Festival — he admired its excellent organization as well as its tellers.

In remembering with abiding respect and love his Japanese language professor, John paid him the highest tribute by holding himself, as a teacher, to the highest standards. He employed the best of many methods as well as his own understandings to help his students gain insight into the nature of music. John asked himself the hard questions, about teaching and — as far as I could tell — about life. He looked everywhere he could, within himself, in the world, in his relations with that world for the answers. To my limited knowledge, he did not blind himself to difficult answers.

John always spoke with such energy and clarity about his teaching of music, that I asked if I might watch him teach. So for one entire school day, I think a year ago September, I watched him teach. This was such a generous thing for him to allow me to do, because in teaching — and especially teaching numerous classes of numerous grades — nothing is predictable. His curricula and classroom rituals "fit" with the ages of the students in each different grade. He threw his whole self into the teaching, and taught with passion. His communication of his love of the very varying types of music was palpable.

Last July [2007], a the Andersen Statue in Central Park, he "pinch hit" one Saturday as monitor after Ruth Lesh died. He did a meticulous job, even by arriving very early — for he was the only one who had realized that that Saturday was a Harry Potter™ volume publication day, and he wanted to make sure that the Statue would be available (as it had not been for a previous volume's publication).

That was the last time I saw John. After the storytelling, we went to the "cheap" part of the Boathouse restaurant. He quoted from memory a poem he had just written in honor of an aunt of his who had recently died. This aunt had been a stickler for, and lover of, the fine points of English grammar. He cherished that about her, and told us a funny tale about her insistence on proper grammatical construction. He stood by one of the "free" outdoor tables, and in his long–sleeved T–shirt, with deep concentration and seriousness, in his tenor voice, recited his poem in memory of an aunt who loved language and learning.

John's eye and heart were so clearly focused on his music, on his learning. What a wonderful way he lived. The loss is ours.

Ellen Shapiro

He was so young and so full of life. I would love to donate in his name, especially because he was so fond of music and stories. My heart is very sad.

Mara McEwin.

John was a stalwart member of the Center who was part of keeping the group alive and present. He clearly touched many people in the organization. For some of us, he was the first face of the Storytelling Center, leading many of the swaps. I found him a wonderful, piquant presence, and always was glad to see him at a program or a Board meeting. I will miss him.

Robin Bady.

He was gentle with an inner strength… a unique sense of humor… a volume of talent… When I think of John I want to smile but tonight the smile is a sad one. I am glad we knew him.

Margaret Dawson.

I wish I had spoken to him more when I saw him last at the Andersen statue. He was never effusive. A nod and a hello was his way of inviting but not insisting upon a more extensive exploration of what was in his life or his heart at the moment. I think he lived on a unique plane, searching through his music and his stories to reach a dimension most of us will not know.

I had not seen him in many years, but I remember one thing distinctly from the Swaps. I remember his insistence upon our finding a more gentle and positive way to critique each other's stories. He was a gentle soul.

Laura Bobrow.