Very recently, on what I assumed would be a regular Sunday morning, I received a message that my dear friend and close collaborator of many years, the brilliant pianist and tireless new music advocate Adam Marks, had died suddenly at the age of 42. Adam, as anyone who ever met him will attest, was a beacon of light; he toured all over the world and made fast friends of practically everyone he met, and this news has understandably shocked the many lives he touched. I, for one, remain shaken to my core. It is impossible to capture adequately in any format what Adam meant to me, and there's always more to say about him than I even know how to say; therefore, what follows in this post will evolve over time as I gather further thoughts and memories, and I will continue to update it over the coming weeks as I am able. (Life behind the curtain is getting complicated with looming deadlines galore, and an endeavor like this deserves time, respect, focus, and care.) But, by way of introduction, here is the tribute I wrote and shared at his shiva service this past week.

I met Adam during his first semester at Brandeis University, in the fall of 1996. I was a sophomore choreographing the musical theatre club’s upcoming production of Pippin. He was eager to know if there would be tap dancing. I said I was pretty sure there wouldn’t be, but he should still audition. Many years later, Adam confessed he found me intimidating during that first meeting, which amuses me because a) I am always more scared of everyone than they are of me, b) I was wearing rainbow leg warmers that day, c) he quickly proved himself to be the superior dancer, and d) we all know now that those rainbow leg warmers were on the wrong ankles.

Adam and I continued to collaborate in various artistic capacities for the next nearly 25 years. In addition to sharing the stage as dancers, we studied art song repertoire together, everything from Schubert to Argento. While I navigated my own local gigs--both onstage and in many a pit which truly earned its name--Adam displayed astounding levels of fearlessness, passion, and precision performing all over the country. Later, once I had dedicated myself more exclusively to composing, he was the first person to hear a song I’d just written. He laughed so hard at my use of the word “verstunkene” in the lyrics that he fell off the couch in the practice room. That was the clearest indication yet that I had finally made the correct career choice, and Adam stayed with me on that trajectory all the way. He was the musical engine behind several of my proudest achievements. As of last week, we were still working on two new projects together. I will find a way to do it all without him, but I wish I didn’t have to.

Every step toward the realization of a piece of music is an act of faith: grueling solitary days of practicing or composing; struggling together in rehearsal to reach breakthroughs; eventually heading to the concert hall, surrendering to whatever may happen after so much preparation. These are all components of the same affirmation: I believe that what we can do together has meaning. People in our line of work have this annoying way of rhapsodizing about our unique ability to reveal and heighten the overall quotient of unspeakable beauty in the world. Perhaps that’s true sometimes, but we are also capable of revealing what is unpleasant, uncomfortable, messy, and even dangerous. Whatever the result, it is always a living document of the fullness or our humanity. Adam was massively overqualified for all of it; he showed up to perform acts of faith and compassion and grace over and over again for decades, enriching our lives in countless ways in that process. Just this morning I remembered that I’m waiting to hear about a commission for which Adam wrote my letter of recommendation. His own generosity has already outlived him.

When the news of Adam’s death hit social media, the common refrain was “I have no words.” Now, I’ve just said a lot of words adding up to more of a dry catalogue than a textured portrait capturing my years enjoying Adam’s all-too-rare unconditional love and support. So, I agree: words are simply inadequate. (That’s why we have music, right?) But yesterday I did learn one word that may help us: familect. It’s a linguistic term encompassing, to quote Anne Helen Petersen, “shorthands and word substitutions overlaid with weird jokes, lingual play, and absurdity…undergirded by hours and months and years and decades of time spent in each other’s company. In other words: the language of actual intimacy.” If I say to you, “Abracathumbra” or “The Entenmann’s Sonata” or “Warsh Me,” you would probably not care. But Adam and I would hoot and holler over these phrases’ personal significance to us. I’m sure he has similar inside lexicons with everyone here today. So you see, we actually do have plenty of words. We all have parts of the Adam Marks Familect within us. Today, the Anne Carson Bot Twitter account blessed my feed with this gift: “Language is what eases the pain of living with other people, language is what makes the wounds come open again.” Thanks to the Adam Marks Familect, I’m feeling both acutely right now.

Infinite Jest, the novel by David Foster Wallace, is over a thousand pages long with labyrinthine footnotes at the bottom of every page. Adam and I read it at the same time, a little light extracurricular diversion. The year after Pippin at Brandeis, we staged a presentation of our choreography independent study projects. We incorporated texts between our dances. One of the readings in my half was taken from a section of Infinite Jest. I understand it viscerally now in a way that I couldn’t then. If you still have a hard time finding words, look no further. Don’t worry, I’ve cut it way down:

“…You will acquire many exotic new facts.

That no matter how smart you thought you were, you are actually way less smart than that.

That you do not have to like a person in order to learn from him/her/it.

That you will become way less concerned with what other people think of you when you realize how seldom they do.

That there is such a thing as raw, unalloyed, agendaless kindness.

That it is simply more pleasant to be happy than to be pissed off.

That it takes great personal courage to let yourself appear weak.

That no single, individual moment is in and of itself unendurable.

That there might not be angels, but there are people who might as well be angels.

That G-d, unless you’re Charlton Heston, or unhinged, or both—speaks and acts entirely through the vehicle of human beings.”

We love you, Adam.

It felt incomplete and irresponsible to attend the funeral over Zoom, so of course I flew out to Palo Alto to be there in person. It was my first-ever trip to that part of the country. I certainly understand better now how an upbringing in California informed Adam’s unflaggingly positive personality. Though of course I wish it had not been under such circumstances, I felt fortunate to reconnect with several of our mutual friends from college as well as Adam’s family and friends from other corners of his life. After the burial, a small group of us drove out to visit the majestic Muir Woods. As such life events tend to do, the experiences of that day precipitated a painful personal inventory of the very foundations of my life and work as I know it. I definitely feel corny and awkward saying this, but my relationship to music-making is changing, and there is already an immediate impact on the projects I’m trying to finish right now. The rest is inappropriately self-indulgent to elaborate upon further here, but suffice it to say that I will strive to stay present, and live less cynically and more fully, guided by the example consistently set by Adam in everything he did, both artistically and offstage.

Back in Brooklyn, while in the taxi on the way home from the airport, I received notification of my acceptance to a residency at the Soaring Gardens Artists Retreat beginning in mid-June. Throughout this past tumultous pandemic year-plus, I'd specifically been pining for a way to hang out for an extended period of time in a garden in the middle of nowhere, and I can't believe I get my wish. I couldn't help but feel like it was Adam’s parting gift to me. Thank you, dear friend. I hope that what I create while I'm away will make you proud.

If you have funds to spare and would like to make a donation in Adam's memory, here are some places where you can do that:

The SamFund: thesamfund.org

Beth Am Phyllis Koch Music and Art Fund: betham.org/donate

Ecumenical Hunger Project: ehpcares.org/donatetoehp.html

West End Church Food Bank: westendchurch.org/give (pull down for the “Outreach and Justice” tab, and put “fridge” or “food bank” in the memo)

Soon I will add here some random tidbits from over half a life shared (on and off but mostly on) with Adam—pictures, papers, screenshots of inane text exchanges, etc. Like the rest of this post, it will be a work in progress. Eventually, I will be collaborating with his brother to create an archive of items (photos, videos, recordings, marked scores, anecdotes, and so forth) to which we aim to have anyone contribute, and which we want to be accessible to all online. We are still figuring out what shape this will ultimately take (I like the idea of a Familect section, given the above) and what would be the best channel for us to collect materials. If you have something you would like to share, please hang on to it for now, and we will let everyone know when we are ready. It is the very least I can do for someone who did so much for me, always meeting me far more than halfway. That said, I always love to hear more stories about Adam, so if you have one, feel free to send me a message on the contact page in the meantime.

Many thanks to all who have sent so many lovely, caring messages about this loss—which is everyone’s loss—over the last couple of weeks. I would never doubt that I am not alone in missing Adam very much.