We met at the Westside Tavern last December, a stool between us and Ferris Bueller's Day Off on the TV. Pointing to the screen he sighed, "The downturn of society…" I, however, considered John Travolta a sign of the Apocalypse, underscored by his contribution to Hairspray. Two beers and all of Francisco's money later, now seated side by side, we both agreed that the tipping point of America was Ronald Reagan.
Francisco Christich: the name of a friar or cult leader. Or an artist, nine-ball guru, father and friend. Francisco, the most modest human being I met in my nine months in Central Oregon. A song; the antidote to gloating galleries and braggart collectors, trust-fund artist managers - We both knew we'd spend much time together after that night at the Westside. Yet neither could have guessed how rotten it would end.
His entry to Bend was apt. It was a choice between here or Sante Fe;
"When the car broke down that kind of made the solution clear." That
was 30 years ago. Francisco will be 62 in September and shows every
second on this Earth. A scar under his gray hay hair from a car crash
20 years since (of windshields he offers, "They're hard - they win, you
lose."), ashy marks like cuffs around his wrists ("Some pigmentosis…"
he explains, then jokes, "Actually I got those storming the cliffs of
Normandy.") and a silky white beard Santa would wear if evicted from
the North Pole. An American mutt, Francisco's father was Mexican and
Slavic while his mother was Native American and French, "As far as I
know." Raised in East LA, it was his mother who sat him down at an
easel when he was four and told him to paint.
