Late last week, I got the sad news that a former colleague of mine had died. Fred Rubin, whom I was fortunate enough to work with at Chiat\Day and JWT, passed away last Friday afternoon. My heart goes out to his family and to everyone who was touched by this great thinker who always did the right thing.
It’s remarkable how death forces us to reflect. Often it’s only after we lose someone that we become fully aware of what a strong force they were in our lives. And Fred was a powerful mentor and influence to many.
There is an irony that Fred, whom I grew to know and respect as the Internet was emerging, turned up in a frenzy of e-mails 16 or so years later, the subject of people’s sorrow. So many of us were connected to him, through computer mediation once again, when we received a group e-mail asking us to contribute memories for a compilation for his teenage sons, an ad hoc obituary.
It got me thinking that today there is a new category of relationship, once close, now Facebooked, that keeps a flame of connectivity alive. It also makes death and goodbyes even more bittersweet, because our friendships remain more vivid thanks to postings and updates and the collaborative sharing we do when we learn that people who matter to us are sick or dying or have passed away. The rise of Legacy.com, of memory books online and of memorials posted on the Internet make me think forever is a new concept in cyberspace.
In our wiki-style remembrances of Fred, one collaborator wrote, “Fred always made me aware that I wasn’t as smart as I thought I was while never making me feel dumb.”
Another replied: “I had the opposite response whenever talking with Fred—an almost constant confirmation that I was as smart as I thought I was.… His unfailing ability to humor and humorously tolerate idiots while gently educating me, I mean them, is what I shall miss most.”
Thank you, Fred, for everything. We’ll miss you.