3 medium red onions, thinly sliced
4 to 6 cloves garlic, minced 5 very ripe and juicy tomatoes, chopped coarsely Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste ? cup finely chopped fresh basil (1 bunch) 15 pitted dates (? cup), cut crosswise in thirds 3 tablespoons unsweetened shredded coconut ? cup half-and-half
1 pound medium shrimp (16 to 20), shelled and deveined ? cup grated Parmesan cheese
2? cups cooked basmati rice
INSTRUCTIONS
1. In a large, heavy pot, heat olive oil over medium heat. Add onions, and sauté until wilted, about 10 minutes. Add garlic, and continue sautéing, stirring frequently to prevent sticking, for 2 minutes longer. Stir in the tomatoes, salt, and pepper. Cover, and cook for about 5 minutes.
2. Add basil, dates, and coconut, and reduce heat to medium-low. Cook, uncovered, stirring occasionally, for 5 more minutes. Add the half-and-half, cover, and cook for 3 minutes.
3. Add shrimp to sauce. Cook, covered, until shrimp turns pink, about 5 minutes. Stir in the cheese, and then the rice, and serve immediately.
In the mornings before Ficre went to the restaurant, he painted in a garage studio behind our house. There his practice and colors changed. He moved more fully into his brilliantly abstracted space; figures, landscapes, and icons were discernible but not strictly representational. With this work, he applied and was admitted to the Yale School of Art.
Ficre’s time in art school was a mixed bag. He was a “grown-up,” extremely open to learning, as ever, but also not a malleable kid. He was a respected town professional and, by that time, a father of two after the arrival of Simon Alexander Ghebreyesus in 1999. His particular African diaspora aesthetics were sometimes mis-read by teachers—“Where are your African colors?” one asked (to our quiet amusement), perhaps noting the absent combination of red, black, and green. But he had a good experience as a teaching assistant for Richard Lytle—who had taught the class “Color” for decades in the manner of his friend and mentor, the painter and color theorist Josef Albers—and strong, honest encouragement from Sam Messer, a Brooklyn artist known for his collaborations with writers.
Ficre loved outdoor painting excursions in New Haven’s mixed-metaphor landscape of New England trees and industrial detritus. He made some fascinating text-based pieces in class with conceptualist Mel Bochner. Most important, however, were some artist’s visits to the school. He had an expansive studio visit from the painter Amy Sillman, whose use of color and commitment to abstraction spoke powerfully to Ficre. Having Adrian Piper and Martin Puryear in his studio was a highlight of his time in graduate school. He revered each artist as a true master and had worked with his classmates to arrange the visits. Though his work looked nothing like either one’s, Piper and Puryear asked him the deep questions that took his practice to the next level. It especially pleased him that Piper practiced yogic headstands during her visit in his studio, for he was beginning his own devoted yoga practice around that time. He cared deeply that people come in peace, for he himself was a profoundly peaceful and peace-loving person, forged in the crucible of war.
Ficre was shy about his artwork. He wasn’t a schmoozer. He loved to have certain visitors in his studio, but the marketplace was not for him. Dozens and dozens of friends in and out of the art world urged him to show and sell and literally begged to buy paintings and photographs. He was never quite ready, he mostly said, still finishing, still perfecting. It made me crazy, for I believed fervently in the beauty and power of what he made and wanted him to have an art career commensurate with his talent and output. “People will know this work after I’m gone, sweetie,” he would say. He said it with a laugh, but he meant it. I don’t suggest he thought he would leave this earth prematurely, but I do think he had faith in the long-run, and the lasting power of art, and that he also clearly knew what was his and his alone to accomplish. He understood that ars longa, vita brevis, no matter when you die.
Three
The story begins on a Thursday night. I bring an unexpected guest home to stay with us, an artist friend who’d spoken on campus that afternoon. When I take her to her hotel after dinner we find that it is in a deserted corner of town far off the beaten track, so I offer to bring her to sleep in our guest room. She accepts with relief, and I call Ficre: to let him know company is coming.