Well, by the size of this turnout, I obviously married the right woman.

Before I start, I need to get one piece of business out of the way. I need to take a photo – as I am the family archivist.

Thank you.

Today is Karen’s birthday – we shared 25 of them. And I think she would have considered this one a bit overwhelming. It’s a gift to her (and me and Alex) that you all are here. Thank you.

So, after 9 months, I can tell you that the greatest cliché about loss is true. 

Grief is the price we pay for love.  And with Karen’s passing, for me and Alex, it really is a high price. It hurts. It sneaks up on you at any time. It can wake you up from sleep. It can take your focus. It can be constant. It can throb. 

But it is so worth the price. And I am gradually finding a balance.  

Fortunately, whenever I need to, I can call up a mental image of Karen or a memory at will --and bring an immediate smile, the kind of smile that I can physically feel – it’s a warmth, it’s a fullness. A satisfying “hit” that I can feel course through my veins.

Or, I can also just look at my photographs. Thankfully, I have thousands of her smiles and other expressions preserved for whenever I need one. And she never took a bad picture. Not even when she was in a hospital bed.  

You all know Karen in your own way, but I’ll share a bit about the Karen I knew.

Karen was, at least for me, a living contradiction.

She was indecisive and determined. She was fragile, but unbreakable. She was naive, and she was wise. She was fearful. She was fearless.  And she fought cancer with bravery.

She was prone to occasional sadness but had a smile that was so warm, so real, that it touched you deeply. All of you in this room experienced that warmth and that glow, so you know what I mean. 

When we first met at a photo exhibit about Cuba, I was just a bit more jaded than the cheerful guy most of you know me as today. And I'm almost ashamed to admit it, but I didn't really trust Karen's “niceness” when I first met her. In the “what's in it for me” of our 30s, and in New York City of the 1990s, I just couldn't trust what I saw. And because of her good friend, she had known of me -- and not the “best” me either – so maybe she was wary. She was sure we had met before. But I don’t remember that.

And then we started talking about our work. Me – “blah blah blah blah blah I'm a photojournalist I'm looking to do something in documentary films now. Blah. Blah. Blah”. And I probably came off as a guy with a good heart that was just a bit weary from years determined to “make it”. In that room, I was a dime a dozen.

And she shared, through a big and constant smile, that she was running a photo class at a city-subsidized single room occupancy hotel in Times Square, where her students were mostly formerly homeless or mentally ill or both… “OK” I said to myself – “Who does this?” 

I was so taken (though wary) by her enthusiasm and earnestness – and she never once mentioned her own work as a photographer. And she had just won a very large grant (like big enough to buy a NYC apartment grant) to get her students work displayed on the New York City subway! I just loved the whole idea, how “big” she thought, and her execution and that she actually pulled it off. I offered my help right on the spot. I offered to scan the work and make a little book that she can use to promote the project. I invited her to my apartment soon after to start the scanning. I often joked that was our first date – and guess what? She was three hours late!  And I am never late.

Upon her arrival on my doorstep, it was the first time I experienced her smile as her secret weapon. I opened the door, a bit annoyed, because she was so late, and she smiled that smile and I learned on that very day that I had no answer for that secret weapon. All I could do was smile back. And that’s what I did for the rest of her life. I let her in to my apartment and soon, my life.  

I quickly learned about other facets of her life -- that she taught photography at an ICP community program for teens in the South Bronx on the weekends, that her apartment was always open to three little girls for homework time, cookie making and playtime, that she not only talked through movies, but experienced them as though she was in the movie!  And lastly, I learned that she was a cat lady! 

She was smart. She was beautiful. She was accomplished. She was over 35. What's wrong with her?

Well, much to my good fortune, other than her lateness, absolutely nothing. As Alex has heard me tell this, I'll never forget the day we knew we were in love. It was West 86th St. She was late for a friend’s party, but when she came up those subway steps and flashed that smile – that secret weapon – that was it and we both knew it. How amazing is that? To that very instant we can both trace our mutual love. Later that evening at the party, someone asked if we were a couple. We looked at each other, nodded, and then answered back “yes”. We were. Until the day she died.

From her perspective, what sealed the deal was that her mean old cat, a rescue, with half a tail, liked me. Beckett let me pick him up once and as I cradled him in my arms, Karen’s jaw dropped and then she smiled. I was the one for her because her cat said so. I told you she was a cat lady. 

Karen's niceness and empathy -- as you all know -- knew no bounds. One of her favorite students at the Times Square SRO had multiple personality disorder. And each time Karen met with her, she was sure to ask which personality she was speaking to because Karen diligently learned each personality's back story. Some nights she'd come back from the job exhausted, “some of my students are just crazy” and I said, “yes, they are!” but she missed my point. To her they were just another problem to solve. And surely there was a book about it to learn from! There were many examples like that. Another one of her Times Square students told me – “Karen was like a butterfly, everyone she touched, she healed.”

Over the last months, while going through all her notes and journals, there are multiple stories of helping strangers on the subway and the streets of New York. And in one entry she noted “because that's what Furth’s do, if someone needs help, we come running!” and that's so true. Stray animals, stray people – all are welcome.

As someone that pretty much left home at 15 and was on the road working for years, I was really taken with Karen’s family. It was just another one of her gifts. I was so easily accepted by her family -- though it took a little longer with her dad, but I won him over eventually. You just had to agree with him, cut his lawn, survey historical sites with him and help him write grants for historical preservation or environmental causes. And her mother Mary, was a saint – and almost as nice as Karen. 

Karen was almost the perfect blend of her paternal side – of scientists and doctors – and her maternal side of tradesmen and artisans. Karen had the intellect and “methodicalness” of a scientist and the fearlessness of making stuff with her own two hands. I never heard her once say “I can't do that”. Ever. And it's not that she could do everything, it's that she would try to do anything. From glass blowing to snowboarding for the first time with stage 4 lung cancer, to applying for a teaching position at Yale, she did it all. And she always did it to the best of her ability. And it always had to be done just right. No matter how long it took. She was perfectionist’s perfectionist. Even for a third grader’s homework! Just ask Alex!

She (and many of us) always joked at how slow she was. And while she indeed was slow, she was always moving herself forward, her family forward, and she – just like her parents – wanted to move society forward.

She believed in change and wanted a better society. It drove much of her own work as an artist. In many ways, she was an activist and an advocate in her life and her work.

She believed as a society we can always do better and be better and fairer. She hated injustice, she was no fan of unconstrained capitalism (but she loved nice things!). She joined committees, she marched, she volunteered, she donated, she yelled at the television.

There are stories, that as a child on the school bus, she stood up to bullies. That was just the beginning.

One of her first jobs out of grad school was to be a docent at the International Center of Photography, but was soon fired because she would editorialize about the photographs with her own opinions, of the context of the situations depicted, and the photographer's intentions. Like her parents, she couldn't stand idly by and keep her mouth shut. It never occurred to her.

In her papers (an infinite amount of papers!), I found an elaborate plan to protest and agitate for a 60 minute lunch break while she worked at ICP, which was in an underground, windowless space. She wasn't happy with just 40 minutes for lunch, so she drew-up an elaborate plan (with drawings!) to have identical plants in the entryway – one exposed to 40 minutes and the other to 60 minutes of sunlight per day (Karen the scientist).  The plants were meant to be an experiment and an art-piece at the same time (Karen the artist) and she would publish the results in a New York Times editorial to shame her workplace (that was Karen the protestor). As her boss aptly said, “Karen was a gentle soul with an honest opinion for which she was quietly vocal.” Well said – and I would only add persistent and a subtle force of nature. Or, at times – a dog with a bone. 

As someone that was hitched to this force of nature, I can honestly say that most everything that is meaningful in my life, that all that is good, and all our good fortune, was largely based on her drive and her decision making. While she may not have always trusted her gut instincts, she always followed them. From saying yes to a life with me, to her insistence that we become parents – for which I am forever grateful – to buying a broken-down house that the engineer said we would be absolutely nuts to buy – I knew that if she thought it was doable or best for us, or best for Alex, that it was worth doing. And I might add, it was futile to try to chgange her mind anyway. 

But each of these leaps of faith proved how deeply we complemented each other.  While I was the planful (Steady & Reliable!), practical doer, she really had the big vision for our life. She set the goals and she moved us toward them. I was the helper and supportive -- and I knew that our success made her happy – and that meant more smiles for me. Which made me happy. Our happiness really was that simple.

Our trust and belief in us as “one” was the magic. It fueled our love and our belief in ourselves and our family. We were so much better together than we could ever be as individuals. And she is so much a part of me. That is what I am so grateful for. So despite the truism that grief is a consequence of the truest love, I cannot and will not be bitter because I'm still reaping the rewards of our togetherness. She made me a better person. And she made me a father. There is no greater gift than that.

We are what we remember, and I will never forget her. And her memory will always make me smile.

All of my earliest memories include Karen. We are 16 months apart, so I was always trying to keep up with her.   I have an image in my head of when she first started school, and I was a year younger so couldn’t go.  She came home and set up a little classroom, blackboard and all, so she could teach me what she learned.   Back then she was teaching me about letters and numbers and how to read.  As we got older, I continued to learn from her because of the remarkable qualities she possessed as a truly unique human being.   Every day I will try to be more like her.

Karen was unusually kind.  She was uncommonly friendly, generous and considerate.  This started from when she was a kid.  Last month I found, in an old box, amongst elementary school papers saved from my parents’ house, a paragraph Karen had written in the first grade. It was printed in pencil in an elementary school ‘learn to write’ kind of lined paper.  As a 5 year old, she wrote that we should go out of our way to talk to people and learn about them, because even if at first you didn’t think you would like them, you might find something you had in common.  I saw Karen do this all her life.  I think in high school she was voted “friendliest” in her senior class.  When we were young adults, when we would go to a store to buy clothes, by the end of the afternoon Karen would be making a lunch date with the sales person.  When we had families of our own, and were buying mattresses for our house in Maine, the woman who sold us the mattresses got an invitation to come and visit and stay with us during the summer.  

Karen was generous.  She was generous with her time, with her support, as well as with her money.  Whomever she met, if she saw they were in need,  of a connection to someone with knowledge or expertise in an area, in need of resources or emotional support, she would always go out of her way to try to help.  Even strangers seemed to sense this about her.  She got her cat Beckett, from a kid who met her in a laundromat in Philadelphia when she was in college.  He was crying and had a kitten, and approached her and said “hey lady, will you take care of my cat?” Of course, Karen took the cat home. That was the start of a lifelong love affair with Beckett, a cat only Karen could love.

She connected with children in her apartment building in Washington Heights, making them part of her extended family. I remember her telling the story of the child of a neighbor who didn’t have siblings, who would show up at her door with a board game to see if she would play parchesi with him.  I remember she met someone on a trip to the Middle East who needed a connection in medicine or research and she connected that person to me to see if I could help.  When Dave went on a trip with her to Mexico, they ended up driving a mother with her deaf child to Guatemala, because there was a doctor there who might be able to help him.  

She was also generous with money. Whether it was her lack of hesitation in helping people financially, or buying thoughtful, extravagant gifts, she always amazed me a little since we grew up in a house where printed sheets and an automatic garage door opener were considered somewhat extravagant.  My father had a lot of difficulty spending money. I remember driving around for blocks and blocks when he was looking for a place to park as he didn’t want to spring to pay for parking.  Karen on the other hand, would buy us beautiful, expensive gifts that were both thoughtful and wonderful.  I have to say that I loved the soft, beautiful socks for Christmas, but Dave had trouble wearing the $95 winter cap, saying it was too expensive.  I had no such trouble, and gladly took it off his hands so he would not feel guilty.  I will always remember the great holidays we spent cooking together for Thanksgiving and sharing gifts at Christmas. At Thanksgiving, in Carrol Gardens, she would make a multi- course dinner of spectacular, delicious recipes, and at Christmas, send the most thoughtful, beautifully and exquisitely wrapped gifts.  I will try to emulate her and celebrate her generosity forever.

Just as she was kind, Karen was also brave.  She had a righteous indignation when she saw injustice around her, even as a kid. I remember being on the bus in elementary school,  and some kids were picking on a new kid in our neighborhood.  Despite being younger,  and the offending kids being numerous and known bullies,  Karen jumped up and told them off.   I remember sitting on the bus a few rows away, intimidation and self-consciousness keeping me in my seat, and admiring her so much. she was fearless.  I will try to nurture that kind of fearlessness in her memory.

Karen was also a wellspring of unconditional love. Through the years she was always one of Dave and my best friends and a loving aunt to Sara and Corey.  One summer Sara and Corey spent a week at camp Aunt Karen with Jay and saw a baseball game, a Broadway show, the Empire State building and Ellis Island, all planned and arranged by Karen in her kindness and generosity.

Her great capacity for love manifested itself most in her relationship with Jay and her bottomless love for Alex.  From the moment of his birth, he was the center of her existence.   Jay was such a wonderful and supportive husband and Alex brought her such joy.  Every time I swim in our pool I remember her playing with Alex and laughing and having such a great time. Memories of those moments of her laughter and love and joy envelop me when I think of her now.

How do we pay tribute to someone we love? Someone who meant so much, that to contemplate their absence feels like our hearts have been shredded? I’ve heard bereavement compared to an amputation—not just the loss of a loved one, but the loss of a vital part of ourselves—a wound that continues to ache even though that limb is gone.

I’ve struggled so much with writing a piece for Karen, since to pen words in the past tense is to admit the loss, which I don’t want to do. When I came into this world, Karen was there. She gave me my middle name, and she helped to shape how I see the world.

Our father was an amateur photographer, and there is one snapshot from our childhood that sums up, for me, that early part of my life. I’m still in a highchair, and the room has a rosy-gold glow of candlelight or firelight, which I always associate with the 1960s. My sisters flank me—one on either side—and we’re smiling. One of my parents must have said something funny, because Susan giggles at the camera, but Karen leans her head against mine. It’s love. I was her littlest sister, but since she was only four when I was born, I was also her baby doll. If you watch old family films, you’ll see her carrying me around, although I was much too big for someone so small.

Throughout my high school and college years, Karen continued to hold me close. I remember one day, when I was a miserable junior, I got a pass from the nurse to leave school early. Crying, I called Karen, who was living in Philadelphia, and she said, come stay with me. And so I did.

During my many clandestine escapes from the claustrophobia of high school suburbia, Karen showed me a bigger world. She took me to art openings and to international restaurants, and to art films—an art form which I didn’t even know existed, but which would have a profound effect on the rest of my life. Metropolis, The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, The Rocky Horror Picture Show, David Lynch’s Eraserhead—Karen took me to see all of them.

My passion for the world of the imagination was fed by her. She strove to create, and so I saw it as a way to exist in the world. Whether she was designing a haunted house for a fun fair—where through a network of hidden wires she created the illusion of ghosts using knives and forks at a dining room table—or filming a stop motion picture where we drove invisible cars down our dead end street, she filled my childhood with the miraculous, and a sense of vision and wonder.

I’ve lived much of my adult life in England, and being so far away from home often felt wrenching. But when homesickness descended, I knew that all I had to do was call Karen. She would answer and say, “Hi Robbie!” and all my loneliness and heartache would melt away. The image I have of her voice is of warm honey, sweet and soothing.

Karen was so many things to so many people—sister, mother, wife and lover, teacher, artistic collaborator, heart-friend—but in all she did, she was an artist. Whether she was gazing at you through the lens of her camera, or sitting with you and talking, her whole self said, I see you, which is an incredibly rare gift.

As everyone who loved her knows, my sister had a fiery temper but an enormous heart—one of the biggest hearts I’ve ever encountered. And there was room enough there for all of us. In a world replete with cruelty and prejudice and selfishness, she was open and accepting and kind and generous and loving. In her personal life, she stood up to injustice whenever she saw it, and was always willing to give of her time and her heart. What Karen had, she shared joyously. Her loss, not just to those who loved her, but to everyone who encountered her, is immeasurable. I am fiercely proud that she was my sister.

When I sat down to write this piece, I thought about how wonderful it was that Jay wanted to send Karen on with a show of her art—both her own photographs and the old snapshots that she loved to collect and curate. Because each of those photos is a reflection of something she saw, or felt, or was part of.

Photography is not my art form—my art is words. So to pay tribute to Karen’s life, I’ve created a collage of words taken from the memories of all of you here, so that we could see Karen in all of her glorious fullness.

Karen loved old pearl necklaces, so I thought that, together, we could create one made of words. To make a pearl necklace takes about 86 pearls, so that’s what I’ve called our collective piece: 86 Pearls—A necklace for Karen.

A COLLAGE OF MEMORIES FOR KAREN

A: Alex, Artist, Activist.

*
I have an image in my head of when she first started school.  She set up a little classroom,
blackboard and all, so she could teach me what she learned.
*
I took a photo of Karen nose-up close to an art piece to decipher it.
*
I firmly believe that it was the language, love, and power of photography that brought Karen and I together.
I can’t imagine the world without her presence, her fight, her love of people.
I have to believe that she was needed in heaven. 
*
I remember seeing pictures of your cats in your apartment.
They came into your life, brought joy and passed away
How willing you were to love—even if it caused sadness
*
I love the picture of Karen from our wedding.
* 
I remember thinking ‘does Karen know everybody?’
*
Your Open Society exhibition on the buses and subways of NYC made a huge impression on me.
I consider you to be a “secret agent,” one of those rare people who influence society
for the better without calling any attention to themselves.
*
I found myself thinking about a photograph which you took.  It was an image of a bird’s nest.
It appeared within a circle of the sky, as if cupped by light
*
E: Engaging, Elton.
* 
When I asked her how she could get up close to events, as a photographer, she said
that because she was so small, she could get right up in the front row,
without blocking anyone’s way, and no one noticed her.
* 
J: Jay, Joyful.
*
She connected with children in her apartment building, making them part of her extended family.
She always saw everyone’s inner light.
She made me feel that she was truly listening.
She read interesting books, had interesting ideas, dressed stylishly and looked cool
smoking a cigarette and balancing a glass of wine. 
She was pure light.
The last time I saw her we held hands.
*
P: Photographer, Pisces, Poems.
*
Have I ever told you about the moment Karen and I fell in love?  She came up the subway steps
and onto the sidewalk, backlit, flashing that signature smile.
Every time she smiled, I was the happiest man on earth.  She completed me.
*
Z: Zest for life.
*
My chats with you always felt different, it was as if they were somehow suspended in time. 
You spoke about Alex in a way that was different from the way many moms talk. 
You were endlessly amazed by him.
*
Though I feel such heartbreak right now, and a kind of unbearable longing for a bygone era,
I know you will remain in my heart forever.
Wherever you are on your travels, I hope you have a camera with you,
the old-fashioned kind which uses rolls of film.
Send us some photos if you can.

We’re all products of the people who raise us, the people we see all the time, and the people who have a profound impact through their presence in our lives. I’m so lucky to have been raised by the most loving, thoughtful people, my parents, and my aunts, Robin, and Karen.

Karen confidently moved through life at her own pace. In the 32 years I knew her, I don’t think I once saw her rushing. While our brand of Furths all have a flexible relationship with time, for Karen, she always seemed to be exactly where she wanted to be. She was the least stereotypical New Yorker when it came to walking in the city. This could be particularly stressful whenever we were seeing a show and therefore were required to go to the horror that is Times Square. While I was practically elbowing people out of my way to just get out of the crowd, Karen would meander at exactly the pace she wanted, content to be on her way to see whatever show she’d picked for us.

Having an aunt in New York was a source of pride for me as a kid. Karen’s life here was so different from the lives of the adults I knew, all of whom had children and lived in the suburbs. Karen’s world exposed me to another possible way to live. A life less structured, filled with art and theater. Every time we’d visit we’d make our way to an interesting art exhibit or to TKTS to see a broadway show. Karen’s taste was so eclectic and interesting, she would try her best to keep our entertainment age appropriate. She didn’t want us seeing Mamma Mia because of the implied promiscuity, but despite her best screening efforts, we still ended up at plays with full frontal nudity. 

Karen loved a good story. Watching a movie with her was an interactive experience as she would get so invested, she would dramatically gasp and engage verbally. And if you weren’t watching with her, you could tell how much she loved something by how in depth she would recount it to you. My first time seeing “Frozen” was just listening to Karen give a shot by shot recap of the movie. And Karen appreciated all kinds of stories. She loved thoughtful, profound movies like Paris, Texas, and watched It’s A Wonderful Life every Christmas. But she also sincerely loved the Marvel cinematic universe and Dungeons and Dragons. One of the hardest times I’ve ever laughed in my life was watching 21 Jump Street with Karen. It was comically disastrous because it was actually right after one of her surgeries. She had the lung-shaped pillow from the hospital, which she was supposed to hug when she coughed or laughed. She was clutching that pillow the entire time. But whenever I asked her about finishing the movie at another time when it was less painful, she would refuse and insisted we keep going. 

Karen’s pace meant she was always present, and in a way that I have rarely seen people be. Every time I saw her and she would ask me about the goings on in my life, she’d remember details from the last time we spoke that I had forgotten. She spoke slowly and thoughtfully. If she was momentarily distracted or out of the room, she would insist we repeat whatever she had missed so she could get fully caught up.  

Karen had the best taste of anyone I know. She had a gorgeous style and would buy clothes that felt heavenly. She always found the best restaurants and would order practically the whole menu to try a little of everything. In recent years, we started having Thanksgiving at her place in Brooklyn. She would make elaborate recipes that would require a minimum of three trips to the grocery store, usually assigned to Jay or my dad. Dinner would be scheduled for 2pm but because her remarkable ability to be present meant she was not so great at multitasking, we would get swept up in the conversation and wouldn’t sit down to eat until 5 hours later. 

The doors to those Thanksgiving dinners were always open to anyone in search of a place to go. Every year Corey or I would tack on an extra guest or more, who for one reason or another was looking for a place to be. And sometimes I gave Karen less than a day’s notice that they were coming. I had been so sure she would say yes, I had simply forgotten to ask if it was ok. 

When Karen died, I had friends who had only met her once tell me what an impression she had made on them. Friends who hadn’t seen her since we were in high school tell me memories of staying on her couch for a few nights, of her taking us to art shows, the theater, or a delicious meal. Friends who had come for Thanksgiving say how glad they were to have had the chance to meet her.

Toward the end of Karen’s life, I had the honor of spending a lot of time with her. One of the times I was with her, she asked if I wanted to watch a lecture series from the Tibetan Buddhist Monk, Pema Chodron. This series was on what we can learn from the concept of the Bardo. In Buddhism, the Bardo is the journey the soul takes between death and reincarnation, the process marked by a series of endings and beginnings. In this lecture, Pema spoke about how each day, each experience even, is its own bardo, with a beginning, a duration, and an end. 

Losing Karen has been my biggest encounter with raw loss. The title of one book I’ve come across calls this grief the wild edge of sorrow. I’ve thought about these ideas a lot since Karen died. The wildness and rawness that losing someone like Karen unleashes. Being that close to death almost puts living in technicolor. And it’s made me think a lot about the life Karen lived. She followed her own path in her career and in her life. She traveled the world and put her whole into her relationships. She never compromised what she wanted which meant she didn’t get married until her late 30s and didn’t have a kid until her 40s. In everything she did, she seemed to grasp the profundity of its beginning, its middle, and its end, and experienced all of it.

This room is a reflection of the absolute fullness with which she lived her life. Her beautiful photographs and work you will see. And the thing that was the most important to her, the people she loved. It is incredibly meaningful to be with so many people whose lives were touched by Karen and to see the impact her love had.

And of course, I can’t talk about the impact of Karen’s life without talking about Jay and Alex. I remember the day Karen called my mom to say that she and Jay were engaged. Even at 8, I recognized there was something special about the joy in her voice. My whole life I’ve seen Jay’s unwavering support and love of Karen. Karen loved with her whole heart and in Jay she found someone who loved her the way she deserved. And Alex, you are in so many ways your mother’s son. You have her stubbornness, her sense of humor, her thoughtfulness and her kindness. She loved you most of all, and seeing how that love has shaped you into the man you’re becoming is what life is all about.

So this is what Karen has taught me. How to be. I think of her every morning I look out my bedroom window and see the sun shining on the trees. When I put on her sweater that is like a hug from her. When I eat a meal that would have been up to her standards. When I go to a show. When I see or read something that makes me think of the world in a new light, or just makes me laugh. When I finally remember to slow down and take a breath in the spaces in between. She is and forever will be a part of me and I know a part of everyone here. 

In our house growing up we had Karen’s photographs on our walls, and one of them was a photograph she had taken of my sister Sara as a newborn when Karen visited my mom after giving birth. With the photograph, she had written about what it meant for her to be an Aunt for the first time, and her questions about all the things this new little person in the world would do and experience.

Karen was contemplative, and intuitive, and introspective, in a way that brought her deeper into the world and wove her life deeply into the lives of others. She asked a lot of questions from life and I believe she found a lot of genuine answers.

For as much as there’s a lot of neuroticism in all of us Furths, Karen included, she was never one in my experience of her to repress her feelings. Whether it was anger or sadness or joy, Karen embodied the truthfulness of her emotions without ever holding any resentment or grudges. And I think because of that, no one could make you feel as unconditionally loved as Karen can.

I’m grateful Karen and Jay found each other and chose each other. Jay’s openness with his love and grief and celebration of Karen has been a lesson to witness about humanity and how we must live.

I’m not really worried about her memory fading away, because she was just too deeply rooted in this life, and I think she will inherently always exist in this world.

It will never be hard for me to conjure her voice saying “hi, sweetie.” and “I love you”. It has been a blessing to know ourselves through her eyes. I will always need her, and I know she will always love us unconditionally.

As the former Art Director of The Creative Center and later its Executive Director, I have known and worked with several hundred artists and art educators for 30 years- almost all of whom were masters of their craft. But Karen was a master of much more than her craft- she was a master of her heart, mind and soul - and subsequently, was able to use all of them to educate, uplift, mentor, and nurture the people she worked with.

Karen was one of our first Hospital Artists-In-Residence at Lenox Hill Hospital. Though trained as a photographer, Karen outfitted a rolling cart that was filled to the brim with art supplies that she wheeled from bedside to bedside in the oncology unit- asking patients if they would like to make an artwork with her to pass the time. Almost no one refused- and how could they? Her infamous smile was all she needed to get the “yes” she was waiting for- and she was off! An art session with Karen always ended with a lovely, finished product-a drawing, a collage, a small painting -- even a Polaroid of a well-lit corner of the hospital room - but it was the time SPENT with her that was the true gift. Our tag line, “medicine cures the body, but art heals the spirit” should have been changed to “but art and Karen heals the spirit”!  Karen would call me frequently to ask if she could stay with one patient for several hours rather than make her normal rounds of the oncology floor because she - and I quote – “just can’t leave now! We are right in the middle of something WONDERFUL!!” Could any of us refuse Karen?

When we asked Karen to lead our Lance Armstrong Foundation-sponsored photography project, Still Life, she truly raised the bar on anything we had ever offered to the cancer patients and survivors we served. Still Life was a remarkable feat -- a two-year endeavor for 27 participants, almost all of whom had never pressed the shutter on a camera before, but all of whom became photographers under Karen’s tutelage. She developed a curriculum that included readings like Berger’s Ways of Seeing, museum and gallery visits, lectures by well-known photographers - some of whom I know are here today. The project came to wonderful, impactful fruition with the publication of the book, Still Life: Documenting Cancer Survivorship.

While several of the participants are no longer with us, this book remains a touchstone for their friends and family - and I know that all of us can say that this project was the high point of our history. It was for sale at The Whitney!! I do like to think that both the photographic and narrative sentiments expressed by participants helped to guide Karen through her own cancer journey as she did for them.

I am eternally grateful to the universe for bringing Karen to my life and to the lives of so many others who knew her through her work with The Creative Center. Her curiosity, kindness, brilliance and “glow” remains with me. With us. Forever.

Hello, I am Suzanne Nicholas, I was a friend and colleague to Karen for over 30 years.

I am honored to be here this afternoon to impart a few treasured moments that I shared with Karen over the years. I would like to extend my sincere condolences to Jay, Alex, Sue, Robin, and their families and to thank them for bringing us together to celebrate the life of our beloved friend. Her life was cut short far too soon but indeed was one well-lived.

Karen and I first met at the International Center of Photography in the 1980s. I was working in the Education Department as an Administrative Assistant and Karen was completing her MA degree in the NYU/ICP Program and working as an intern in our department. We became fast friends as a range of like-minded cohorts emerged from ICP’s eclectic and international community. The group’s vibrancy was one of the many gifts of being a part of ICP and Karen was an integral player amidst her peers and colleagues throughout the years.

While ICP was always in the forefront, I firmly believe it was the language, love, and power of photography and image making that brought Karen and I together on myriad levels. It was her kind and generous idea to invite me to join her, Shari, Fay, Lynn, and others to be a part of a women’s cooperative space, the 494 Gallery in lower Manhattan. Such an extraordinary time and opportunity for all of us to be creating work and interfacing with the artworld... this was truly a gift to each of us as emerging artists.

Thanks to Karen, my creative practice continues to thrive from those years.

Part of the responsibility of being a Gallery member was to attend monthly meetings.

And a fun fact about Karen was that she was always front and center whenever an idea surfaced, or a discussion ensued as she always loved a good challenge.

What I absolutely treasure about her is that she was so damn persistent about her opinion. Karen was not one to go down in defeat and had a real willingness to exhaust all possibilities. Yes, we had some lengthy meetings, a few disagreements and perhaps the conversation never really ended, but there was always that smile on her face. It was that fight, optimism, and resolve that made Karen the remarkable and unforgettable person she was.

Throughout her long-standing tenure at ICP as Coordinator of Summer Programs (2004-2017), Karen devoted her time and energies to developing smart and innovative programs dedicated to photographic practice and new media.

She was also instrumental in building an international community of both faculty and students and was beloved by all.

It was her tenacious spirit and abundant integrity coupled with warmth and kindness that made her an ideal staff member and colleague at ICP.

I am honored and humbled that I had the opportunity to work alongside her every day for so many years. She was wonderful in every way to me, and I learned so much from her.

My only regret is that we didn’t have another opportunity to see each other in her final days. I continue to miss her every day and thank her for coming into my life.

I would like to close with some “words of wisdom” from the late British artist Phyllida Barlow, who was asked to share her personal advice to young people when thinking about the future. I dedicate this to Alex. This is what she said:

“Do not be afraid of ambitions, always have ambitions, and enjoy them in your head, and working out ways to fulfill them; and that requires imagination.

Let your imagination always have your respect. Huge respect!

Don’t be scared of imagination. That will happen in life… 

I know there are practical things to do like keeping up with your schoolwork, your friends, skateboarding, and later getting a job and other such responsibilities, but that shouldn’t ever deter you from acknowledging what you really want and finding a way to get those things; and how you use your imagination to do that.

“Don’t be afraid of standing on your own and not being part of the crowd.

Respect that in yourself enormously.

Have courage and imagination to do what you want to do.”

Alex, I am deeply sorry that your Mom is not here to witness all the great things that you are about to encounter and accomplish. I fully believe that she would want you to have a big life filled with imagination and endless possibilities.

Courage, my friend.   Thank you.

My name is Patricia and I am here to represent a very special part of Karen’s life: “the block.”

“The block” is Dennett Place, a small, one-block street in Carroll Gardens with no parked cars that teems with community.

On the block, everyone knows each other. We keep an eye on each other’s kids and dogs and pick up packages from each other’s stoops. We borrow sugar (or, let’s be honest because this is Brooklyn, we borrow organic, specially-sourced raw cane sugar…). And--this was especially true when some of our kids were younger--we have epic block parties (planned and impromptu, but never with a permit…). We also regularly put up cones to stop traffic and create a play street at any time or day. The street is everyone’s front yard and neighbors gather for all occasions—from basking in nice weather on a random Tuesday to throwing down for the 4th of July.

At the heart of this community, for most of the 12+ years I have lived here, has been Karen.

My name is Patricia and I am here to represent a very special part of Karen’s life: “the block.”

“The block” is Dennett Place, a small, one-block street in Carroll Gardens with no parked cars that teems with community.

On the block, everyone knows each other. We keep an eye on each other’s kids and dogs and pick up packages from each other’s stoops. We borrow sugar (or, let’s be honest because this is Brooklyn, we borrow organic, specially-sourced raw cane sugar…). And--this was especially true when some of our kids were younger--we have epic block parties (planned and impromptu, but never with a permit…). We also regularly put up cones to stop traffic and create a play street at any time or day. The street is everyone’s front yard and neighbors gather for all occasions—from basking in nice weather on a random Tuesday to throwing down for the 4th of July.

At the heart of this community, for most of the 12+ years I have lived here, has been Karen.

She was one of the first people I met when my family moved in, and I am so grateful to have been able to call her a friend and neighbor. Ross and I feel so fortunate to have been able to raise our kids together on the block with Jay and Karen. She rallied everyone together for so many of our events and gatherings, and always made sure to have delicious food or drink to share and to get amazing prizes for the kids if we had competitive games. She never so much as flinched if the kid street chaos moved into her house, hosting many a raucous playdate or sleepover. She was usually one of the first to indulge the kids’ various interests over the years—whether supporting their entrepreneurial spirit by gladly paying premium pricing for a car wash or a glass of lemonade, not batting an eye as balls and other objects hurled dangerously close to windows, or patching up scrapes from stoop acrobatics, skateboarding daredevil antics, or overly enthusiastic dodge ball games and water fights. She knew everyone’s name and welcomed passersby, treated everyone the same regardless of who they were and where they came from, and was unbelievably caring and thoughtful. She was the one to check in on a sick neighbor, gift a great read just because she thought you might like it, take the time to compare parenting tips or talk through worries, keep an endless supply of juice boxes and snacks at the ready, or just warmly greet you on the block with her wonderful smile as she walked Elton. She brought a lot of joy, care and beauty to our community. That she was able to selflessly and consistently do all of this and so much more while battling cancer is astounding.

Dennett Place has been extra quiet since Karen’s passing. The loss of one of our own has settled a heavy grief on the block, all the worse because Karen was a cornerstone of our community and is emblematic of all that is good with humanity: kind, caring, thoughtful, not judgmental, so generous, patient and just absolutely lovely to be around.
I know Karen’s beautiful spirit will live on at Dennett Place and in all of our hearts.

Alex and Jay—I am so honored to be here with you today. Please know that my family and all of our neighbors on the block care deeply for you both, and we all miss Karen very much.

Through the Lens of Friendship: A Tribute to Karen by Latoya McRae

My Dearest Karen,

Though lenses are my eyes, you've shown me how to see, not just the world in frames, but life's grand tapestry.

From laundromat days of youth, with laughter light and free, you saw a spark within me, a fire waiting to be.

FAO's giant piano, a symphony unsung, you urged my fingers dancing, where creative notes were sprung.

Your parents, hearts so open, embraced us like their own, by lakes they taught us fishing, seeds of love were sown.

Your love for light, the angles, a way to capture time, Strengthened bonds of friendship, a photo so divine.

Three decades have spun their threads, graduations, joys untold, Promotions, children's laughter, families brave and bold.

You, a pillar of devotion, supporting every quest, Inspired me, a mother, to nurture heart and crest.

"I'm so proud of you," a whisper that echoed through the years, A driving force through trials, to banish doubts and fears.

Brunch with laughter shimmering, premieres with popcorn bright, Apartment plays on Riverside, a symphony of light.

Your memory, a constant flame, a presence never gone, NYU's violet spirit, "Preserve and Excel," we'll carry on.

My heart, a chamber treasured, where your friendship will reside, thank you for all you've given, your spirit as my guide.

May your light linger forever, in every frame I see, A testament to love and life, a boundless memory.

Your Camera Latoya