The Robert Rauschenberg appreciations have begun to proliferate (Michael Kimmelman’s obit is excellent; D.K. Row’s account provides a Portland dimension), and it seems appropriate to write something about him and not because I knew him or have special insights into his work. I don’t. It’s just that it’s difficult to imagine the last part of the 20th century without him in it. He always seemed so contemporary, ahead of the cultural curve, always seeming smarter in retrospect, once I had a chance to catch up to him. I suppose I’ve always thought of him as the closest thing we have to Duchamp, without the chess but more productive, more curious, more open, more American. So maybe not Duchamp at all, though they both were determined to push life and art together as closely as they could. There was enjoyment involved, actual enjoyment (and I think of Duchamp as merely amused). I don’t know his son Chris, who lives in Portland, especially well, but that’s the impression that I get from him, too. The capacity to enjoy life, to enjoy the creative experience. When we are creating, we are at the center of things: Rauschenberg was always creating, was always at the center of things. My reaction to his work usually unfolded as a series of questions: what is it? what is it saying? why is it important? how did he think of that? And the strange thing is, I could go through the same set of questions multiple times about the same work of art. Which I suppose is just another way of saying that as “alive” as I always thought Rauschenberg was, he doesn’t have to be alive to pose the most puzzling and most important questions. But still…