In memoriam
Yesterday was my friend Robert Priddey's funeral. He was only 34, and his sudden death in hospital was a huge shock.
Funeral services are always hard, and for someone who has died with so much unrealised potential even more so. Robert's family had done an incredible job during the worst of times to pull together a lovely service, punctuated with Robert's own poetry and music compositions, as well as moving tributes. It was particularly special to hear more of his music, including the startlingly beautiful Tinnitus Siderium, the pianola track produced by converting the layout of stars of the night sky directly into a score, and the only composition of his I had heard before. There were many periods of silence, as even when filtering in and out of the crematorium, it seemed like the crowd had no words to fill the gaps. And it was a crowd - every seat was taken - and rightfully so, as even a hall packed with weeping women could not have done justice to Robert's wonderful modesty, creativity, wit and friendliness.
The crematorium at Knebworth was a fairly uninspiring brick construction, but had natural light and a tall window with views of rolling fields and sky, and I was pleased by the location, which was quite pleasant, on a slight hilltop amidst the countryside, with a large garden of saplings and flowers. The day seemed to mimic the mood, mostly grimly overcast with occasional violent dark rainstorms, and moments when the sun broke through dazzlingly.
It is difficult to craft a tribute to Robert, without sounding as if I am just using the truisms almost invariably rolled out at funerals, because they really do apply to him. He was genuinely incredibly nice, in the best possible way, open and friendly, and unbelievably modest and unassuming despite brilliant accomplishments and talent - a rarity in academia. Robert was a cosmologist, musician and film-maker, a real polymath, and able to cross domains in a way which should be the envy of the rest of our NESTA Crucible cohort.
Robert was the first one of my friends around my age to die. I will remember him whenever I look at the night sky.
Funeral services are always hard, and for someone who has died with so much unrealised potential even more so. Robert's family had done an incredible job during the worst of times to pull together a lovely service, punctuated with Robert's own poetry and music compositions, as well as moving tributes. It was particularly special to hear more of his music, including the startlingly beautiful Tinnitus Siderium, the pianola track produced by converting the layout of stars of the night sky directly into a score, and the only composition of his I had heard before. There were many periods of silence, as even when filtering in and out of the crematorium, it seemed like the crowd had no words to fill the gaps. And it was a crowd - every seat was taken - and rightfully so, as even a hall packed with weeping women could not have done justice to Robert's wonderful modesty, creativity, wit and friendliness.
The crematorium at Knebworth was a fairly uninspiring brick construction, but had natural light and a tall window with views of rolling fields and sky, and I was pleased by the location, which was quite pleasant, on a slight hilltop amidst the countryside, with a large garden of saplings and flowers. The day seemed to mimic the mood, mostly grimly overcast with occasional violent dark rainstorms, and moments when the sun broke through dazzlingly.
It is difficult to craft a tribute to Robert, without sounding as if I am just using the truisms almost invariably rolled out at funerals, because they really do apply to him. He was genuinely incredibly nice, in the best possible way, open and friendly, and unbelievably modest and unassuming despite brilliant accomplishments and talent - a rarity in academia. Robert was a cosmologist, musician and film-maker, a real polymath, and able to cross domains in a way which should be the envy of the rest of our NESTA Crucible cohort.
Robert was the first one of my friends around my age to die. I will remember him whenever I look at the night sky.