Saying Goodbye to Julia Alexander

Death is part of life, and the older I get, the more often the Pale Horseman takes those I love and cherish, family and close friends. Hardened as I might be, and contrary to what Saint Paul tells us, death, it still stings, the dying, I think, and, I know, the living. On May 4, we lost Julia Alexander, the longtime director of the Walters Art Museum in Baltimore, a curator at the Yale Center for British Art, a distinguished leader in the museum world, and a much beloved friend for 35 years.

Julia died at 57, suddenly, of heart failure and at the peak of her career, with her 21-year-old twins soon to be launched but still needing a good mother. She’d just started a new job as president of the Kress Foundation, which supports European art projects from antiquity to the early 19th century. My husband, Steven, and I went to Baltimore for the memorial service on May 29. It was gentle and comforting and mysterious and glorious as Episcopal funerals tend to be and, as Julia would have wanted, a celebration of her life. That was Julia, a warming ray of sunshine. When I die, I want wailing women, strong men weeping, baying dogs, and targeted bolts of lightning, developed from the last version of my Black List. AI surely can coordinate that. If there’s no lightning, drone-launched missiles will do.

About the Author

Brian T. Allen

Brian T. Allen is National Review’s art critic.

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Death is part of life, and the older I get, the more often the Pale Horseman takes those I love and cherish, family and close friends. Hardened as I might be, and contrary to what Saint Paul tells us, death, it still stings, the dying, I think, and, I know, the living. On May 4, we lost Julia Alexander, the longtime director of the Walters Art Museum in Baltimore, a curator at the Yale Center for British Art, a distinguished leader in the museum world, and a much beloved friend for 35 years.

Julia died at 57, suddenly, of heart failure and at the peak of her career, with her 21-year-old twins soon to be launched but still needing a good mother. She’d just started a new job as president of the Kress Foundation, which supports European art projects from antiquity to the early 19th century. My husband, Steven, and I went to Baltimore for the memorial service on May 29. It was gentle and comforting and mysterious and glorious as Episcopal funerals tend to be and, as Julia would have wanted, a celebration of her life. That was Julia, a warming ray of sunshine. When I die, I want wailing women, strong men weeping, baying dogs, and targeted bolts of lightning, developed from the last version of my Black List. AI surely can coordinate that. If there’s no lightning, drone-launched missiles will do.