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the other press

lan in Memoriam

Tom Mellish
OP Contributor

Once again someone of value slips from my
fingers. I will not meet him again save in
memory. Thére will be no meetings by chance
or intention. But I have met one who has con-
tributed to my life and made me more than |
was.

Ian Hunter, an Other Press alumni, passed
away in August of 2002. He was only 41 years
old, but he had lived life to the fullest with a
sense of irreverent savoir-faire. As a catalyst for
change, he had asked people to question their
reality posit, and strive for a better world. To
that end, he accomplished much, touching the
lives of many. But too soon has he passed from
this plane, and I can only wonder what he
would have done with 40 more years. What
minds would he have expanded, and what
questions would he have posed.

I had the honour and pleasure of knowing
Ian Hunter as a friend, a colleague, and a men-
tor. I find it oddly appropriate writing this for
the Other Press—the same paper where, back
in the 80s, Ian honed his journalistic skills. It
has been with great delight that I’ve learned of
his tenure at the Other Press. In a sense I am
taking it upon myself to pick up the torch and
shed some light on one of his old haunts.

Going through the OP archives and reading
his work, revealed that his tongue was firmly
in his cheek. His writing is filled with humour,
and it is a pleasure to read about his concern
with issues on and off campus. Later, in his
editorial position at The Squamish Times, he
penned headlines like, “Poo Poo to you Mr.
Patterson” Further on in his career, Ian
brought his critical social commentary to
Vancouver’s Co-op Radio, a comical wake
behind his progress—one might call it a lack-
adaisical chuckling.

It was in Vancouver that I first met Ian. I'd
read about him in a magazine article on indus-
trial hemp, called him up, and he invited me
over to organize his files (as if | was some mas-
ter of organization). I met him at the Enver
Hoxsa Bookstore & Headquarters of the
Communist Party of Canada, just across the
street from Spartacus Books. His place was a
topsy-turvy mess, and from there we went to a
Jamaican café on Davie Street for ginger and
cayenne tea. There we spent the time talking
about the world, and what it was that it need-
ed at that moment.

Ian was an eccentric, colourful member of
the downtown community. He knew the finer
points of Vancouver history, centring his
attention on Victory Square, Cambie and
West Hastings—a place he referred to as
Crosstown. He erected a brass plaque com-
memorating the Gastown Riot.

There, in that element, he was a social con-
duit for artists and partyers. For Ian, there was
always a party to go to, and someone to meet.
He tickled my own imagination, and intro-
duced me to others of like mind.

As an activist, lan fought for rights. His epi-
taph should read that he was about ideals, val-
ues, and keeping true to oneself. When I met
him he was illuminating others on the lack of
children’s rights, their suffrage, and their right
to vote. This was not a new thing with Ian.
Behind his smirk, he nurtured sincere con-
cerns regarding the environment and personal
freedoms.

He was a purveyor of catch phrases like
“down-shifting,” “fuzzy logic,” and “pro-noia.”
Affirmative action was at the core of every-
thing he preached. The things he did, and said,
and acted upon were designed to change the
world for the better. I was genuinely stirred by
Ian’s words and deeds, and will take up where
he left off, to light the way. If only to ask the
same questions, and impart the spark of hope
he ignited.

Ian Hunter was many things, but never bor-
ing. He was provocative and made you think,
even if you didn’t want to. Even if it seemed
silly. He asked questions. He took a stand. And
slike a merry prankster, he was all for fun and
laughing at the establishment. For Ian, April
Fools’ Day was an ideal time to point the fin-
ger at the rulers of the day and see if they could
take a pie in the face. He was all for “faire la
fete”. He was infamous, notorious, and servant
of none. His guffaw could fill a room. His abil-
ity to lampoon the serious was a refreshing
repast compared with the bread and water of
electoral promises. He was a provocateur. A
pundit. A satirist.

When I read his work, I perceive someone
who'd embarked on an expedition into his
own beliefs and consciousness. He sought to
gain a better perspective and vantage, and
open himself to the possibilities that the world
offered. He was a “psycho-naut” as he would
say, and he was always on a pilgrimage. He was
a poetic wild man, possessed by an insatiable
appetite to know things. He was a restless
dreamer—and a visionary—but he was all for
the enlightenment and states of consciousness
of the common person, the pedestrian. He was
concerned with being more.

And so, his heart is weighed against the
feather of truth, and he is judged. He is asked
if he has lived his life, and not another's. Asked
if he has loved, and awoken.

Jan, adieu, awaken at last—your life was
true—your heart, full of laughter.

 

Ian sparking up

October 9, 2002

 

 

remember that shirt you passed
on to your little brother?

  

and that bike you passed
on to your little sister?

 

Recycle life...

register
to be an
organ donor

ie British Columbia

Transplant Society

 

register electronically by visiting

www.transplant.bc.ca
604-877-2240

 

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