When I first told my family that I was moving to Portland, OR, my grandmother, a life-long east-coaster, and the only notable gardener in the family, shared a dream of hers that I had never heard before. She told me her younger self had dreamed of running away to Portland, because it is the city of roses.
I had researched Portland for it’s art community, print shops, food, and graduate school options, but it wasn’t until I landed in Portlandia that I learned of the city’s notoriety for roses. From business logos and wall murals to daily dog walks in my neighborhood - or likely any neighborhood in Portland, roses are always emerging.
Sometimes they even grow through rooftops.
Roses that grow through rooftops, 2023
Portland’s rainy season and mildish (who knows anymore with climate change) year-round weather make for ideal conditions for roses. But roses are not native to the area. It was for the 1905 Lewis and Clark Centennial Exposition that over 10,000 rose bushes were planted around the city to attract visitors, resulting in the still-ongoing annual Rose Festival.
When my friend Broderick (Adé) Hogue died, roses became a symbol of him. In his honor, a portrait was recreated in rose petals, Lisa Congdon designed special edition rose pins, Specialist released bike kits fashioned in overlapping outlines of roses (also designed by Lisa), and at his celebration of life, we wrote memories on red paper and coiled them into paper roses. Because Broderick would always be the one to remind you to stop and smell the roses.
Our mutual friend, Amelia Caristo, read aloud a rose poem at his celebration. It was likely Tupac Shakur’s poem, “The Rose that Grew from Concrete.” Whenever her voice cracked or paused to hold back tears, I cried harder. I still cry. I’m crying as I write this.
Amelia sent me this image last year of the rose bush by her house that bloomed on October 29th.
October 29th, marks three years since Broderick left us, because he was hit by a car riding his bike. It is just as painful now as it was then. I still cycle between anger and sadness, and have moments of disbelief, where it is still hard to wrap my head around the fact that I can’t butt dial him anymore.
The last day I spent time with Broderick, was when I visited him in Chicago, a few months before the accident. He had just moved into a new apartment and had requested that I repair the assemblage that I had made him as a work trade almost a decade ago. The deal was artwork for help with revamping my website. He had surprised me with also designing my name for my website, which is still used as my header for anything professional that I need to send.
That day in his new apartment, he couldn’t find any clamps to hold the pieces in place once I had re-glued them, so I had to improvise and use cans of beans from his pantry to apply weight. I still remember him laughing at me and I remember wondering why he had such an impressive stock of beans.
It was devastating to receive the repaired piece in the mail months later. I had meant to follow up with him to ask if the cans of beans had worked. They did. His family and Chicago based friends kindly sent the artwork to me across the country, but it was never supposed to hang on my walls.
I had hidden his initials in the work. As a designer, and someone who called themselves a letterer, I always thought it was a bit funny, that it took him over a year to realize this. When he called to ask if I did that on purpose (of course I did), he admitted that it was actually someone else who noticed the letters spelled his name and had pointed it out to him. Now the letters are all I can see.
I was reorganizing my closet recently, and found this artwork, what should still be his artwork, hidden at the back. I haven’t had the heart to face it - let alone fully unwrap them. It still hurts too much.
The year he passed, was the year I was writing my thesis in grad school. After many previous rejections to publish excerpts of this research and writing , I received my first acceptance letter a few weeks ago from a small publisher in Indiana to be included in their newest edition of Quotidian magazine. One excerpt, titled Grief, is written in the form of a diary. Saturday, October 30th, 2021 2:27pm - I received a call.
The Curious Distance From Foot to Fingertip, self-published limited edition risograph book, 2022
What it doesn’t say is that the call was from Carmen Neely, a mutual friend based in Chicago. What it also doesn’t say is that the first thing she said was: Where are you? You should sit down. I remember not listening. I remember I couldn’t sit down. I remember pacing - it being impossible to sit still, because deep down, I knew what she was going to say before the words came out of her mouth. Her breathing, her tone, even the way she said my name was different. It was serious. Defeated. Tired. And so so sad. I hated that she had to say it, but at the same time I needed to hear it.
I had the be the messenger too—the voice that verbally announced that someone you love is going to die. Gutted doesn’t even begin to describe it. Somehow you muster the strength to do the impossible, only because your love is stronger than your grief. Your grief is a form of love.
Is this what grief looks like, 2021
Grief is piles, clutter, overcrowded extension cords, ink smeared from a leaky fine-tipped pen, an expandable hose stretching and shrinking itself from the spigot.
Grief is also roses. Now, every year instead of not sending Broderick a holiday card, I send his family and friends a rose themed card. The only thing I’ve found to help with grief is to share it. To share memories and to let others know the person they love is still loved by you too.
Collection of risograph rose cards
I miss you friend
The Adé Hogue Foundation has been created to honor and continue Adé’s legacy. The foundation is dedicated to supporting the BIPOC community, underprivileged youth, and supporting Adé’s passions such as cycling and running as well as the educational pursuits for creatives.
A Memorial Scholarship Award has been created in his name. The Broderick Adé Hogue Memorial Scholarship Award will be given to UNC Charlotte students, majoring in Graphic Design or Studio Art, with a demonstrated commitment to promoting opportunities for Black, Indigenous, or People of Color. You can make donations here.