Joe Nash, an archivist of black dance history, died last month, a victim of his own archive:
Last Thanksgiving, he stumbled over a pile of materials in his packed apartment in a West Harlem housing project. As he fell, he clutched at a stack of books, which tumbled down on him, according to Rashidah Ismaili AbuBakr, a friend who took care of him. Mr. Nash [. . .] lay on the floor for five days, until friends heard his cry for help [. . . .] “Every single room was storage–his bathroom, his bedroom,” Ms. AbuBakr said. “He just had enough space to lay down.”
Mr. Nash never recovered from the fall, friends said; he died on April 13 at 85 of cardiovascular problems. Now, because Mr. Nash had no heirs–and apparently left no will–the city has changed the locks on his apartment door and seized his property, in preparation for auctioning it off. Archivists, dance lovers and Mr. Nash’s friends are appalled by the possibility that the collection could be scattered to the winds.
Or maybe the city locked the stuff up to keep it from killing again.
Okay, it was a lame joke. But I was tired of trying to come up with a “dancing about architecture” line that would’ve pulled the story together. Sue me.