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Original printed byline: Hawkeye Z. Hoerr
Historical November–December 2011 article. Dates, prices, services and contacts describe the source period; current availability has not been established.
The St. Louis community is a bit poorer than it was a couple of months ago.
In fact, it’s significantly poorer. Two extraordinarily bright lights in our community, Jim McLeod and Bob Cassilly, are no longer with us. Jim and Bob were very different – in some ways it’s hardly possible to think of two people who might have less in common – but they also shared some wonderful and remarkable qualities that set them apart from the rest of us. Robert Kennedy said “There are those who look at things the way they are, and ask why…
I dream of things that never were, and ask why not?” Jim and Bob did more than have that attitude; they each lived it. Every day they looked at what could be and every day they worked to make it happen. Their palettes were different: Jim did this through his relationships with others, and Bob did it through his art. Yet Jim was an artist in how he saw people, and Bob’s relationships were integral to his success. Jim McLeod was SkinkerDeBalivere neighbor and a friend.
He held many roles at Washington University, and his most recent title was Vice Chancellor for Students and Dean of the College of Arts & Sciences.
A thirteen word title gives you an idea of just how indispensable Jim was in so many aspects of campus life.
But Jim’s skills did more than enhance Washington University. Years ago he served on the Skinker-DeBalivere Community Council.
He was also president of the New City School Board of Trustees, chair of the New City Advisory Council, president of the Express Scripts Foundation, and served on the board of the Art Museum. Jim was busier than one could imagine, but he always had time to make a difference. At Washington University, he was famous for maintaining that every student should be known by their name and history.
They weren’t just students; they were people. Jim did just that.
He asked, he listened, and he took the time to know the students.
I know several people who say that Jim was a major force in who they are today.
He was a role model for other adults in how he viewed the student experience. Jim expected a great deal from others, and you wanted to rise to meet his belief in you.
He was always there.
He helped people in their journeys, applauding them for their successes and embracing them for their shortcomings. Jim died in September, and I attended his memorial service at Washington University. Held in the Field House – the crowd was far too large for Graham Chapel – the crowd and words were a testimony to Jim’s memory and, more, evidence of his impact. For so many current students and alums, Jim is Washington University.
He personalized the marble columns and academic courses.
He was THE teacher for hundreds upon hundreds, and he empowered, yes, that’s the right word, thousands of people to realize their potential. At the service it was said “There are so many of us here today because we all felt Jim was our close friend; and that’s because he was.” Why don’t people like that go into politics?
I was fortunate to get to work with Jim quite closely for a couple of years.
I used to enjoy watching him in a meeting.
He was called a calm leader, and that’s apt. Regardless of the topic or tenor of the discussion, Jim would be quiet, listening and nodding, and empowering – there’s that word again – others. And then he would ask the question or make the comment that turned the conversation. Invariably and consistently I would wonder why I hadn’t thought of that! Jim had the ability to listen to words and to discern emotions; his instincts enabled him to see the larger picture even while the rest of us wallowed around in the day-to-day dirt.
In every setting, his values were consistent: He wanted the best for people and he wanted to help all of us, including me, achieve our dreams.
I am old enough to have worked with many, many different kinds of people, and I have been fortunate enough to watch a range of leadership styles. Sadly, I’ve only known one Jim McLeod. Fortunately, I knew Jim McLeod. Bob Cassilly also died in September. Unlike Jim, Bob was a larger-than-life public figure. Make that MUCH larger than life!
I didn’t know Bob nearly as well as Jim, but I knew Bob well enough to have my breath taken away by his passion and vision. Bob and I chatted occasionally and had lunch together, and I always marveled at his imagination, his verve for life, and his unwillingness to accept limits. Why don’t people like that go into politics?
It wasn’t until after his death that I learned that Bob was the person who stopped the madman hammering on Michelangelo’s Pieta in St. Peter’s Basilica in 1972. Somehow, once I knew that, I wasn’t surprised. Even back then Bob was the right person at the right time, unrestrained by convention and following his instincts.
I can imagine him, flying through the air to tackle the stranger who dared deface a work of art. Years later, Bob retained that same sense of indignation when St. Louis city art – brick buildings and monuments – was destroyed. Bob was an artist who gave new meaning to “unconventional.” He was more than un; he was anticonventional.
He initially gained fame as a concrete sculptor.
The frog, tortoise, serpents, and hippos that adorn the New City School playground are Bob’s creations.
I once asked Bob how he created these great sculptures from concrete, and he replied, “Oh, it’s really simple. You just start shaping before the concrete hardens.” He is also the creator of the pillars at the intersection of our east-west streets and Skinker, the ones that announce our neighborhood. Bob’s greatest work of art, of course, is the City Museum, a cacophony of crazy catalysts. Like no other play space in the world, it’s designed to delight, to entertain, and to frighten. For Bob, smiles and laughs weren’t enough.
He thought risk-taking is an essential part of fun.
As a result, kids of all ages, some barely house-broken and some receiving social security checks, find themselves enamored and anxious when they interact with the artifacts of Bob’s imagination. Beyond this, the museum became a hothouse for other artists.
I was at the Memorial Service for Bob, and each of the speakers spoke about how Bob changed their life, even though they didn’t use those words.
In a way, we all envy Bob’s attitude about life and his willingness to pursue a vision. Looking around at the crowd at the Sheldon Concert Hall, it was clear that for so many people Bob was more than an artist, more than an entrepreneur, and more than a visionary.
He was someone who showed them that the impossible was possible. That’s how he lived his life.
From the outside, Jim and Bob share a bit.
An academic and an artist, they lived in St. Louis, and they both died recently.
There wasn’t much overlap between their arenas.
But when you peel away the patina, take off the academic trappings and remove the concrete trowel, there is much that they have in common. Although their demeanor and strategies were very different, Jim and Bob each believed that they could make the world a better place, and each of them worked to help others. Being around them was a treat. Jim and Bob cared about their community and their efforts made St. Louis a better place for all of us.
We are so fortunate to have had them among us.
My life is better because I knew them, and I am saddened that we no longer have their vision and their touch.
They left us far too early.
Originally published in The Times of Skinker-DeBaliviere, November–December 2011.
Read this article in the original newspaper issue.
Original source: SD_Times2011_11.pdf, printed page(s) 8; PDF page(s) 8.
