Problem-Solver, Kind Spirit, Calming Influence

BY CHIP DEFFAA | Damn! Too many losses, of late. I’m sorry to note the passing (due to COVID-19) of John Holmsen, who for decades was a valuable member of our 13th Street Repertory Theater family.

He was a sweet, gentle man, who helped out in various ways on many different shows I mounted at the theater. That theater, which has long been my base in the city, was also—quite literally—John’s home. He lived in a little apartment above the theater, as did Edith O’Hara, the founder and original artistic director of the theater (who still lives above the theater; she’s now over 100 years old). Edith told John that he would always have a home there, as long as he lived. (And her word was her bond.)

John told me that Edith had an instinct for sizing people up when she first met them; she knew exactly who belonged there, who might thrive in that environment as they would nowhere else in New York. And his kind spirit had a calming influence. Edith collected characters, each with different interests and personalities, and all contributed to the vitality of the theater.

If I was there for a rehearsal or a performance, John could help solve any problem. If the person running the box office called in sick, John could cover that—or, seemingly, any job. He knew what to do if the heat went out or a pipe burst (flooding the basement), or the fuses blew, or if someone attempted to rob the theater. (Those are not hypothetical examples; I witnessed all of those occurrences, over the years.)

He knew where the closest copy shop, hardware store, Chinese restaurant, or locksmith was. And he made sure there was always toilet paper in the bathrooms. He was a natural peacemaker, if arguments broke out. And if I locked myself out—which happened from time to time—he’d seem to materialize and welcome me back in.

And he’d watch all of my shows and sometimes shyly, humbly, offer suggestions, which I valued and often took.

When one city inspector questioned the legality of John’s tiny apartment, Edith shooed the inspector away, saying that John was a longtime member of her repertory company, and that this so-called apartment the inspector was looking at was merely John’s dressing room. (Edith, who could be quite forceful and persuasive, when need be, managed to convince the inspector that that was the case.)

Edith told me, many years ago, that I’d always have a theatrical home at her theater, and gave me carte blanche to mount any shows I wished there. I certainly hope to do more shows, when the current crisis is over. But it won’t be the same without John. I don’t really believe in ghosts. But if ghosts exists, I hope John will haunt the 13th Street Theater.

NOTE: Reprinted with the kind permission of Chip Deffaa, from a post on his Facebook page.  

Best Man, Best Friend

BY MARK LAING | John Holmsen was my best friend at school, and best friend in my life. The below text is part of my ongoing “Eulogy Project,” whereby we write nice things about our friends before they pass away. After all, what’s the point of telling someone you love them when they’re dead? I say tell ’em now! It was posted on March 26, 2020, in a private Facebook Group for our old boarding school, Bembridge School. The text reads as follows:

For old Bembridgians who remember John Holmsen:

At times like this when we’re all getting sick or worried about getting sick, it seemed high time for my latest appreciation piece in my ongoing “Eulogy Project.” The Eulogy Project is an attempt to write about your close ones now before they’re gone. I say tell ‘em you love ‘em now and not wait until it’s too late.

Anyway, my best friend from school, my best man at my third and final wedding, John Holmsen, is pretty poorly. He’s been suffering from colitis for quite some time and now has been hit by another, more pressing, more life-threatening ailment.

John and I went to boarding school together on the Isle of Wight in the UK and, as the two resident “yanks” there immediately glommed on to each other. Actually, John was really more International than American since he lived in Marbella and I had merely grown up there. He was and is a superb linguist and spoke French and Spanish like a native. The school newspaper listed him as living in “Beverly Hills” and everyone was impressed for years at this. Until they found out it was a fabrication. Anytime a new boy joined the school in between main years there was a listing in the school newspaper and they asked you where you were from.

John and I completely lost touch with each other after I left university and school for about 25 years if you can believe it. He was living in France when I was still at the University of East Anglia and John tried to return to the UK (He’s American but spent a lot of time growing up in the UK) but was turned away at the port of entry (Dover I think) by some ghastly English customs official because he didn’t have visible means of support on him, i.e. enough dosh. Bear in mind that this must have been like 1977 and people complain now about border crossings. After that John moved back to Venezuela and back to the states, I stayed in England and never heard from him again. Until I returned to the States in 1999 some 21 years later. No letters, no phone calls—he completely disappeared off the face of the Earth and we lost touch.

I found him when the internet was really getting going around 1999 using some people finder search site and found that John was living in Greenwich Village, New York where the median income (according to the internet people search tool I was using) was like $425k. Bingo! I figured John had made good and married a rich widow and was living the high life. The old dog.

The truth was much more prosaic and in fact, John was living a “minimalist” lifestyle in a tiny cupboard of a room in the Historic 13th St. Repertory Company Theater on 50 W. 13th. St. The smell of rat poison was almost overpowering and it was dingy but John had found a micro-living space in New York and had succeeded in getting through life on the minimum of effort and money—quite an achievement. I think maybe he was working at a restaurant (Rocco’s) taking orders over the phone or working in a bookstore.

John’s mom died recently and he was pretty broken up about it and worried that he wasn’t a good enough son. He was a great son. Kind, thoughtful, and always staying in touch. However, he wasn’t ALWAYS that way. I met John’s mum on at least once occasion and she was like a few other Venezuelan mums and mums-in-law I’ve met over the years—feisty, tough, and “resolute.” John bragged about having never written to his parents in four years of boarding school—a rare achievement but, ironically, later in life he was super good at keeping in touch. He, of all my friends, remembers birthdays and anniversaries like a doting mother. And John, who didn’t have a pot to p–ss in, bought Jen and me a lovely set of crystal whiskey glasses for our wedding.

Anyone who knows John will, I’m sure have a bunch of “Holmsen stories” which they can add. He really was a character at school and remains a rare creature today. John drove the “masters” or teachers at Bembridge School @Bembridge School manic by his reluctance to apply himself, do homework, or any of the school things one is supposed to do. He was a great sportsman, excelling in cricket and a whiz at soccer but too lazy to really apply himself—he had the skills to make the 1st. XI soccer team but never really bothered. But there is no malice in John and no spite. He is that rarest of creatures—a truly free spirit, indomitable, curious, and living life always on his own eccentric terms. Bravo my dear friend. You’re too stubborn to let this latest directive get in your way—you’ll pull through and your friends and those who love you will be here to help.

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And below, a Facebook post I wrote on May 6, 2020:

I’m so sad that our beloved John Holmsen, Best friend, Best Man, Best eccentric character, Best raconteur and speaker of multiple languages, Beverly Hills resident, jet-setter, stubborn and brilliant king of cuisine, sports watching, current affairs, no smoking areas, and vegetarian food, passed away in his sleep at 0545 AM EST this in New York City. I’m too choked up to say more than I’m devastated and missing his phone calls already. RIP my dearest friend.

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