Lewis Erskine: Editor & Friend Savant
Savant - “a person of profound or extensive learning; learned scholar.”
My friend Lewis Erskine passed away from a battle with cancer at 2am on June 3, 2021. I am grateful that I had time to prepare my mind and heart for his passing, and still, all the preparation in the world can’t remove the pain of loss and grief that I’ve experienced thinking about Lewis.
I knew Lewis for nearly 25 years. We met in NYC while working on Ken Burns’ JAZZ series back in 1997, and became fast friends. He eventually became more like a friend and brother - in other words, family. Although I am not an editor, Lewis taught me a lot about editing, and about his incredible talent for storytelling, just through the many opportunities I had to observe him at work on his JAZZ episodes. He was probably my first real teacher out of film school about the responsibility of representation, and the absolute, tangible need for Black people to at the very least help tell our own stories. If you watch JAZZ today, Lewis’ episodes (three and ten) are some of the very best in the series. His sense of timing was nearly perfect. He knew how and when to cut, and when to let a shot linger and breathe.
No doubt, Lewis’ instincts in his editing were informed by who he was as a person. Lewis was so easy going, yet precise in the depth of how he treated his friends. He had a real gift for instilling confidence just by sharing his warm smile. That smile made you feel special, and given the many tributes spread out all over social media in the wake of Lewis’ passing, it’s clear that lots and lots of people experienced that smile; that Lewis made so many of us feel incredibly special.
I have so many memories - so many moments with Lewis that stand out to me. I remember sitting with him in his edit room in Ken’s Florentine Films Walpole, NH office, just talking about life. I learned about Lewis’ beloved son, Keita, who at the time was maybe 7. Lewis also talked about his wife at the time, Carol, who was training to be a doula. I had never heard of a doula before and was fascinated by the idea of a whole career where women help women give birth. I also remember riding around with Lewis in his fire engine red Honda Civic (with stick shift) in Walpole looking for lunch, and listening to Stevie Wonder. We’d sing along (he had such a nice voice) and just enjoy each other’s company.
When I got ready to leave New York for Raleigh, NC, Lewis floored me by giving me his Honda. “I don’t need it,” he said. One of the most amazing gifts I’ve ever received. And my first car to boot! When my husband and I got ready to replace the Honda with a new one, we asked Lewis what he wanted us to do with the Civic. “Donate it,” which was so Lewis. He was not a man who put a lot of stock into things like cars, pre-war apartments, etc. Lewis invested in relationships, and in doing whatever he could to help others in whatever way(s) he saw fit. He was generous like that.
Lewis made me laugh. He was so brilliant, as a person and an editor, and his observations and comebacks often had me rolling. And Lewis’ laugh - so great. It was genuine and unique, so exuberant. I loved sharing a laugh with Lewis, which didn’t happen that often once I left New York. Our interactions were less frequent - often by email, sometimes by phone, and a few times at the Full Frame Documentary Film Festival in Durham, NC. But whenever we had the opportunity to catch up, it was as if we had just spoken the day before. I really treasured that about Lewis: once a friend, always a friend. No awkward reacquainting. No hesitation. Just love.
I may have talked to Lewis more times last year - in 2020 during the pandemic - than in any other year since moving to North Carolina. He and our mutual friend, Shola Lynch, surprised me with a three way call one day after both Lewis and I had watched Shola do a brilliant chat about William Greaves and his archives for Doc NYC. And later that year, I got on Zoom with Lewis to talk shop, or at least that was my intention. But as was Lewis’ gentle giant way, soon after we got on the phone, he shared with me that he had been diagnosed with prostate cancer. That bit of news stopped me in my tracks, and brought tears to my eyes. Not Lewis, I thought. It was hard to bear the idea of my friend having to deal with even the thought of cancer, let alone a real diagnosis. He had apparently been dealing with it for some time, but he looked so good and healthy on that Zoom call that I honestly believed he’d beat it.
I got to meet Ann Pogue, the love of Lewis’ life, that afternoon on Zoom. And although I never spent time with the two of them, their love for each other was palpable and real, even though I was experiencing it virtually. Ann was with Lewis to the end - through all of his efforts to get well and send his cancer into remission, at the point that Lewis decided to go into home hospice, and through the several Caring Bridge posts that Ann shared with a community of Lewis’ family and friends. Those posts, as detailed and courageous as they were, came down to four basic messages - “Lewis has cancer and is doing everything he can to fight it;” “There is nothing more that doctors can do and Lewis wants to live his best life;” “Lewis is no longer able to talk and will likely pass away very soon;” and just hours later, “Lewis has made his transition.”
When I received the second Caring Bridge post, which shared that Lewis had chosen to go into home hospice, I lost it. I couldn’t stop crying, in part because I had held on to hope that my brave, strong friend would whup cancer’s ass. Reading that post made me realize that I was - and so many of us were - going to lose Lewis. I was devastated. I’m grateful that in that moment of deep despair, I called my mom. She encouraged me to do everything I could to see Lewis as soon as possible. That meant a Zoom call. And that’s just what Lewis graciously agreed to do.
Lewis looked frail when I saw him. He had lost a lot of weight - shockingly, breathtakingly so. But, of course, he was still my dear friend Lewis, and so we spent the next hour talking about his amazing home sound system, his son Keita, how much Lewis enjoyed sitting in the sun, Zoom backgrounds, the state of PBS and documentary film, and Stevie Wonder. In a gesture I will never, ever forget, Lewis pulled up Stevie’s Fulfillingness Finale album on his Apple Music account, and we sat and listened, and reminisced for awhile. I sensed in that moment that it might be my last with Lewis. I didn’t want it to end and soaked it all up. Then suddenly he had to go, and our time together ended. And two weeks to the day later, my friend was gone.
Lewis, I love you and I’m going to miss you so much. I have wonderful pictures of you to look at, and remind me, like the one that tags this post, and many others I’ve downloaded and screenshot from your Facebook page. You were an incredible friend, a brilliant editor, and an amazing colleague. You are loved by so many. I hope you know how much you will be missed. Your legacy of light, brilliance, and love lives on.