You looked right through each of us. You saw the fears we had and the dreams we didn't dare dream. And in your look, in your eyes, we saw the reflection of who you knew we could become. This is why, I believe, you were a Father Figure to so many of us.

To me, you were always the essence of what I believed a father should be.

You invited me for a walk and a coffee that chilly afternoon in Cracow. Spoke with me for an hour or so and... completely changed how I saw Luca, my bf at that time. I saw him through your eyes and realised you'd grasped the value and true essence of who he was much better than I had. We went back to Milan and - for the first time - I started really working on our relationship. Three years later, you were walking me down the green aisle in Goszyce, a proof of the magic you could do with just one conversation. Thank you for making me see Luca the way you did. You showed me how to love and how to ask questions, how to make dinner conversation a meaningful one...

I love your sculptures for that same reason. You did not sculpt what you wanted to see. You listened to the story the tree wanted to tell and observed the timber you wanted to work with first. And then, with a touch or two, you helped us all see that the log you were holding was actually a winged body, a muscular torso or a grotesquely contorted face.

You did not change people, you invested in them. You helped them see how - with a touch or two - they could become a more defined, richer version of themselves and you rooted for their success as if it was the most important thing for you as well.

Thank you for loving us more than we could ever loved ourselves. Thank you for seeing in us the sculptures we wanted to become.

Thea: Kasper kochał DŁUBAĆ. Odkąd pamiętam, miał niecierpliwe ręce. Budowanie i utrzymanie tu w Kanadzie drewnianego domu wzbudziło w nim szacunek dla drzewa. Ale pozwólcie, że wrócę do samego początku. W latach, kiedy jeszcze pracował, spędzał weekendy, dbając o Pagórę (lokum tak przez Malutę przezwane). To był work in progress trwający całe lata, aż Kasper zwinał manatki i zaczął coraz bardziej intensywnie przetwarzać mizerną chatkę w pałac dla tych, których kochał.

Wracając jeszcze bardziej wstecz. Podczas mojej pierwszej emigracji do Kanady w początku lat 1960 wychodziły z jego pracowni obiekty skórzane. Okrągłe pudełka, etui na okulary (Malucie dałam to, które dostałam od Kaspra). Zrobił dla naszej czwórki skórzane paski z oryginalnymi zapięciami z końskiego wędzidła, które się cieszyły wtedy wielkim sukcesem.

W późniejszych latach wracałam do Kanady z wizytami, a w 1978 na stałe. W Kaspra studio tym razem widać było, jak się starał z plasteliny wydobyć "człowieka". Ale też pojawiały się już w studio różne pnie. Musiał w nich coś widzieć, bo wychodziły z nich ciekawe abstrakcyjne rzeźby.

Kaspra stosunek do drewna był bardzo intymny Znał charakterystykę każdego gatunku i potrafił ocenić, czy się nadaje na to, co mu natchnienie poddawało.

W każdym razie ta jego potrzeba tworzenia miała odległą genezę, a poważne zajęcie się rzeźbą stało się ewidentne po 1978 roku.

He liked the unusual in life. If anything, the devilfish defined unusual. He asked us to buy him a devilfish in Mexico. We did. But it stunk of decay, so we hung it outside and during the night some cat got to it. With its little horns, beady black eyes, trident tail, and dried parchment skin, it would have fit right into his Morin Heights collection of bestial artifacts. Big blowfish. Elephant jaws. Bull parts. A human skull, buried on the premises, of only minor interest to the local police, but coloured and enlivened by Mordecai Richler and Allo Police. His openness to the odd and lesser-known gave power and range to his curiosity and compelled his thirst for knowledge.

His interests were international. Father of a diplomat, one of three Canadian-Polish children he reared single-handedly, accomplished in a handful of languages, son of a internationally acclaimed artist, offspring of one of Poland’s most revered families, born into opulence shattered by war, he was adaptable and physical, loving every minute of forced sanctuary in Italy, which for a youngster meant a heaven of live ammunition, muddy escape along bombed-out trenches, an ultra-realistic war theatre and a boy’s best playtime ever.

He was an ardent lover of the immigration story. An immigrant himself, he was also for a while a worker in Canada’s immigration department. Government work did not define him, rather, he defined himself in the centre of the Polish immigrant community, as a member of the Alpine Club of Canada and through the construction of Pagora, his life-long project at the top of Mount Stapleton.

In the early days, lack of access to a horse meant he used his own strong back to lift heavy logs into place. Studying Kasper meant watching him work with wood one way or another. He sculpted wood. He planted Ginkgo Biloba trees on his six acres, echoing the work of his grandfather, who graced the formal gardens of Europe with exotic arbors, majestic conifers and enduring deciduous. He climbed like a professional logger, with iron spurs, harness and, always, his trusty Stihl professional chainsaw. He cleared brush, cut firewood and roasted young pigs over an open fire on his meadow. He let other skiers follow Jack Rabbit Johansen Trail #7 through the woods on his property. Using the big caterpillar-tread Bombardier Forestier, a land-clearing, deep-throated diesel beast of the forest, Kasper hauled massive logs into position and during the ice storm of 1998, thrilled our son with a turn at the controls.

His openness to people of different origins was a beautiful thing. By accident and fate, he knew that immigration was not something that you necessarily got right the first time. Splitting the map of Canada in half, from left to right, his first choice of residence was Saskatoon, a dismal backwater, from which only his lifelong love of the CBC could rescue him. This man, of proud family heritage and aristocratic leanings, schooled in the fine French of the European courts, author of several books, accomplished mountaineer and hiker of Nepal’s Thong La Pass, found himself dying of cultural starvation. Only Expo 67 could save him.

And Expo 67 did. Working long, long hours, often sleeping in the office overnight, he felt and nurtured the incredible pulse of Canada’s national pride. He ran daily operations of this once-in-a-century mixture of theatre, cultural expression, international rapport and testimony to Canada’s ability to have fun and play hard.

Kasper’s Odyssey. For a while, it was a yearly tradition of the Montréal Section of the Alpine Club of Canada. Fine athletes and more ordinary folk trekked overland on heavy-duty cross-country skis from Sainte Agathe des Monts to Pagora in Morin Heights. Many stayed overnight. Odyssey survivors bathed in the comfort of Kasper’s fine sauna, feted by rich meats and heavy wines, enjoined in song by Wilczek’s melodic lead, and if not too sodden after a late-night, next day would head back overland and up steep Mont Loup-Garou to the starting point.

His marriage to charming Anna, celebrated in our house, took place on a lovely afternoon in golden sunlight. Over the years, Anna let us see and hear her many talents and affections. Summer evenings at 124 Hinton were warmed by Anna’s solos on guitar and voice. Classically trained and with a professional performance background, she astounded me with her knowledge of music theory and form.

A fine guitar worthy of Anna’s talent was stored across the street in the pied à terre the couple maintained for their summers in Canada. Residents of 124 Hinton delightedly held Anna and Kasper in musical custody with bongos, guitars, voice and ukulele. Anna, the engaging landlady, answered musical challenges well into the night. The air was heavy with music, wine and laughter when Kasper and Anna were in town.

While we hosted the couple with shared meals in Canada, they hosted us in astounding ways in Poland: Thanksgiving dinner at Dom Pod Jedlami; hiking with our mountain guide Zosia in the premature snows of the High Tatras; passing the night with the ghost of Henryk Sienkiewicz.

Kasper was a rich source of memories. He introduced us to the pleasures of garlic on rye with icy vodka; led us on many good, solid days of work cutting trees and learning skills that we could later bring to Marta; welcomed us to warm family suppers with Maluta, Marta, Wilczek and Maka. He accompanied me on lumbering train rides to Slovakia and Gdansk; gobbled spicy bowls of flaczki with me near the Krakow train station; brought us camping at Keene Farm where he was a celebrated bon vivant; joined us to explore La Charlevoix with moose on the prowl and snow suspended in the air; shared Cuban cigars and scotch by the BBQ while I, sharing thoughts with him, started to grasp the meaning of the world; and despite the cold crisp Pagora air, I felt the inquisitive mind and inner laughter of a man who would order devilfish.

My friend.

Kasprowi i Annie Pawlikowskim

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KRK, 31 marca 2021