George Forss, the world-famous photographer and a good friend died a few months ago; his home and art gallery – the Ginofor – are shuttered, pending probate proceedings.

George bought the house with money his uncle left him when he died. George said the aliens talked to him in Central Park and told him to get out of the city. I think the real reason George moved, though, is that he was terrified and overwhelmed by his sudden fame and the publicity surrounding his work.

An eccentric and longer, he couldn’t handle that.

His spirit lives for sure, one day a spaceship will plop down in the pasture and George will hop out to say hello and take some photos of the donkeys.

He loved taking pictures of Lulu and  Fanny.

His stepbrother Mickey, who George cared for most of his life, is in an elder care facility, where he is said to be doing well and is well cared for.  He is missed walking up and down Main Street every day.

Mickey tells visitors he hopes he can return to Cambridge when the weather improves. That isn’t very certain. I’m going to see him next month.

The gallery is closed, the art is gone, the town has lost one of its most beloved and eccentric characters, and perhaps its only true genius..

I think George’s Rube Goldberg darkroom is still there. He had to unplug the refrigerator, which was plugged into the back porch, to turn on the darkroom lights. George did not believe in paying for TV or telephones, and he never did pay for either one.

But he always had a TV and always had a phone, which worked occasionally. George built the phone himself.

The big-screen TV he found in somebody’s garbage was always read, he watched every golf tournament televised, even though he had never played golf.

But he always managed to have both. He was both electronically skilled and ingenious.

I didn’t see much of George in the past year; he was getting more and more eccentric, and I just wasn’t sure how to deal with it. I loved George very much and miss him very much. Our friendship was rich and deep, we even did a photo show together, at the first Round House Cafe.

I have never known anyone like George and will never know anyone like him again. He was a photographic genius. He started as a street photographer – he liked taking pictures of prostitutes – and dodged the police, who arrested him several times for selling without a permit.

He was a sweet man and a generous man. He had very little but would give it any or all of it away to any needy stranger at the drop of a hat.

He was discovered by a famous World War II photographer, ended up on Time Magazine’s cover, and became known all over the world for his astonishing New York City landscapes, most of which can be seen or purchased in the Park Slope Gallery in Brooklyn.  The New York landscape was the perfect stage for George and his ideas about light and exposure.

George taught me a lot about landscape photography; even though he struggled quite openly to figure out how to capture the rural landscape in the same way he had figured in New York City.  He was always a New Yorker to me, he never fully acclimated to the country.

We spent a lot of time together, and I will forever treasure our photoshoots together, me with my fancy Nikon, George with cameras and lenses he built mostly of things he found rooting around in garbage cans. He often made his lenses.

I learned a great deal just from watching him and listening to his stories about the aliens, who were his mentors and guides (he was an alien sighting investigator but only saw one spaceship in many years.)

George came to just about every one of our Open Houses and did portraits of visitors.  He often popped by in his giant old Buick to say hello and take pictures of the animals.

He loved doing portraits, as do I, and the images were, of course, remarkable. George knew how to get people to open up.

He told me when the aliens came for him, he would throw up his arms and shout “take me!” and go off happily to live with them.

George’s goodbye signature was “take the day off,” although I don’t believe he ever did take a day off. He had a lot of fine art in his gallery, local artists loved and appreciated him. Once in a great while, he even sold some.

New Yorkers who wandered into his gallery in the summer often recognized him – he was pretty famous for a while and couldn’t believe he was THE George Forss.

He always was.

I like to think the aliens came for George, and he went off with them. He would be having a blast now, taking photos, telling stories, exploring the universe. George didn’t belong on the earth; his spirit was way beyond us and our greed and quarrelsome ways.

I remember the look on a cardiologist’s face when George was admitted to a local hospital for heart troubles. The cardiologists came in with interns in tow to give George a speech about taking care of his heart. “Oh,” said George,” don’t worry about that, the clients will take care of my heart.”

The doctor’s jaw dropped and he turned and led his interns out of the room. He looked at me for help and I just shrugged my shoulders. This was George, there was no changing him.

I knew George would die in his sleep, he wouldn’t go any other way.

It is a rainy, gloomy day here today, and I went to the gallery and stood in the street with my Leica. George would have dearly loved to see the Leica and experiment with it. He took many wonderful black-and-white Leica-style photos with his homemade cameras and patched-together lenses.

He had the kindest words to say about my photography; he knew when to lift me and encourage me. And I could learn just by watching him compose a photo.

That meant a lot to me, as did he. I am sorry I couldn’t figure out how to be a better friend to him at the end of his life. Those things are very hard for me.

I was glad to see the Art Saves Lives sign he made in the window about the doorway to his apartment on the second floor (Mickey lived on the third floor.) He hung his and Mickeys’ laundry in the second-floor window, which doubled as a porch on Tuesdays.

Whenever I drove by, I looked up in the window and loved to see pants and shirts and underwear hanging up there. I still do, but there are no more clothes up there in the window. The curtains are closed.

Maybe the estate will let me have that  Art Saves Lives sign in the window when everything goes to probate. Art did save George’s life, and George suggested more than once that it had saved mine.

Godspeed George, wherever you are. Come on down to visit when you can.