Callie Angell

I don’t know if I remember rightly that Callie’s cat was called Clara back in the 1970s, when Callie and I were closest, but I do know that Clara had an unusual meow.

“What’s your favorite kind of computer?” Callie would ask.

“Wang,” Clara would say.

The news of Callie’s death by suicide has brought much comment about her dedication to avant garde film, Warhol in particular, the most beautiful by Jim Hoberman in the Village Voice. But the Callie I knew had a life outside of screening rooms.

This born New Yorker loved a small lake and family lakehouse just outside the city. There were snapping turtles, which she would watch snare unaware birds. Sitting on the porch on humid evenings was never dull. Lightning storms could cast freakish bolts that would come in through the porch and zizzle through the house until they raced out of a door.

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