If the purpose of life is, indeed, to enjoy every moment, then what purpose is there to dying? A bit of a Buddhist lip-banger, huh?
Darling Ken, ever since you metamorphosed, this question has been burrowing holes deep into my skull, my brain, my intellect, and my mind, nullifying each and every rationale I would propose.
The answer was ultimately revealed upon the opening of The Book of Life 2024, and the tallying of the recently deceased, whose names were written in the chapter titled “Janus.” Janus is the keeper of the gates to the realm of entertainment, enlightenment, and ecstasy, the gender-fluid deity with two faces, the god of transitions, beginnings, and endings. Janus represents the myriad tragedies that make living so joyfully arduous, and the equally numerous follies that make dying so calming. Is there any wonder that Janus is also the badge of courage for actor-activists? (“Tragedy tomorrow, comedy tonight.”—Stephen Sondheim, A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum.) The eclectic ensemble of Adrian Bailey, Hinton Battle, Warren Benbow, Debra Byrd, Gavin Creel, James Earl Jones, Chita Rivera, Maggie Smith, and Ken Page—the subject of this obituary—illustrates how diverse, equitable, and inclusive is the act of dying.
I wish to believe that Ken Page, affectionately known as “Kenny Kool,” went “gentle into that good night” (as Dylan Thomas put it). Ken certainly understood that life is precious, but to have to fight ferociously for it at every turn speaks against enjoying every moment.
It was Ken’s windless dignity that initially attracted me to him. I had not witnessed Ken’s hurricane rendering of “Sit Down, You’re Rocking the Boat” in the 1976 all-Black production of Guys and Dolls, directed and choreographed by Billy Wilson, as I was on the national tour of The Wiz. However, upon my return from the tour, it was Ken who would replace Ted Ross as the Cowardly Lion in The Wiz. Our maiden collaboration was what the French describe as le coup de foudre—love at first sight.
Well, “the proof of the pudding is in the eating,” per Rogers’ Dictionary of Clichés. Ken and I feasted on one another’s penchant for the nonsensical—i.e., if either of us were “hoist with his own petard” (Hamlet by William Shakespeare), we would simultaneously exclaim, “Ga-dush!”, indicating the ironic reversal of poetic justice.
That appreciation of the salty and the absurd followed us—correction, led us to our next collaboration, Ain’t Misbehavin’. Ken’s interpretation of Fats Waller’s “Your Feet’s Too Big” was a masterful combination of titillating double entendre and vaudevillian sass. As I praise my excellent brother-clown, my nerves are jangled by the memory of two original members of Ain’t Misbehavin’ who predeceased Ken: Nell Carter and Armelia McQueen.
We were the perfect cast of five: three women and two men, an effective prescription for intrigue, conflict, and resolution. Inspired by this very thought, I contacted a group of five colleagues—three women and two men—each of whom was still shaking off the shock of Ken’s absence. I rang them from my landline because I wanted no dropped calls or AI foolishness of any sort. I posed the following question and asked for an immediate response, “What is the one word that most completely describes Ken?”
George Faison, Tony-winning choreographer of The Wiz, responded “noble.” Richard Maltby Jr., Tony-winning director of Ain’t Misbehavin’, replied “joyous.” Julia Lema, dance captain for Ain’t Misbehavin’ offered “lovable.” Charlayne Woodward, one of the five original members of Ain’t Misbehavin’, answered “empathic.” Leah Bass-Baylis, former Broadway dancer and choreographer, and currently an administrator of arts education programs in Los Angeles, also offered an unequivocal “lovable.” I’d call that polling average unanimous.
Ken, my friend, my colleague, my valued confidante, my beautiful sibling, I salute you with ubuntu: “I am because we are.” On first hearing of your departure, my heart was so heavy I feared it might break. The irrefutable truth of that statement was evidenced at the performance you attended of Cats: The Jellicle Ball, a reimagining of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s 1981 Broadway musical Cats—no fur, no whiskers, no tails, but rather a runway competition in the guise of New York City “house” culture. You served as one of two judges. It was truly a cosmic experience. There we were, Tuesday, July 30, 2024, in the second floor lobby of the Perelman Performing Arts Center, following the 7 o’clock show, our eyes welling with tears—you, the original Old Deuteronomy and I, the Old Deuteronomy Redux. It was our final embrace.
Those who survive you commune in the vantablack shadow of your setting sun. We look to the East in expectation of the rising light, which reminds us that although you are gone, you are not forgotten. The morning comes, and our mourning is done, not because we deny death, but rather that we prefer to celebrate the life you lived with such spectacular humility on Spaceship Planet Mother Earth.
My love, each of us is a seeker, traveling a journey toward our individual destinies. If we are fortunate, the separate roads that we choose may occasionally intersect with that of a fellow seeker, forming the proverbial crossroads. If we are blessed, the four vectors of the crossroads will bend toward one another, meld, and guide each of us to an appropriate home. In the end, destiny conspires with the seeker, and through nexus of experiences, propels him towards transubstantiation.
Alas, you are no longer here. Where are you? Are you there? No one seems to know where you are. We miss you. We love you. I do not worry about you; you are where you must be. Besides, I am confident that etched on your heart, as on mine, lives the eternal teaching of our forever mentor, Geoffrey Holder: “Actors do not die; they simply go on tour.” Have a great tour, Ken. Break legs.
The Moments of Happiness
The moments of happiness
We had the experience but missed the meaning
And approach to the meaning
Restores the experience in a different form
Beyond any meaning
We can assign to happiness
The past experience revived in the meaning
Is not the experience of one life only
But of many generations
Not forgetting something that is probably quite ineffable
—Andrew Lloyd Webber / T.S. Eliot
André De Shields is a multiple Tony-winning actor, singer, dancer, director, choreographer, and force of nature.
