He had an artist’s eye, both for the real world and the
imaginary one. He saw through people at the first gaze,
cutting the crap, and never bothered to mince words,
delivered without bad intentions, including with loved
ones and his loyal employees. He couldn’t lie, not even out
of trying to be nice. He could summarize anything in a few
sharp and short sentences that were packed with meaning
and accuracy, in a crystal clear fashion, like few men
ever could. He was kind, strong, headstrong sometimes,
tempered, impatient, could pepper his emails with language
his father would not have approved, and which made him
feel free, mischievously, sparkling even brighter when Allison
tried to make him behave. He was truly a free man, equal
to the lowest in the pecking order, and to Kings, treating
them all perfectly the same, always himself. I called him
the Captain, because he called me the Sailor, or Stumpy,
insultingly demeaning, smiling broadly, and he was a
Captain indeed. A solitary man, standing alone on his ship,
never in need of anyone, but caring for the ones he loved
with a generous and unusually forgiving stance, wishing
only one thing: having his wife, Allison, by his side, to share
his adventurous streak. And she did. She was always there,
caring up to the last moment, true soulmates, their lives
intertwined with risk, fun and the unexpected. He was a
giant, a man of ancient chivalry. Strong and kind, in that
increasingly rare combination. I will dearly miss my friend,
Alli, I will dearly miss him. He leaves a hole in our lives.
What makes it a little more bearable is that Logan will keep
the Captain’s spirit alive in our family, long after I will be
no more myself, and I am grateful to both of you for making
a man of him, and an American. I think the Captain
watches us now from the Heavens he didn’t believe in, of
course with that sparkle in the eyes, asking us to keep going
on, ploughing forward and never to look back. The Captain
would want no less.
— Jeremy Malou, St. Truiden, Belgium
In this photo, with Curt and Afrikhan Light, we were
trying to get him to smile, and what does he do? FROWN
even bigger, then the horse smiles. He loved his horses. I’m so
glad we took all these extra photos with Curt this year.
I’m not great with words. There have been so many great
posts about Curt and his contribution to the Arabian breed
through his and Allison’s breeding program, his stubborn
personality, his integrity, his loyal friendships, and on and
on ... I couldn’t come close to saying those same things that I
feel as well, any better than others have done.
I have sent a small glimpse of Curt’s visions as an
Arabian horse breeder. I am honored to have had a part in
his visions of this magnificent breed for 17 years!
RIP my dear friend, and love and hugs for you, Allison.
— Suzanne Sturgill, Bradenton, Florida
M
y best friend is gone, suddenly, unexpectedly. Many
years ago, Johanna told me, on her return from
Atlanta, that I would love the man. She also has that
instinct for people, like Curt had. And indeed I did,
starting a long friendship that never wavered, regardless of
our differences of opinion in a wild number of areas. Only
to discover, through literally thousands of communications
over the years, sometimes mutually and mischievously
insulting, sometimes funny, sometimes just sharing pictures
picked up during our travels, touching our eyes and our
emotions, that we shared a few traits very strongly. A same
contempt for the ones bullying the weak, an innate sense
of fairness and balance, a particular distaste for braggers
and superficial men and women, a total immunity to other
people’s opinion about ourselves, and a particular sense of
humor. He was a man in love with nature, cherishing his
vegetable garden, his dried tomatoes, his dogs, his horses,
American football, Northern California, and his jogging
itineraries. His fabulous vocabulary was out of this world,
and his quiet perspicacity thundered far above the pack.
Curt Westley with friends, Peri Tilghman,
Mike Wilson, Amy Austin, Jeremy Malou and
Johanna Ullström.
TF Afrikhan Light (Botswana x TF Kestrelia) and
Curt Westley, mugging for Suzanne’s camera.
AHW > 42 < 08 .19
sharon
(sharon)
#1