Obituary of Theodore D’Arcy Taylor

I keep returning to Rome when I think of Ted. New York is where I first met him, and Berlin where our paths crossed again—but Rome is where he settled into my memory. It was September 2019, that grueling heat as we marched through the city—and he still found time to work out and go running along the Tiber! I coming along completely broke, having just put everything I had into a new apartment, and how effortlessly generous Ted was—inviting me to stay with him and Adam in their hotel without a second thought, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. It’s not every day that you hit it off with the partner of your ex, and yet that ease, that openness, was simply who he was. I think often of walking beside him through the heat, pausing for shade, for water, blathering about some statue or church. And then that moment in the Pantheon, standing beneath the oculus, looking up into that perfect opening of light. Going back to Rome, I know he is now part of its many layers—not the history from books that crowds my mind, but the quieter, personal memories etched onto the heart. I didn’t know Ted as deeply or as long as many others did. But I knew his story, and I carried it with me. As someone who has had similar struggles with drugs and alcohol, I recognized something in his—his resilience, his way forward despite everything. His story, his triumph against the odds, stayed with me as a quiet form of inspiration. He climbed mountains. Ad astra.

September in Istanbul always felt like a kind of perfection—the light softer, the air gentler, the city settling slightly. As the brutal summer heat lifts, Istanbul softens—if only just—into a slightly less frenetic version of itself. It was in that season, in 2018, that I had the gift of sharing the city with you. The three of us—Ted, Adam, and I—traveled from Berlin to Istanbul. As ever, I arrived with an ambitious cultural itinerary—mosques, museums, churches—but what I remember most is not the program, but the companionship. Crossing the threshold of Hagia Sophia together, with Adam, felt quietly momentous. I recall thinking of Justinian’s famous words—“O Solomon, I have outdone thee!”—and yet what stayed with me was not imperial grandeur, but the simple fact of standing there with you. We wandered through the city in that unstructured way that travel sometimes allows: along ?stiklal Caddesi late at night, through conversations and encounters, including the moment you met Ahmet, my then-lover. There was baklava by the Golden Horn, laughter, and that sense of being suspended in time that only these kind of trips ever achieve. And then there was the K?l?ç Ali Pa?a hammam—an experience none of us forgot. The ritual was, at moments, almost overwhelming: heat, water, and a scrubbing so thorough it felt like a trial. We emerged dazed, submerged in foam and sensation. But it was the absolute relaxation afterward that remains most vividly with me: the three of us, stretched out on the couches—an all-male version of an odalisque by Ingres. I am deeply grateful for that journey, and for the ease and warmth that defined it. It was my last time in Istanbul, before the years that followed reshaped so much. When I return, as I hope I will, I know the city will carry your presence for me. Nur içinde yats?n.

Ted was my sales rep both with David Yurman and John Hardy. It was always a joy when he visited our store. My favorite memory is walking through the airport New York and randomly running in to Ted. The laughs and smiles of seeing each other in an almost impossible place summarizes the way I will always remember him

The world has lost a true gem!?. Ted had a wonderful juxtaposition of being kind and gentle yet firm and strong when necessary. And he knew exactly when he should be kind or firm. He was a pleasure to share time with. I’m glad our paths crossed. RIP Ted. ?

I’ve hesitated writing this message for day because I’m at such a loss for words. There isn’t a word in my vocabulary that expresses how we all feel at this moment. The debilitating sadness, the inability to focus and the tremendous grief we are all feeling. Ted was an exceptional friend to so many. A light that shined bright in a room full of darkness. His absence will be felt by many. I loved him as a colleague first, then as a friend, then as a brother. Knowing that he is no longer suffering is a comfort. Knowing he left this world loved brings peace. Knowing his memory will never be forgotten by all whose lives he touched, brings serenity.

One of my favorite memories of Ted lives in the rhythm of my family’s Thanksgivings growing up. Every year, our family would gather, and my uncles Hardy and Adam would drive from New York City to New Jersey to spend the holiday with us. These gatherings reflect something the Johnsons have always prioritized: family. With them come rooms full of laughter, an insane number of cousins, the comfort of being surrounded by people who love you unconditionally, and the knowledge that they will be with you for eternity. And somehow, Ted stepped into all of this so effortlessly. He embraced our Johnson family culture—specific, beautiful, and full—with an ease that felt like he had always belonged. He carried with him a constant warmth, and a smile that made space for everyone. As kids, my siblings and I didn’t experience Ted as just an uncle. He felt like a friend—one who never stood on the outside looking in. The moment he would arrive at our house, he would find us and fold himself into whatever child-like world we had built. If that world required a pink crown and tea party gossip, he wore it without hesitation. If it meant carefully listening to every detail of our latest art projects, he gave us his full attention. He had a rare gift: he met us exactly where we were, moving seamlessly between adulthood and childhood, never diminishing either. But one Thanksgiving, when I was ten, the world felt smaller. My hamster, Goldie, had just died of cancer, and I was carrying a kind of grief that felt too big for my 10-year-old heart. When people asked what was wrong, I answered through tears, and they responded kindly—but briefly—before the day moved on. But when Ted arrived, he immediately noticed something was wrong. He sat beside me and listened—really listened—as I told him what had happened. When I explained that I had buried Goldie in the forest behind our house, complete with a gravestone and flowers, he didn’t hesitate. He found Uncle Adam and suggested we go visit her. We stepped away from the warmth and noise of the house and into the quiet of the trees, and the three of us stood there together around Goldie’s grave. Ted suggested we each share a favorite memory of her (his was how Goldie had unceremoniously bitten his finger the first time he met her—he had laughed and said it meant they were going to be good friends). My uncles both listened attentively as I shared my memory, holding space for me in a way I hadn’t felt all day. When I finished, the weight of my sadness came rushing back, and my Uncle Adam and Ted pulled me into a hug and simply held me while I cried. I remember looking up and seeing that Ted had tears in his eyes too. We all walked back to the house hand in hand, and somehow I felt lighter—not because my sadness was gone, but because it had been seen, held, shared, and understood. I was able to rejoin the celebration with a smile, with Ted right by my side. When I think of Ted, I think of someone who saw people fully—not just as they appeared, but as they felt. I knew that when Ted looked at me, he saw not just a child but a person worthy of his time, his attention, and his love. I remember his warm, all-encompassing hugs, his laugh that could bring anyone to a smile, his rare ability to open his heart to any beloved animal, and his genuine desire to connect. I remember the man who took the time to kneel down to the level of a child, and visit the grave of a small hamster—not because she necessarily meant something to him, but because she meant something to someone he loved. People like that are rare, and I feel incredibly lucky to have had him in my life. Ted, I love you. I miss you deeply, but I am so grateful for the celestial knowledge that you are at peace, reunited with your Heavenly Father and with those you love. Thank you for being exactly who you were.

Teddy was my neighbor and great high school friend. We had many laughs and did many crazy things in high school. After high school we lost touch till he finally came to our 45th class reunion. It was so good to see him again. He was such a great guy rest in peace, my friend.