Remembering Peter Northe Wells
I’m sitting at my laptop trying desperately to commit my memory of Peter Wells to the written word. My fingers recoil. A sinking feeling bubbles in the pit of my stomach. Peter’s gone. He’s also literally, literary royalty and I’m feeling rather inadequate for the task. I start typing sentences and delete them. I google ‘Peter Wells’ and I see an enticing array of links to discover more about his life… and death. Dig deeper. There’s a weight here. A quiet voice halts my thoughts, “stop complaining and just get on with it!” I feel that’s something Peter would actually say to me right now.
Peter Wells. He’s a gent. Dapper. Polite with a hint of mischief in his eyes. We became acquainted after an interview I conducted with him in 2002. It was for an essay I was writing about representation of homosexuality in New Zealand film. During that interview, I was schooled. Not just in the history of gay film but the history of queer New Zealand. I hadn’t the foggiest about the impact of HIV/AIDS on the gay community in the 80’s and 90’s or the homosexual law reform. The activism, the protests and the unity felt with battles won. My shameful ignorance only spurred Peter on. I had come seeking knowledge and Peter bestowed it upon me. I must have looked like a doe-eyed deer as our conversation navigated around monumental events and Peter’s experience in them. I absorbed as much as my 20-something-year-old brain could fathom.
Armed with a robust inventory of ‘must-see queer films’ - Peter left me inspired. My worldview shifted. I gaped openly at the gauntlet of hate and shame he and so many others had run to enable a place where I could legally walk down the street and hold my partner's hand. I was awestruck at the battles fought for my future freedom.
Not long after the interview, Peter asked me to help him edit a film he was making. He had some handy cam footage of the late Jonathan Dennis as he was dying of cancer. I was naive about the opportunity I had been granted, but Peter never made me feel out of my depth. We sat in a dingy room, filtering through the images. Knowing Peter better now, I know he would have hated the fluorescent lights and the metallic Venetian blinds severing the light from the outside world, but we made do.
The rushes consisted of detail around Jonathan’s home, little treasures on the mantlepiece, pictures and memorabilia. A cushion reading “Friendship is the Harbour of Joy” which became the title of the film. The minutiae of Jonathan’s everyday life collected to illustrate his story. The most touching scenes however, were the moments where Jonathan was in the company of a then 96-year-old Witarina Harris. We quickly realised these two kindred souls were the heart of the film. Peter guided the cut with careful consideration but clear direction. It was a bittersweet, poetic portrait of the end of Jonathan’s life and the friendship he shared with the 1920’s Māori film star.
The finished piece wasn’t accepted into the film festival. I was disappointed, of course, but Peter didn’t like people telling him no. He petitioned to get the film in the programme. I vividly recall the incredulity he expressed, Jonathan was the founding director of the New Zealand film archive - this film needed to be in the festival. Peter made it so. I admired his tenacity, his deeply personal relationship with his artistic creations and his quiet, inner strength.
Peter championed my induction into the warm embrace of an entourage of well-established queer creatives. My masterclass had begun, not just in the arts but in life. I was invited to dinner. Peter was as mindful in the kitchen as he was in the edit suite. Everything was served with exquisite style. There was an audible intake of breath as the lid was lifted on a tender, slow-roasted pot of lamb. Curling tendrils of steam caressed the faces of the appreciative guests as Peter brushed away the compliments. He was bashful and endearing. He steered the conversation to other topics but I could see he delighted in making people happy with his culinary skills.
Peter’s career is well documented. There’s books' worth of achievements, hell, there’s a whole library! More recently, the excerpts from Hello Darkness dominated my social media feed. Peter floored us all with his honest documentation of his experience living… and dying.
I had been working overseas when he posted about his illness but I felt compelled to write to him. I wanted him to know I was listening. I wanted Peter to feel better. I had no idea what to say. “I have been following your updates and while I don’t always know the best way to respond, please know that I am sending you love and light.”
Peter replied, “I’m ok just trying to make sense of a murky situation and it’s lovely to feel your presence. I hope I’m not too daunting on FB but... well, that’s how it is.”
The light that I sent him didn’t penetrate the black. I wish I had been able to say more. I wish Peter wasn’t gone. Cancer is a f***ing bitch bastard. The residual gloom is unfathomable for his nearest and dearest. Peter didn’t have biological children but he gave birth to a multitude of offspring. His films, books, blogs, online memoirs, fierce friends and a number of younger adoptees he’d taken under his wing who all loved and respected him, myself included. As cliché as it might sound, his presence is enduring in his work. Although Peter submitted to the darkness, his light will continue to shine on us because well, that’s how it is!
