I don't think it was a coincidence that Clif entered journalism through a viewfinder. His eye, his unerring sense of what made for a potent image, was the foundation of his skill, the root of his talent.
Over the years Clif played many roles at the Phoenix. He kept copy flowing, drafted and executed budgets, helped the Phoenix expand into Portland and online, and spotted and nurtured talent.
But the most important job Clif had could not be described. It didn't fit neatly on an organizational chart. It defied codification in a job description. It is, perhaps, only realized now that he is dead.
Clif's essential contribution, his vital role, was this: to be himself.
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In his "Off the press!" manifesto cum memoir, he wrote of an "unbreakable equation, Media = truth," and how that formulation seemed self evident and defining for his generation.
Here, I suspect, Clif is blurring the edges. Here Clif is really writing more about himself than his generation. I don't think I've ever met anyone for whom the truth was more important than Clif. And since Clif was an extremely smart guy, he realized that truth — the truth — often could be mighty complicated.
In a perfect photo, a good photo, even just a solid photo, it might be possible to capture the truth without the threat of compromise, the possibility of ambiguity or imprecision. As a writer, Clif was a master of the plain style; as pellucid as Orwell as cutting as Twain. Clif found his art in his craft.
I knew Clif for almost 30 years, and we worked together for more than 20. I'm sure during that time we must have had some sort of theoretical or philosophical discussion about journalism. But I can't really recall one. For Clif, journalism was not about talking, it was about doing: photographing, designing and laying out a page, writing, and editing.
Clif was a superb editor. He never touched a piece of copy without improving it. Rarely heavy-handed, he would prefer writers to fix their own work if it needed major repair.
I cannot recall a writer ever speaking of an error introduced into a story. It was not that Clif was especially sensitive or feared confrontation. Rather he showed — or feigned to show (Clif was not without guile) — total respect for the writer.
A master of the art of being garrulously quiet, Clif could be sociable even when not saying much. This helped him to be a good reporter, a good editor, and a good friend. It accounts, in part, for the tremendous influence and impact he had on so many colleagues. Reading through the more than 10,000 words of tribute and remembrance that are part of the Phoenix's salute to Clif is rather like contemplating Spanish architect Antoni Gaudi's unfinished masterpiece, Sagrada Familia: up close it is a riot of energy, but the farther back you step the more clearly you see that it is a cathedral.
