My brother Avery, the Artist

By Ash Walker

Note from Ash: Our spring concert Son to Mother was conceived for and is dedicated to my little brother, Avery Walker. He took his own life in 2006 after suffering from depression, and his memory has remained strong in me even to this day. Whenever I conduct a performance, I always keep a picture of Avery in my pocket so he stays close to my heart. The posting below is a glimpse at our lives growing up and the impact his loss had on my life and my music.

Untitled (2003) by Avery Walker

“What are you working on?”

“A painting…,” he said, irritated that I was disrupting his private time.

“Oh ok, it looks really cool,” I said. 

He didn’t respond.

That was the bulk of my relationship with Avery, my younger “Irish twin” brother, growing up. Sure, we looked alike, both born in April 362 days apart, both appreciated the arts, but that was about it. We had completely different friend groups, expectations, styles – and very different personalities. I was always trying to be liked by everyone by doing more than was needed. Avery was focused on trying to like himself, but he had a wealth of friends and connections because of that confidence.

Many people in high school would often comment how they didn’t know we were brothers. Avery was a grade below me, but we acted like two ships passing in the night at Cheltenham High School in Pennsylvania. And home wasn’t much different either. Between our busy schedules – with me making music and traveling with choirs, and him working, painting and designing some of the most amazing clothes ever – we rarely saw or spoke to each other. We didn’t really fight, we just didn’t talk to each other often. I was super sensitive and thought maybe he just didn’t like me and this was how it had to be…

That is, until I went to college at Millersville University in PA. I kept myself busy conducting and working with the marching band. It was through those opportunities, and a special connection with my conductor and mentor Dr. Buddy James, that I learned it was ok to feel confident in myself and to celebrate myself. It was also during this time I came out as gay  – another level of confidence achieved, as I didn’t feel the need to hide my identity anymore. Avery noticed this when I (rarely) came home to visit. We started to actually talk to one another, and he really seemed interested in what college independence was like. He also came out to me, and we both shared a laugh knowing we weren’t so different from each other after all. All my siblings (9 of us total!) grew up in a loving home with strict rules and expectations, so the chance to live on our own was always a big goal. Avery even came to visit me at college a couple times and saw me conduct my first musical Fame in 2006. I remember talking to him afterwards, and for the first time he expressed genuine care for the work I did. “Bro, that show was on point,” he said. He really connected to the story of Carmen Diaz struggling to make it in the business and become famous. 

It was just a few days later, on April 12, 2006, when I got the call from my younger brother Austin: “Ashley, Avery’s dead.” I remember being in complete disbelief, asking Austin to “stop playing around like that.” But he wasn’t joking. My Irish twin Avery had committed suicide in our home. My mother and younger brother Isaiah were the first to find him. 

I’ve never cried so hard in my life.

Immediately I came home to Philadelphia and stayed for the next two years. I ended up dropping out of college that semester and worked as a bartender while I struggled to cope with how to move forward after such a shocking loss. 

Therapy was always taboo in the black community growing up. If you told people you had a therapist they assumed you were crazy or something was wrong. So I avoided therapy for years, thinking I would eventually just process losing Avery on my own. It wasn’t until I went back to college and was in the middle of performing my senior recital that I finally broke, on stage in front of everyone. After that moment I knew I wouldn’t be able to be my full musical self again until I really dealt with Avery’s death and talked about this loss with someone. That was how I met Lynne, my therapist, who I still keep in contact with to this day.

Whenever I think of Avery, it’s sometimes hard to really remember every detail about what he looked like and all the things he did and said. But my clearest memory of Avery is walking into that room and seeing him paint the picture above. It was so beautiful and stunning; it lit up the entire room even though it was only half-finished at the time. Today that painting is on the wall at our family home in Philadelphia. It was one of the few things of his we kept after he passed because we saw light and love when we looked at it. We didn’t see the trouble he got in sometimes or the stressors that often arose; we saw his soul. We saw the love he had in his heart but didn’t always say with words. 

It’s been almost 17 years since Avery passed but thinking of him still makes me cry. When I look at pictures of us together as kids I get teary-eyed. But this painting is different. It makes me think of a peaceful beach and our family vacations to Ocean City, Maryland, and the joy for life we all had during those moments. Even though those short moments are memories now, it’s that feeling of “peace after the storm” that I feel when I am conducting parts of this repertoire. When I look at Avery’s painting, I smile and remember his humor, his talent, his passion for beauty and his creativity. In many ways, it’s this painting that keeps me striving musically and confidently today.