Esteemed New York Times media columnist David Carr collapsed in the newsroom on Thursday and was pronounced dead at the hospital. He was iconic in journalism circles and many were shocked at the news. The coverage was extensive for one of the best.
Over the weekend, the news broke that Carr had lung cancer. Faith Karimi and Charles Riley had this story for CNN:
The New York Times’ media columnist David Carr died from complications from lung cancer and heart disease, an autopsy revealed.
“The manner of death is natural,” Julie Bolcer, a spokeswoman for the medical examiner, said Saturday.
Carr, 58, died Thursday after he collapsed at The Times office in Manhattan.
Shortly before his death, he had moderated a discussion about the film “Citizenfour.”
Jennifer Senior’s tribute in New York Magazine pointed out that Carr was an unlikely fit for the Times, the paper he loved:
Just before going to the New York Times — which is to say, just before David Carr became David Carr — he worked at New York Magazine. He spent only a brief while with us, maybe a year, maybe less. But the idea that he’d wind up the consummate Timesman still surprised many of us at first, particularly those who adored and thought we understood him: He was a stylist, a wit, a freak who spoke in syncopated rhythms and gonzo oratory, a creature who’d led his life on the margins of journalism (at alt weeklies, start-ups, etc.) and seemed far better suited to tossing darts at big institutions than trying to blend into one. The man had shot cocaine into the veins of his hand, for heaven’s sake, and been friends with guys like Bongo and Tony the Hat. (For more details, read Night of the Gun; and David, may you see your soaring Amazon rankings in heaven — last I checked you were No. 26.) Yet somehow, as my colleague Gabe Sherman and others have noted, he became the face, and a funny one at that (neck posture of a turtle, nose and mouth as if they were experimentally rendered in left hand), of America’s hoariest newspaper, even of the media industry itself. What. The. Hell?
Ellen E. Jones called him the journalist’s journalist in her tribute for The Independent:
When the The New York Times’s media columnist died last week – too young at 58 – his passing was reported by news organisations all over the world. That’s because David Carr was a journalists’ journalist, a hero to an industry that doesn’t really go in for hero worship.
He first came to wider attention when he appeared in the 2011 documentary Page One: Inside The New York Times. The film captures many examples of Carr’s curmudgeonly wit and wisdom but there is one scene in particular for which he is remembered. It takes place in a meeting room at the newspaper’s offices, where Carr is interviewing the founders of youth media brand Vice. One of them, Shane Smith, is using his recent trip to Liberia to illustrate why Vice’s guerrilla approach to news-gathering is superior.
Carr interrupts him mid-flow, with that impressive rasp: “Just a sec, time out. Before you ever went there, we’ve had reporters there reporting on genocide after genocide. Just because you put on a f***ing safari helmet and looked at some poop doesn’t give you the right to insult what we do. So continue.” It was glorious. It was a standing ovation moment for everyone sick of watching journalism’s traditional values get trampled on by the Nathan Barleys of new media. Except it wasn’t.
It wasn’t, because while Carr had an irascible style, he was no stick-in-the-mud. He embraced social media and encouraged his journalist mentees (of whom there were many) to do likewise. His views on Vice also softened, as he wrote in a later column: “Being the crusty old-media scold felt good at the time, but recent events suggest that Vice is deadly serious about doing real news.”
But I think A.O. Scott’s tribute to his colleague in The New York Times was one of the most poignant:
David’s public contribution to the profession — his columns and feature stories, his interviews and investigations — is part of the record, and part of the glory of this newspaper. Until his death on Thursday, he covered every corner of the media business (including, sometimes, his own employer) with analytical acumen, ethical rigor and gumshoe tenacity.
He managed to see the complexities of digital-age journalism from every angle, and to write about it with unparalleled clarity and wit. His prose was a marvel of wry Midwestern plainness, sprinkled with phrases his colleagues will only ever think of as Carrisms. Something essential was “baked in.” Someone was always competing to be the tallest leprechaun.
That was how David would say he felt when he was singled out for praise. Not that he was modest. He knew his gifts, and was competitive in the way that many of us are — eager for the scoop, the juicy assignment, the front page or the front of the section. But no one was more generous in praise of his colleagues, or happier in their success.
And though he could be critical of people in the profession (and in the building) whom he suspected of laziness or logrolling, he could shine a dazzling light on anyone he thought was doing the job well.
He could do this in his Media Equation column, celebrating the bravery of war correspondents and muckrakers, and he could do it in the Times elevator or on the patch of West 40th Street where he took his cigarette breaks. If he told you you’d written a heck of a story, you knew he meant it.
And thousands more words were written about his life, his career and his contributions to the industry. Carr was a giant in the industry and one of a kind. He will be missed.
