by Walter Robinson
I first met Tom Otterness
in downtown Manhattan more than 30 years ago. He was a Kansas boy with an edge, a kickboxer with a sweet disposition. He worked hard on his sculpture, staying home while the rest of us went out partying. And he could do things: I remember a girlfriend asking for help disassembling a sturdy loft bed. For the life of me, I couldn't get those bolts to budge. We called Tom, and he took care of it.