It's been tempting to believe that Steve Dwoskin was indestructible. But if the spirit has anything to do with survival, then it is not surprising that he made a final score that surprised even his doctors.
I first met Steve in the 1970s, when I was on Time Out and he was a doyen of the underground film world. He was hugely attractive – wry, curious, witty and exuberant. The fact that he was on crutches he regarded as neither a bitter blow nor something to affect to ignore. He accepted and used his physical state creatively on film, making it a prism through which he approached so much he found keenly interesting in the world.
His energy made him constantly seek out alternative outlets when other avenues closed – lighter equipment when his hands gave way, writing, painting, designing. In recent years the humiliations to which social care subjected him – forcing him (a night-owl) to be put to bed around the time a three-year-old would be – outraged him; but he remained funny, crabby, opinionated, kind and unflinchingly honest.