Timothy Sean Murphy, 59, of West Hartford, Connecticut, passed away peacefully with family by his side on December 13, 2024, after a courageous battle with lung cancer.

Born in Boston on December 28, 1964, to Peter and Jeanne (Pierce) Murphy, Tim was predeceased by his parents and brother, Master Sergeant James S. Murphy, USAF, Ret. He is survived by his beloved wife, Jessica Walker Guite; son, Owen Connor Murphy; brother Brian T. Murphy (Debbi Olley Murphy); mother-in-law Florence M. Guite; brother-in-law Joshua A. Guite; sister-in-law Brenda Abbott Murphy; nephew Sean Murphy (Stacie Carter), nieces Coleen Murphy (Zac Murphy) and Erin Murphy; and extended family, including grand-nieces, grand-nephews; cherished friends; and his cats, Whiff and Flurry.

A talented artist and designer, Tim concentrated in Commercial Art at Southeastern Regional Vocational Technical High School, then earned a BFA in Painting from Massachusetts College of Art and Design and an MFA from The University of the Arts. An active member of local artistic communities, Tim derived great joy from his friendships with other artists, collaborative projects, and teaching. He exhibited widely across the U.S. and internationally, sharing his creative vision through solo and group shows at galleries, museums, and diverse brick and mortar and digital venues. Locations spanned Connecticut (e.g., New Britain Museum of American Art); Massachusetts (galleries in Alston & Boston, including The Museum of Fine Arts); New York (e.g., Penn Station); Pennsylvania (e.g., Philadelphia Sketch Club & National Constitution Center); Rhode Island (Providence Art Club); Tennessee (e.g., Nashville’s Zeitgeist Gallery & Fugitive Art Center); and Bogotá, Colombia (Planetario de Bogotá). A gifted teacher, Tim inspired students at the Hartford Art School, University of Hartford and through teaching roles at institutions in New Jersey (Burlington County College), Pennsylvania (Tyler School of Art and Architecture, Temple University), and Tennessee (O'More College of Architecture and Design & Cheekwood Museum of Art).

For the past 12 years, Tim worked for the LEGO Group, most recently as Senior Manager of Shopper Behavior, forging meaningful connections with colleagues and contributing to innovative user experience projects globally. Tim enjoyed spending time with his “work family” of exceptionally bright, supportive, and creative colleagues and connecting through travel in North America, Europe, and Asia. Prior to LEGO, he was Partner and Creative Director at Trapezoid Communications, LLC, in Philadelphia, PA and held various Senior Art Director and Graphic Design positions in PA, RI, TN and MA.

Tim loved art, quirkiness, travel, and spending time with his family. He took immense pride in his son Owen’s achievements and enjoyed participating in his various sports events, creative tinkering projects, High School graduation, and recent transition to college. Tim cherished opportunities to spend time with family and friends, especially at the beach. Moreover, Tim was his wife’s best friend and steadfast supporter, successfully juggling a two-career family that included multiple moves to pursue new opportunities. He was a devoted husband, father, and friend whose warmth and resilience touched everyone he met.

Relatives and friends are invited to a celebration of Tim’s life, beginning with visitation on Friday, January 3, 2025, from 4:00 pm to 6:00 pm followed by a service at 6:00 pm at the Duksa Family Funeral Homes at Newington Memorial, 20 Bonair Ave., Newington, CT. In lieu of flowers, the family requests donations to the American Cancer Society, the American Lung Association, or the Massachusetts College of Art and Design’s Student Scholarship Aid. To share a memory or condolence, please visit us at www.duksa.net.

Please continue on to read the memories shared by speakers at Tim's service.

Tim's Celebration of Life

Jess’ Memories of Tim for Celebration of Life

January 3, 2025

Thank you all for coming together tonight to celebrate Tim’s life. Tim was not only my husband and best friend but also a father, artist, teacher, and a truly remarkable man who wore “many hats,” both literally (some favorites are hanging on the tree in the back of the room) and figuratively, throughout his life. In full disclosure, Tim was also a great innovator and would have encouraged me to use ChatGPT to streamline my rambling memories tonight (so I did)!

• Tim and I met in Boston almost exactly 33 years ago at “First Night” of 1992. This is my first New Year without him by my side. The psychologist in me is finding comfort in the process of connecting with loved ones, gathering photographs, and being surrounded in the room by a sample of the many beautiful paintings he created over the years.

• Owen and I are deeply touched to see you all here tonight and grateful to have family and friends joining us from afar through the live stream, including many Murphy family members, my Mom, and so many other dear family and friends in distant places.

• I especially want to thank Brian, Debbi, Josh, and many friends for their support, for creating this photo stream of memories, and my dear friends Kristine, Lora, Jenn, and Dianne for their invaluable support in assembling this Memorial today and for the beautiful flowers.

• The wonderful slideshow was created with contributions from family, friends, and Tim’s LEGO “work family.” It highlights just a glimpse of the many places and people that brought him joy over the years.

• In addition, each painting and photograph holds a special memory, a testament to Tim’s creativity and his deep love for family, friends, and life.

• Your kindness and support, especially during the last year and a half of Tim’s illness, have meant the world to Owen and me. So many people—truly too many to name—have brought us joy and comfort through their friendship and care.

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Our Journey Together

• When Tim and I met in Boston, I was working as a research assistant at MGH, and Tim was an artist with an alluring, aloof charm. Though we didn’t start dating immediately, we found ourselves spending more time together and eventually just never stopped.

• I smile thinking of our time in Mission Hill, Cambridgeport, Jamaica Plain, and parties at the Distillery in South Boston.

• Tim gave me a mixed-media piece in 1994 titled “Love,” created when we lived in Jamaica Plain. It included a poem he wrote and foretold our incredible journey together.

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Chapters of Our Life

• From Boston, we moved to Nashville, Tennessee, where I pursued graduate school at Vanderbilt. Though the move was initially a bit of an adjustment for us Northeasterners, Tim thrived, forming connections with the artistic community and blending our lives with creative and psychologically oriented friends.

• When the time came, Tim was supportive around making the next move to Rhode Island for a clinical internship and fellowship at Brown. We married on July 28, 2001, at the Bay Voyage in Jamestown, sharing our special day with loved ones, some of whom are no longer with us -- including his Mom, Dad, older brother Jim, my Dad and older brother Jay -- but remain in our hearts.

• In Pennsylvania, we embraced new adventures, living near family and welcoming our greatest joy—our son, Owen, in 2006. Tim loved being a father, and we treasured time together at the zoo, museums, school events, and birthday parties.

o For example, Owen and I have been pouring through Tim’s amazing creativity from over the years, including the two binders on the back table of the “lunch notes” that he would generate daily to send to school in Owen’s lunch for multiple years.

• Finally, we settled in Connecticut in 2012, creating a home where family, work, and creativity flourished. Tim found a true “work family” at LEGO, where he thrived for over 12 years. He continued teaching and creating, always inspiring those around him with his patience, kindness, and talent.

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A Life of Love and Creativity

• Tim’s love for art, innovation, and learning was always present. He found joy in painting, drawing, teaching, and sharing his passions. Whether it was family vacations at the beach or quiet moments at home, Tim always made time for the people and activities he loved most.

• As we gather here tonight, I take comfort in knowing Tim is at peace. On behalf of our family, thank you for sharing this time to celebrate his incredible life and the wonderful memories he leaves behind.

• Tim, I love you, and Owen and I will never forget you. Have fun in heaven, getting into mischief with family and friends who left us too soon.

• While I could go on and on all the good memories and things I will miss about you -- including your better timekeeping skills! -- instead, I’ll now pass things over to your big brother, Brian.

Brian Murphy (Brother)

Well, here we are.

Such a banal, mundane thing to say and yet, that’s how I began one of my last conversations with Tim when he was still with us. And it was the first thing I wrote in my message to him on his birthday, just a short time after we lost him. In the last few days, I have encountered the same phrase repeatedly, in unrelated online opinion pieces, social media comments, and even in a novel I was reading. Over and over again it comes up, and I have to ask, why is “Here we are then” so prevalent, so important?

I think it’s an essential reminder to us all to be present and mindful, to remember not only where we are, but why. We all mourn the loss of my brother, Tim, and we will all continue to do so, but we are here tonight to celebrate him and to remember his life, with love, with joy, and with gratitude for the time we got to spend with him.

I was fortunate enough to know Tim for literally his entire life. As some of you know, my parents married young. I mean, crazy young. As in, “What were you thinking?” young! Though basically the age of the college kids I currently teach, they not only somehow made it work, but also managed to raise three kids with, I think, some success. Jim always seemed to me a bit more mature and sometimes remote; after all, he was fully 19 months older than I am. Tim, however, was closer in age: he was born exactly one year, one month, one week, and one day after I was. I’ve always felt that was significant, though I have literally no idea what it could possibly mean.

Three sons born within less than three full years, you’re thinking, means we were probably incredibly close. Either that, or constantly at each others’ throats. Well, yes, both, actually. Best friends and a united front since childhood, we did everything together, from movies and bowling and birthday parties to Bar Mitzvahs. And thank you, Jeff Harpel, for providing that amazing photo from the ‘70s for the video tribute; none of us look good in it! For those who don’t know him, my mother used to say that Jeff showed up on our doorstep on the day we first moved to Brockton and never left; she always referred to him as her fourth son.

On the other hand, siblings are often…challenging. I think perhaps it’s even more challenging with three boys, especially when they are as close in age and as Irish as the three of us. We don’t need to enumerate who punched holes in which wall or door, who put his fist through which window, or who chased after whom with a hatchet, but it was an… interesting childhood. Nor do we need to discuss, later, who was brought home by the police, who had the police come to my parents’ house looking for him, or who was permanently banned from the neighboring town of Stoughton, MA. We all played to our strengths, obviously.

It was really as we entered high school and later that any sibling rivalry we may have felt went by the wayside. Jim’s mechanical aptitude had been obvious for ages, and his interest in automobile and diesel mechanics would eventually lead him into a distinguished career in the USAF, including becoming one of—if not the—youngest Master Sergeants in USAF history; my incessant, alright, obsessive reading habits would eventually lead me to become a professor of English language and literature. And yes, I will be speaking to Jess later about her use of Chat GPT.

Tim, though: As so many have written after learning of Tim’s death, he was the best of us. Jim was “good with his hands,” I’m supposed to be “the smart one,” but Tim was a bloody artist. He created works in multiple media that we could only stare at in admiration, and there was never a topic or a conversation that Tim wasn’t either interested in or already ahead of me on. Clever, creative, compassionate; he was left brain and right brain both. And more importantly, he was just genuinely open and able to meet and love people on their own terms. I don’t think he ever did really understand why I followed the Grateful Dead, but then, I was never sure about his appreciation of the Dead Kennedys, either, so there’s that. Although Tim did genuinely like my long-haired freak friends and came to our college parties—and at least once or twice, when I was in grad school, I did schlep down from the Bronx to Brooklyn to hang with him and some of his MassArt friends.

More than anything else, the veritable outpouring of messages and comments I’ve seen in the last few weeks reminds me—reminds us all—of how much he was respected, admired, and truly loved by colleagues, friends, and family. His smiles, his sense of humor, his encouragement and support of colleagues and friends, and especially his love and pride for his beloved family, Jess and Owen, have been repeated topics of comment. The admiration, love, and respect he amassed over the years say so much about him, and I hope we all remember that which made him so important to each of us. As a traditional Irish toast has it,

Those we love don’t go away,

They walk beside us every day,

Unseen, unheard, but always near,

Still loved, still missed and very dear.

I’ll miss you forever, Tim.

Deb Olley (Sister-in-law)

We’re here to remember Tim and to celebrate him, which makes perfect sense. But I’d like to deviate a bit to focus on those around him: specifically, Jess and Owen. It’s common for us to talk about people like Tim “battling” cancer: struggling against it, *fighting* it, staying *strong.* I think what we’re really saying, though, is that if there was a weapon involved here, it was love. It *is* love, and I use the present tense here deliberately because that love remains. Tim fought so hard because he loved so deeply: his wife, his son, his and Jess’s families, his friends, his art: his life. Love is what powered this wonderful man and love is what sustains Jess and Owen.

When Tim and Jess married each other on that beautiful July day by the water, no one could see what the future held. But more than two decades later, the love between them exists in physical form, made manifest here in Owen. No one can look at him and *not* see both Tim and Jess. And love was along for the ride during all of those doctors’ visits, all those appointments Jess took Tim to, all the advocacy she provided, all the many ways she and Owen accompanied him along this path.

It was also love that kept Tim, Jess and Owen touring colleges, checking out the best place for Owen to land, traveling to track meets, and going to visit family on the West Coast, even through his illness. And it was love that had Jess sharing adorable, wonderful pictures from lighthouse tours, from kayaking trips, from UConn games, and from the Wadsworth Museum so Tim could be near the art that had always sustained him.

To witness a life like Tim’s—what he achieved, what he did, how he moved through the world—is to witness the strength and sheer dynamism of love. It’s not a weak emotion or a sentiment we use lightly. It is in fact a force like nothing else, so steely strong that it keeps Tim tethered to this beautiful, wild, physical world even after his body has left us.

It’s hard for the daughter two English teachers who’s also married to one to resist paraphrasing Shakespeare at a time like this, so I’ll just give in to the temptation: when we think about this love that Tim had, and that his family and friends will always have for him, we can truly say that it is an ever-fixèd mark/that looks on tempests and is never shaken.”

While we mourn this painful, deep, and profound loss, I hope we can take some comfort in knowing how deeply Tim loved, and how deeply he was loved in return. What art. What creativity. What kindness and compassion, as so many of those who knew him have mentioned.

And what love. We love you, Tim. And we thank you.

Lisa Chiarella

Head of Regional Commercial Development

LEGO Retail

I had the privilege of working with Tim at the LEGO Group for 12 years. We talk a lot about our brand values, like creativity, caring, learning and fun. Tim lived these values and demonstrated these values every day. And not just because he was great at his job - but because that’s who he was as well.

Tim was our team Professor. And yes that was because of his lifelong love of learning - and yes, that was about his brilliant teaching abilities - but it was also a bit of a Gilligan’s Island-like Professor in that he was always inventing, looking for new ways of doing things, finding new and better uses for the tools we had. And he loved a zany idea.

Tim was the person I would call when I had an idea I wasn’t sure about. I would ask him, “does this sound crazy?” and he would say, “yes! but here is how we could do it.”

For our younger team members, Tim was a safe space. He was always building others up, and he cared deeply about helping his colleagues to be successful. Over the years he inspired hundreds to dive deeper into shopper behavior and insights, and leaves a lasting legacy in the work he implemented. For our older or more senior colleagues, Tim was a trusted sparring partner with balanced and meaningful input, no matter what the topic - and a sharp, sharp sense of humor.

I am grateful to Tim for investing his time, his energy and his brilliance into our team. He had so many talents and could have chosen to work anywhere, but he invested in us, and we are all better for it. We will miss him.

John Casey (Friend)

Tim was always good-natured and very funny, with a healthy dosage of wise cracking. He was the most reliable friend you could count on and who always gave you the unvarnished truth in any situation. These traits made him a great roommate during our years at MassArt in Boston. We had many good times together with lots of laughs, but also some pivotal moments for me. Tim, Mike Mullaney, and Buddy Delory and I were all living in a three-decker on Calumet Street in Mission Hill. My dating life in the past was a bit rocky, and Tim and my roommates were quite familiar with my spotty history. Shortly after I told “the guys” I was dating Mary, who was a good mutual friend to our group, Tim, with backing from Mike and Buddy, sat me down in our kitchen and told me in no uncertain terms to “treat her well” and “don’t mess this up.” I, of course, was taking this new romance pretty seriously, but to have my good-hearted truly honest friend remind me that Mary was a special friend to us all, and for me to be on my best behavior with her. It really drove home how important this situation was and. Luckily, Tim gave me the best advice, and Mary and I have been happily married since then.

Mary Kalin-Casey (Friend)

No memory of Tim would be complete without mention of his art and sense of humor, which often rolled out together. Ever since we met Tim nearly 40 years ago at MassArt, he had a consistent painterly vision, melding surreal landscape with ethereal figuration in countless explorations of light and space. And then there were the cats. And the rabbits. Just before the pandemic began, Tim started an annual Instagram practice of posting a small ink drawing a day during the month of October. His first theme was, not surprisingly, cats — funny, curious, lazy, mischievous cats. But things really kicked off in 2020, when he spent “Inktober” illustrating visual puns based on Lego characters and filming his daily process. You could feel the infectious giddiness as each drawing evolved to reveal the eventual punchline. Tim’s enthusiasm and creative engagement were appreciated by many, both the contemplative themes and the silly jokes. I like to imagine his spirit as one of his painted floating figures, as a peaceful way of remembering Tim, but I always come back to the playfulness and puns, because they bring so much joy.

Jim O'Neill (Friend)

This is inescapably reductive. There’s a great deal more to Tim than what I’ve distilled down here. We understand this but I think it bears mentioning.

I met Tim for the first time in the fall of 1983, freshman year at Mass Art. Over the next few weeks we’d bond over those things that lied at the center of our Venn diagram. Art, music, Monty Python, Star Wars, beer.

I couldn’t admit it at the time, but Tim was already the person I wanted to be when (and if) I finally grew up. This was bamboo chutes under the fingernails, whether I wanted to admit it or not. I was the oldest of three, Tim was the youngest of three. Peer reviewed science had determined I would be the more mature, serious one, the one who had his shit together but that was clearly Tim. Out of the gate it was apparent he knew why he was there. He was going to make the best of the opportunity Mass Art had presented him with. He was also better looking and more talented than I was, so, screw you universe.

When we talked about our families, Tim always described his with genuine pride. No hyperbole required. Hard working, selfless, blue collar parents. Two brothers who were, (in the local vernacular) wicked smart. The first time I went to his home in Brockton, I’d see the Bud Man stickers on his bedroom door. I may not remember it all perfectly but I think they covered holes he and/or his brothers had punched in them. They might just as well have been hockey trophies. They were tokens of brotherhood in its most primal phase.

Over the years, we’d sometimes tempt fate, inviting the kind of familiarity that can only come by becoming roommates. If you’re unfamiliar with this practice, it’s a cost saving measure that sometimes exacts lasting damage on hitherto healthy friendships. There were bright spots however, some important life lessons. One that’s etched indelibly in my memory was finding out surprise attacks on our resident cockroach population, under cover of darkness, armed only with a lit candle and a can of Lysol, could be both an entertaining and effective means of pest control. The mornings after, on the tiniest of battlefields, lay small puddles of red wax, the charred remains of once thriving insects and the faintest hint of recently combusted accelerant.

On another occasion, punctuated by particularly potent weed, (We were warned not to take more than two hits, we of course took three) we’d find ourselves expressing, in depth, the subtle yet transcendent nuances of a painting that had somehow hung, with little fanfare and for several months on the apartment wall. The muted colors, the vaguest suggestion of geography, the texture of the paint itself, all coalesced in a way so profound to each of us that, with all applicable expressions of appreciation exhausted, was suddenly and unexpectedly, also the funniest thing any of us had ever seen.

When I sat down to write this out, I wasn’t at all sure what things to share with you all here today. There’s so much to draw from and not all of it was fun to remember. Being around someone as sharp and gutsy as Tim was, would, with time, finally register as being the great privilege it was. Jess wrote in the margin of this year’s Christmas letter, “Thank you for being such a great friend to Tim”. It was a kind thing to say but as I’d say to my wife Sue the day it arrived, it was not true. Absent any trace of lingering angst, it was, as John Lennon once mused, “Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.”

The last few decades have been a prolonged exercise in solipsism. Only Mark Zuckerberg intervened from time to time to document all things ubiquitous and extraordinary. Bottomless creativity, traveling the world, enjoying life with his family.

Now, with the cloud of more than two decades cleared away by the tragedy of Tim’s passing, I realize he was like that painting we’d coalesced around so many years ago. Subtle, textured and transcendent, this time highlighted by my own journey through the tiers of Maslow’s hierarchy. Although, if I wasn’t driving back to Rhode Island tonight a really strong joint would be nice right about now.