Bobby’s friend Berge-Andreas, who donated these photos, reached out to us and shared the following obituary with us. We are honored to receive Bobby’s photos and look forward to sharing his view on Chicago with you. Please stop by to take a look at Bobby’s beautiful photos the next time you are at Gerber/Hart.

From Berge-Andreas Jenvin-Steinsvåg, 5/30/2025

Robert Eugene Stordalen (21.01.42–07.02.25)

This Easter, together with his neighbor Julie, we scattered Bobby’s ashes at Hartigan Beach on the north side of Chicago. The ashes of his dogs, who passed away many years ago, were scattered with his.

In 2011, I became Bobby’s Power of Attorney and was given responsibility for the final chapter of his life. We’ve been going through boxes of photos he kept over the years. Gerber Hart Libraries and Archives will be taking over some of them. Warning: the text spans 82 years, and—like Bobby’s life—has never embraced restraint, so inevitably, there are many words.

Bobby and I met in the apartment building “The Belmont” in Lakeview, Chicago, in 1995. We both lived on the 4th floor in studio apartments with kitchens and bathrooms. The studios were spacious, but made up for it with zero view and very little daylight. Bobby worked the front desk, and I was a graduate student. Bobby was 22 years older than me, worldly, arrogant, and brimming with confidence! His sentences often started with: “What you don’t understand is…”, “What part of NO do you not understand?”, or the ever-knowing “Oh well!” He’d often begin his counterarguments with a condescending laugh, sharp eye contact, and a firm, energetic: “I’ve got news for you…”

He called me “Norway” and, throughout our 30-year friendship, insisted I was intolerably invasive and close-minded. And that blondes have more fun—it’s true! (I had greying dark blond hair.)

Since the late 60s, Bobby collected Asian antiques and kept some in his one-room apartment. The rest was crammed into two or three storage units, waiting for a life of ample happiness and square footage. He wore clothes more expensive than he could afford, drank Stolichnaya vodka with grapefruit juice, ate scampi on Fridays followed by visits to the business bar Gentry’s. After I once wore a hoodie to Gentry’s, he made me promise to wear a suit from then on. Saturdays were for Alfredo pasta, followed by drinks at Lucky Horseshoe (where men danced on the bar). He growled at waiters if he suspected the pasta had been rinsed before being mixed with the sauce. Sunday brunch on Broadway Street was consumed indoors with sunglasses, a Ralph Lauren shirt with an oversized American flag, a white down jacket, and Levi’s 501s.

“I have great taste,” he would explain kindly to those too dim to recognize it themselves.

Baskin Robbins Pralines and Cream was his favorite ice cream indulgence, and Turning Leaf was his go-to wine. The wine was affordable—the only time he compromised between quality and quantity. Bobby played ABBA for parties and A-ha when in rare melancholic moods. His taste in music was not rooted in any Scandinavian sentiment—he despised everything he associated with Norway. Bobby taught me what “high end,” “riff raff,” “very pedestrian,” and Louis Vuitton meant—and more importantly, what they implied! He liked staying at the Ritz in Paris for Christmas, flying to Rio for New Year’s—but Vietnam and Cambodia were his true favorites.

Bobby took pity on me! We hung out in Chicago—walks, breakfasts, and bars. When I left for Norway, Bobby packed up his Jeep and drove to Los Angeles. Odd and I visited him in LA, and he came to Norway for New Year’s. For my 40th birthday, he only made it to New York—he was denied boarding on his flight to Oslo, and we stood waiting in vain at Gardermoen Airport. The airline informed us he’d been uncooperative, grumpy, and confrontational at check-in!

Bobby remained outrageously funny, grumpy and difficult, judgmental and open-minded. Both entertaining and frustrating. But also genuinely kind, knowledgeable, and always impeccably dressed.

One of my wildest stories is when he, with little preparation, sent 50 Asian antiques to us in Oslo in two separate shipments. With the help of good friends, we unpacked 13 statues, two cabinets, four chairs, several vases, and paintings on a winter day in 2004 at a parking lot by Oslo harbor. Vicious friends have joked we could have furnished multiple Chinese restaurants! We still have a few Buddhas, a horse, and a couple of camels in the attic. One horse stands in the bedroom, a stone Buddha by the entrance, and some items are on loan.

I visited him a few times in Chicago. When my husband and I went with our three kids to the US in 2018, he didn’t show up at O’Hare as agreed. He was offended, and we didn’t get to see him. Sometimes months or years would pass without him wanting to talk to me.

Bobby moved from LA to Chicago, then back to Los Angeles, with a few trips to Turkey for variety, adventure and love, a short stint in Thailand, and then returned to Chicago at the start of the pandemic. Some of these stories just is best left untold, but I was called a few times from a heartbroken, married Turkish man that Bobby had a relationship with. 

Bobby gave him my number so I could somehow give insight to his mind! During the pandemic, doctors contacted me as his listed next of kin, seeking advice on how to better communicate with him. The hospital had already convened its ethics committee to find more effective communication methods. I could confirm that his behavior had been known for years!

The following years were marked by hospital stays, fresh starts, and new falls. At his worst, he’d occasionally reach out—but not always. He did not offer much information. Sometimes I could help, though often with limited insight or any influence on the situation.

Of course, Bobby had a past. He hated his mother and sister, and his nieces weren’t interested when informed of his death. His disgust toward Norway came from them. He would have appreciated me writing this—because it’s true. He couldn’t bear to talk much about his childhood. A man from Texas with a cowboy hat doesn’t do that. But his background included neglect and substance abuse, and, as his neighbor Julie put it, “they didn’t treat people who were different kindly.” Growing up gay in Texas leaves a mark. In Norway, people wound and hit in ways that leave invisible scars—pain that only the recipient can feel. Our so-called progress partly lies in how discreetly we harm. That doesn’t show up in government surveys on attitudes toward LGBTQ+ individuals. In Texas, the scars are easier to see—and visible scars at least serve as a warning. That’s why most of Bobby’s Asian antiques will be sold to benefit a center for “throwaway kids” in Chicago. A worthy cause—and a devastating expression.

I’ve occasionally met people and institutions where words and actions are far apart. They don’t feel human, but like policies in human form. Cold, and full of memorized knowledge. Bobby was the opposite. He preferred to present himself as far worse than he was—and succeeded, to the point that in his final weeks he was moved from a local hospital to a larger one better equipped to handle him. Behind the façade, Bobby was a thoughtful, kind, and warm human being—hurt and betrayed far too many times. He fought like hell for a better life, again and again.

In December, he reached out—he wanted to move to Norway. “But don’t read too much into this,” he wrote. That we lived in Oslo was merely a coincidence. Nor was it due to any vague Norwegian ancestry or Strawberry Hotels where the owner has the same surname. It was a part of him that never gave up. A part of him that didn’t automatically push away those who got too close. The photos we’ve sorted through show his closeness and interest in people in many places, parties, and Pride parades.

Bobby would have loved being remembered with love and brutal honesty, put in context. Perhaps surprised to finally be seen as someone who couldn’t be tamed, was self-aware, infuriatingly difficult, and outrageously funny. And of course—with impeccable great taste!

And yes—he would have pointed out that I forgot to mention he worked as a controller with a BA in Accounting, had a passion for bonsai trees, and owned several Afghan hounds. So now that’s included too!

We honor the blazing memory of Robert Eugene Stordalen with love .