William Alexander Cunnington Furtwangler

It was the end of an Age.

On Sunday, July 26th, 2026, Charleston lost one of its most valued archivists of living history, William “Zan” Alexander Cunnington Furtwangler, or as those closest referred to him, Uncle Daddy.*

A sign of the times or a change in the guard (values), the Post and Courier declined to mention, even in passing, the passing of not one but two of their once-treasured ancillary staff: both Carol Furtwangler, who pre-ceased** her husband in September, and now Zan. (Please forgive me, we were raised here so we do go on; certain sentences pay for the truth of their crimes with exactitude. If it is any comfort, brevity is not always the sparkling promise of story, refreshed—see: the Internet, ad infinitum). Between the two, they wrote critical reviews of Charleston’s performing arts scene for over 50 years. As one admirer put it, they left their mark on the culture of Charleston.Their impressions became the chronicle of record, bemoaning disharmony or praising the rise of the living folktale. Their deft feints of language were mentioned in CD liner notes, biographies, and to gild the careers of hundreds of local and international artists. When on brief hiatus, letters to the editor asked whither the Furtwanglers had gone? Whither indeed.

Our father, who art wherever his being become, was an inveterate storyteller. Born in Charleston and raised Episcopalian (St. Michael’s), he attended Charleston High School, Sewanee, and The College of Charleston. He was a member of Kappa Alpha, and served one tour in Vietnam (to the VA downtown, thank you) and returned home for a varied career in public service. Though more a cultural beast than a political one, nevertheless he was respected by those who valued word and deed. In his stint as county administrator, he researched and started the recycling program in Charleston County. Later, as head of the public service district of James Island, he testified against illegal annexations on James Island, and advocated for proper support and salaries for the local fire departments (thank you JIPSD firefighters, for that time a babysitter left a lighter at our house, and one of us children found it; suffice it to say we lost a good mattress that day, but no one else was hurt—it was the 80s so we were fine).

Zan was an ambassador from a different time, when the Charleston of the 1940s was still defining itself (long before it asked the outside world to opine its worth). His tales of our family and downtown were rich with the wry-wringed ridiculous. Son of Billy and Selma Furtwangler, and godson of both Alfred Hutty (watercolorist) and Edmund Lee Robinson (theatre legend), he was steeped in art from birth. Summers were spent visiting the Murrays on Sullivan’s Island, learning local history alongside its makers. His erstwhile nannies were productions at the Footlight Players and the Dock Street Theatre. And lest we forget, as a toddler, he was bitten by a veteran of the Pacific Theater. Years later, when Sgt. Ruff (name changed to protect canine legacy) died, Zan saved two copies of the obituary.

We still have them.

In public, he was the shy partner of a social maven; at home he tinkered with speakers and sound systems and televisions (with ear-splitting success), spent thousands of hours listening to classical music, and read voraciously. He was not shy about sharing his awe of excellent performance and skill, delivering flattery with dry and frothy humor. He also really loved NCIS.

There was not a repast that escaped his critical eye, great meals praised as, “I’ve had worse,” and average meals characterized as, “Good...if you like revolting.” An acutely perceptive individual, these understated moments all collapsed under the weight of gustatory betrayal. Charleston may be thankful he was not a (published) food critic. He spoke with knowledge of wars and history, especially World War II, of which the Furtwangler children do not need to ever see another documentary, thank you. His knowledge of classical music was rivaled only by the Grove Dictionary of Music, though its opinions were open to debate.

For us, the aggrieved, nature has transitioned someone we love. For a daughter, she lost the person who gave advice most wise, who spun her around the music room to Swan Lake. For the three sons whose names he could not get right for decades, they lost the person who went camping with their scout troops, carried them on his shoulders, and fussed with a camera at every opportunity, documenting life. They lost the person who insisted on instantaneous blindness when electricity was shut off for candle-lit dinners (“Carol, can’t see the table!”). They lost the man who, though self-taught from cookbooks (after his parents went on too many diets in his teens), proved to be a phenomenal cook. (But God help you if you moved the butter.)

Loss came with age, as too many of their friends shuffled off this mortal coil.

And so it was, in his later years, he resided in Mt. Pleasant with his wife, then for a brief time in North Charleston. It was at this juncture he began, much to his curmudgeonly and recalcitrant chagrin, charming strangers and caregivers alike. Despite his best efforts, he was endearing.

Then after being held hostage to health (borderline dessertless), declining quickly, he sent word, and we were summoned.

From the bucolic suburbs of James Island came daughter Elizabeth “Liz” Coker and her husband Robert Coker; their children Ryan Coker, Nicholas Krietemeyer (James Island); Ashton Coker, Jackson Coker and wife Madelynn Coker (Goose Creek); Hannah Krietemeyer (Summerville); from the shining West flew sons Stuart A. Furtwangler (Vallejo, CA) and William C. Furtwangler (Austin, TX); and from bustling Johns Island, son Robert Gerard Furtwangler. He also had a bunch of cousins, and they’ll read this (probably).

A flurry of calls and visits from wonderful friends (we assume both living and post-mortem), and in the end, he knew what we would all wish to know. He lived a life with love lighting every moment that mattered and those that did not. Care was held immortal in laughter; regret was left to luxuriate in the past. When asked to stay alive long enough for one of us to run an errand, Zan responded with, “I’ll still be here. Or my body will.”

We assured him there is no poison ivy on the other side (we heard), but lots of Philharmonics just waiting for a critic to cut their teeth on. Wonderful reunions await and we couldn’t be happier for him. Gathered in grief, releasing with love, we will miss him.

Interment will be Saturday, November 14, 2026 at 10:30 am, Magnolia Cemetery; there will be a service at 12:00 pm at the Unitarian Church in Charleston at 4 Archdale Street; the celebration of life will be in Gage Hall (next door) at 1:00 pm. This obituary is also listed on the Simplicity Lowcountry Cremation and Burial Services https://bit.ly/4qthhm3

The family will also be receiving messages at [email protected]

*not our uncle, but eyebrows raise like the bridge during rush hour, shoutout Wapoo Cut; and like Uncle Daddy, we could not resist the laugh; ** intentional use of this term; language was meant to evolve to our delight.