i don't really believe in the myth of the tortured artist. just some thoughts i had in response to the news today.
He walks out of the theater. On a city street, illuminated by the moon and lamplight overhead. He keeps his hands in his pockets; a light noncommittal shuffle-walk. He is thinking about genius and necessary torment. So many have died. They keep dying each day. This used to fill him with some need to mourn, to brood in sadness. Eventually it just seemed commonplace, this death thing. So many go, who touch us so deeply. Why do they touch us? Because they articulated their troubles in a particularly appealing way? The fact that they felt those things at all, and found the will or at least possessed the ability to simply and effectively distill them into sounds and words we could understand and reconcile to our own? We tend to envy these people, he thought. After they have gone, we ask, troubled, did they not know how loved they were? Did they simply not realize their brilliance, their gift? Surely if we possessed such depth and skill at brevity and expression we’d count ourselves infinitely lucky. The ordinary man analyzes, reading great works and feebly envying the creators. He can step back and relax, occasionally enjoying drinks or wasting an afternoon. But, he thinks as he ambles along, rarely is it the case that those who so captivate us with their beautiful torment and honesty actually enjoy their gift. By implication, if they did derive pleasure from it, if their egos were filled with their own brilliance, they would not be what they were. It is fascination and love from our end, the commonfolk, who simply love and work to do what we can, create what we can, and so on. We come close to greatness, sometimes; but it is rarely demanding of us, threatening our existence. Again: we can step back from this.
The man turns a corner. Skyscrapers loom, meditating about insects and cloud patterns. He thinks. So why, then, do we envy what must be, for the one living it, an obviously unbearable existence? Would we choose the life of the person over his works? To be inside their heads would be a frightful and horrible experience, as fascinated as we on the outside are. Nothing we would wish on a loved one, and at the same time, we love those who suffer for sharing with us.
And now death returns again, all smiles and positive messages, to say that life has value. How do you quantify what is “appropriate mourning?” Judging by how much the works of the deceased touched us? As the man walks he feels guilty at the thought of giving any less than the entire evening to feeling downcast and sorrowful. It doesn’t come naturally, but just feels like something he should do out of respect.
Shit, he thinks, I wouldn’t have wanted to be inside his head for anything. Sorry that he’s gone but it’s not like we didn’t see it coming. There’s no surprise, only the end of all doubt, knowledge that the body has been found, when it ceased breathing days ago perhaps. What is this for? There is no sense to it. Just bad luck. Tribute and memoriam are spurious in nature. Vainglory. Remembrance is enough.
“You are mortal: it is the mortal way. You attend the funeral, you bid the dead farewell. You grieve. Then you continue with your life.
And at times the fact of her absence will hit you like a blow to the chest, and you will weep. But this will happen less and less as time goes on.
She is dead.
You are alive.
So live.”
-Neil Gaiman, Sandman: Brief Lives
Spalding Gray
1941-2004
Rest in Peace.
He walks out of the theater. On a city street, illuminated by the moon and lamplight overhead. He keeps his hands in his pockets; a light noncommittal shuffle-walk. He is thinking about genius and necessary torment. So many have died. They keep dying each day. This used to fill him with some need to mourn, to brood in sadness. Eventually it just seemed commonplace, this death thing. So many go, who touch us so deeply. Why do they touch us? Because they articulated their troubles in a particularly appealing way? The fact that they felt those things at all, and found the will or at least possessed the ability to simply and effectively distill them into sounds and words we could understand and reconcile to our own? We tend to envy these people, he thought. After they have gone, we ask, troubled, did they not know how loved they were? Did they simply not realize their brilliance, their gift? Surely if we possessed such depth and skill at brevity and expression we’d count ourselves infinitely lucky. The ordinary man analyzes, reading great works and feebly envying the creators. He can step back and relax, occasionally enjoying drinks or wasting an afternoon. But, he thinks as he ambles along, rarely is it the case that those who so captivate us with their beautiful torment and honesty actually enjoy their gift. By implication, if they did derive pleasure from it, if their egos were filled with their own brilliance, they would not be what they were. It is fascination and love from our end, the commonfolk, who simply love and work to do what we can, create what we can, and so on. We come close to greatness, sometimes; but it is rarely demanding of us, threatening our existence. Again: we can step back from this.
The man turns a corner. Skyscrapers loom, meditating about insects and cloud patterns. He thinks. So why, then, do we envy what must be, for the one living it, an obviously unbearable existence? Would we choose the life of the person over his works? To be inside their heads would be a frightful and horrible experience, as fascinated as we on the outside are. Nothing we would wish on a loved one, and at the same time, we love those who suffer for sharing with us.
And now death returns again, all smiles and positive messages, to say that life has value. How do you quantify what is “appropriate mourning?” Judging by how much the works of the deceased touched us? As the man walks he feels guilty at the thought of giving any less than the entire evening to feeling downcast and sorrowful. It doesn’t come naturally, but just feels like something he should do out of respect.
Shit, he thinks, I wouldn’t have wanted to be inside his head for anything. Sorry that he’s gone but it’s not like we didn’t see it coming. There’s no surprise, only the end of all doubt, knowledge that the body has been found, when it ceased breathing days ago perhaps. What is this for? There is no sense to it. Just bad luck. Tribute and memoriam are spurious in nature. Vainglory. Remembrance is enough.
“You are mortal: it is the mortal way. You attend the funeral, you bid the dead farewell. You grieve. Then you continue with your life.
And at times the fact of her absence will hit you like a blow to the chest, and you will weep. But this will happen less and less as time goes on.
She is dead.
You are alive.
So live.”
-Neil Gaiman, Sandman: Brief Lives
Spalding Gray
1941-2004
Rest in Peace.
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Much joy to you on this spring day! We will have to share a pot of tea someday.
*hugs*