About 11 years ago, I was watching the televised funeral of a famous singer.
During one tribute, a speaker said, “She did it all for you”.
Those words struck me.
I know I was supposed to feel gratitude, in the midst of the sadness I already felt over the loss of a gifted stranger I admired, but all I felt was pity.
I’d only heard, and applauded the consistently chart-topping songs. From a distance, I had only seen what seemed to be a glamorous, privileged, fun-filled life. What I didn’t see, was the drama, self-destruction, and dysfunction going on in that life. The beautiful music never revealed traces of any of that.
Was all of the effort really for me, and millions of others? Do creatives really think they must sacrifice, lose, or exhaust themselves for their patrons?
Who is the ripping and running, hustle and grind, ladder climbing, competing and award chasing REALLY for?
What’s a part of the territory, on the road to fame, that probably shouldn’t be? What’s happening, that runs counter to, hinders, or stops altogether, the ability to simply create, and enjoy the creation of memorable art?
As a fan of ANYONE, what DO I require of them? Do I want anything other than a good, finished product? Isn’t that all I’m ever really owed?
Fans are not friends. Fans don’t know the objects of their admiration, no matter how much news, gossip, stats, or trivia they consume. They just like what creatives do—until they don’t. Separating the artist from the art can be tricky, sometimes.
As a fan, what DO I expect?
What DO I demand for my money, time, attention, and unpaid endorsement?
Consistency?
Excellence?
Integrity?
Competence? Perhaps.
Certainly not “ALL”. I don’t want “all”.
That’s reserved for their God, if they believe in one, and the people they know and love— who truly know and love them, when the curtains close, and the crowds go home.
If “all” means, or leads to the mental, spiritual, emotional, financial, professional, creative, or physical demise of the person I admire, I’ll pass. I don’t need “all”.
It’s the art, and the fearless determination to make, and share it, that endears me. I’m not, nor am I ever looking for a pound of flesh. I’m not owed play-by-play, intimate details, or unlimited access.
What IS the cost of fame, and how badly does IT demand “all”?
From happy, humble beginnings to tragic endings, what happens to the simple joy of engaging in art-making? Where does it go? When does it become a dismal chore, fraught with unscrupulous people, and discouraging scenarios? When does it stop being a delight? What is it that attracts all of the people and things that don’t care, at all, about the wants, wishes, health, and wellbeing of the art-maker? Must the show go on?
I had so many questions. I sat down and wrote a poem after the service ended.
Years later, I decided to sing it. The song is full of questions— and appreciation for the body of work that was left behind. I’d much rather, however, that the artist still be here, too.
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