What You Get Is No Tomorrow

In discussing yesterday the impact of hearing that two entertainment icons had passed away on the same day, Bambino noted that, growing up in the Soviet Union, he had of course heard of "Charlie's Angels" but didn't know the individual actresses names. Everyone in the USSR, though, he noted, had heard of Michael Jackson (and in that way someone truly special was lost yesterday). "It's a name you know regardless of when you were born," someone else suggested. "Like 'Andy Warhol.'"

While I'm not sure Warhol ever achieved the sort of household name recognition I know Jackson did, this conversation did prompt me to reflect a bit on what it is that drives artists like a moth toward that flame that, as Bowie phrased it, "burns your change to keep you insane." What is so attractive about fame?

Watching "Requiem for a Dream" again the other night, I was struck by the palpable transference of Ellen Burstyn's character, Sara Goldfarb. Her deluded notion that somehow appearing on TV would solve all her loneliness and restore purpose to her life was heartwrenching. And, of course, to some degree it wasn't entirely delusional. The chance that she would appear on television made her a bit of a celebrity among the other lonely widows in her building. They were excited for her and perhaps vicariously less lonely as well. So there is something tangible, if absurdly fleeting, about fame. What you want is in the limo. Not that the limo is yours to keep, though.

But how does fame strike anyone as a good status to seek out on a permanent basis? Why was Picasso, for example, so relentlessly intent on being famous, even late in life? He had received as much validation of his talent as anyone could ever dream of. Is it merely that fame is addictive? Farrah Fawcett reportedly went through that arc that cautionary tales are built on: being thrust into the limelight, just to then want desperately to escape it all, just to then later realize once it's not shining on you, you miss it and want it back again.

What I wonder when I think of artists who, for example, had had the high life during a boom---selling millions of dollars of their work and being invited to all the right parties, just to become years later the has-been that the new rising stars can barely disguise their pity for when they see them trying to hold court at someone else's opening---is why wasn't "their turn" at it all enough? I mean, it's one thing if they're still cranking out relevant and important art--still an influential player--but we all know those figures who had had their moment and are stretching it out well past its expiration date. (Yes, I know, that's a cruel description, but without taking this discussion to "there," I won't get to what I want to express.)

There's an Eastern way of looking at one's existence that boils down, more or less, to the notion that normal life is one tragedy followed by another, so when you get that rare nice day in which the sun is shining and your family are healthy and with you, don't fail to appreciate it. It won't last, and rare moments like these are God's kindest gifts to you. I wonder why we in the West don't think the same way about fame. It's not the normal state of things that anyone should be the top star for more than a moment or two. And because it's not normal, trying to retain such status will cost you dearly. It will, again as Bowie put it, keep you insane.

The obvious answer for artists, IMO, is to ensure for you that it's about "the work" and not the recognition. Should recognition come along, like that rare sunny day, then by all means, enjoy it and be sure to appreciate it. But if the clouds return the following day (and they will), don't sulk about the loss of what was a fleeting reprise from your toil...get back to work.

Postscript: Props where they're due.