a long week of r.i.p.’s
January 15, 2016
I’ve never dealt with death very well. I’ve managed to stay mostly insulated from it — I didn’t lose a grandparent until I was 28, for example. So when it hits. . .it hits.
Celebrity death — the death of people I don’t know, have never met, and yet whose work I care about — seems to distill and concentrate the issue for me. Maybe I shouldn’t grieve this much for people I don’t know. But their work. Their work is so tangible, and the thought that there won’t be any more, and that I will be reminded of this gutted feeling every time I encounter their work — even as I’m so deeply, massively grateful that their work exists — just flattens me.
David Bowie and Alan Rickman in the same week seems just. . .wrong. So, so wrong.
What’s more, and for the first time, I can see the time when all my favorite creative artists and makers are gone, and I don’t know any of the new young faces coming up, and I am past. Out of the world. And thank God for art. Just. . .art. We would all be walking dead people without art.
Art lasts. All these people last. Death isn’t real. Death is just a thing that happens but art stays.