It seems a common agreement, produce good art and you will die too young.
The best art only ever seems to be truly appreciated once the artist is dead anyhow, as if the death of the artist is the final touch that makes it more than just another creation, the cherry on top that turns a bowl of sweetness into a delicious sundae. As if the expressions themselves couldn’t be fully appreciated until their authenticity had been certified and backed up by the sacrifice of everything, every last breath.
If the greatest artists of the past didn’t die young, would their artistic creations be so valuable, so revered? If Mozart hadn’t lived and died in poverty, would he have just used up the raw inspiration of his suffering and his compositions become repetitious? If Van Gogh or Allan Poe didn’t go mad, would their work have been so incredibly profound? Would Elvis be so appreciated if he weren’t actually so lonely he could die (and did)? Would Hendrix, Morrison, Joplin, or “take your pick” be so loved if they were still alive today? Something tells me… probably not. They would likely be more washed-out artists from days gone by trying to sell art to support their retirements. Well until they died of course.
Then they’d top the headlines for days as the world mourned the loss of a treasure. They’d break new records for record sales and they’d top the charts from beyond the grave. Everyone would talk about how great he or she was and how tragic it was to lose him or her. They’d be indicted into the Rock-N-Roll Hall of Fame and turned into another legend that the world did not care enough to keep. Their art would have finally been certified and humanity could stand in remorse saying that they were just too great to stay in this world.
It’s not like they didn’t choose it. Apparently it is common knowledge that if one chooses to be an artist, they will likely starve, else they be cursed by fame, losing their minds or overdosing while trying to numb their loneliness. Choosing art seems to lack positive outcomes, aside from the beauty of what was given in sacrifice of course.
For me, this work is a final thread, one I have grasped so loosely as my hands grow weak from years of hunger and devotion. It feels a final invitation to the world to know me and to keep me, for if the world does not keep me, I cannot actually stay. I am way too far off track to live as most do. I cannot bury my head in the sand and pretend that life is worthwhile as I trade away the gifts of time and energy for a life that lacks in love or meaning. I’ve been blessed enough to get a taste of the miracle that life is, and I can never settle for any less. I would just as soon die making art. Sadly, I probably will.
The final thread that I followed had a couple of ways it might have turned out. I knew it all along. One would be that the world might hear my cry for help and come to my aid in a way that would make a difference for me. Certainly it would take no small effort to turn my situation around or even to keep me going much longer as I burned my candle as brightly as I could. Knowing that I was probably actually beyond help, I knew I’d better tell my story the best that I could, for it may very well be the last chance I had to be known in hindsight. Better be thorough, else the world would just have to make it all up.
So here is a source of honesty within Shadows Illuminated. It is my own elegy. It is how I chose to be remembered, exposing what felt so true for me as I saw the writing on the wall. Death’s persistent gaze growing ever closer and there seemed no way to avoid its ultimate arrival. Once I started making the album, I felt so much pressure finish it, else my story might be left incomplete. It is for this reason that the entire album was created in under two weeks. The entire time, it was as if I might be struck down at any moment. The night I finished the album, I half-expected that I would not wake the next day, simply because its creation have been my only remaining purpose in life.
And what of the note that I would leave for the world, for my loved ones, and for those who had neglected and abandoned me? Was I really sad? I might just be called sadder branches. Was I lonely? Was there any doubt? Did I have secrets? Who doesn’t? Would I leave a message of hope, of love, of joy? Not if I was brutally honest.
In all honesty the world abandoned me. It happened all my life. Others would often even blame me for my own abandonment patterns and accuse me of self-abandonment, which was never really true, just an excuse so that they did not have to be accountable for their selfishness. To me such statements most often seemed as rationalizations that would allow others to minimize their guilt as I withered away while they clung to their addiction to materialism.
Sure some blessed friends helped along the way, a small handful compared to the countless others who obviously could care less. For those few friends I was and am eternally grateful, for it was them that gave me the moments in life where the pain briefly subsided. I like to think that those people know who they are. They told me I was a gift, even a treasure. They provided all kinds of support, even fewer making truly valiant efforts to shift my destiny toward the better. Unfortunately, however it would take something more than a mere few could offer. It would take a commitment that did not waver or lose momentum as I healed and grew. To change the outcome, it would take a commitment that was not even present in the best of my friends, or even within myself.
So Shadows Illuminated was a sort-of last ditch effort to make a difference for me, to avert a likely catastrophic loss. It was a final opportunity for me to muster every last bit of effort to better my outcome, and a final opportunity for community to support my work such that my own life my be extended. I gave it all, clinging to a tattered thread of hope that community would step up and not give up on me.
Despite all of my doubts, I owed it to myself and to the world to provide one more such opportunity. If they accepted, there would be a fantastic gift for them as well, as those involved might finally understood the utter power of authentic community and how it can make the difference between life and death, the difference between success and failure. It might demonstrate our innate human interdependence in the positive, showing that even those who we consider beyond help and not actually helpless, just in need of the authentic support of others. Else it would be the same lesson in the negative, demonstrating that we cannot survive without each other.
As the first and only scheduled performance of Shadows Illuminated approaches, I observe a dead-end road. It is where the single thread has led me. My hopes of community bringing my message out to the world in such a way that it might change my situation now dwindle. The level of support needed has not come. By default it seems again that the world will not choose to keep me. No further shows have been scheduled and there is not enough interest to warrant scheduling them. My interest in continuing to market and remind people that I am still here struggling is all but gone.
This single performance will be offered at a probably total financial loss to a select small group of individuals (VIPs) who have loved and supported me the best they knew how. It is about the only thanks that I can offer, having already given away everything else in life that I ever felt I had. At least there will be a final chance to be known before the road of giving it all comes to its inevitable end.
And so there is the agreement. I could have sold my soul to live, or I could share my soul and die. As sad as my story might seem, at least I lived and expressed authentically as me, a gift most will never experience. I can rest in peace knowing I have embodied my true self and have fulfilled my purpose (or have died trying).
Scrapped
How could they know
What they can’t see
The relentless pains
Eating my body
Why can’t they look
Into this broken heart
And see I need more
Than to live as just art
Surely they can see
My clothes falling to shreds
How can I possibly
Get myself ahead
If only they knew
I could barely eat
While feeding on scraps
And not enough meat
Even if I do say
It makes them afraid
I’m afraid enough
With this I don’t need aid
And can they even tell
If it’s all a cry for help
Surely it must be
This hand I’ve been dealt
And when they ask
What will help me out
I feel I need too much
And it fills me with doubt
If they could only hear
The voices in my head
That tell me I’m unloved
And better off dead
If they held the weight
Pushing away the despair
It might seem too much
Weight to even share
So I’ll do it on my own
It’s the only way
‘Cuz scraps aren’t enough
To make me okay
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