On the flight home from Belfast last week, I finished reading Exit Ghost
The rest of the novel — in which the narrator laments his lost erection as he fixates on a perfectly toned, slim, large-boobed, literary oil-heiress who has married a schlubby Jew — left me cold. At its worst, it degenerates into a bad standup routine: Zuckerman, isolated in the Berkshires for more than a decade, comes back to NYC and grouses about people using cell-phones. Fortunately, the character doesn’t have to fly anywhere, or else we could’ve been subjected to a rant about airplane food.
But I digress. Where the book did succeed for me was that one evocation of old age and loss, as characterized by Amy Bellette’s refusal to let the the love of her life go, though he’d been dead more than 40 years. And it got me thinking about how long I’ve been reading Philip Roth’s novels and how I’ll feel when he dies. Flying home, I thought, “I’m sure I’ll be sad, but I wonder if I’ll cry.”
I doubted that I would, and that got me thinking: Which living artist’s (writer, musician, actor, painter, cartoonist, etc.) death would move me to tears?
I’m having an awfully hard time thinking of one. There are contemporary artists whose work mean the world to me, but I’m not sure any of their deaths (provided they’re not killed senselessly or somehow incredibly fittingly) would make me cry.* I’m trying to puzzle out what this means, since some of the possibilities aren’t too palatable.
So I put the question to you, dear readers! In the comments section, tell me (okay, the world) “What artist’s death would bring you to tears, and why.”
(If you need to expand the field to include athletes, feel free.)
* I mean artists with whom I don’t have a personal relationship. I’m friends with a number of professional writers whose deaths would absolutely crush me. So no cheating and naming a writer who’s your dad or something.
Grief is funny, and Americans are notoriously vexed by it.
I can think of about three or four reasons why someone might grieve the death of an artist not personally known to them, more than one of which is probably at work in any given instance.
The first reason, of course, is in the case of an artist who dies young, leaving the rest of us to imagine and lament the works of genius left unrealized. I’d certainly mourn the interrupted careers of Wes Anderson, Philip Seymour Hoffman, Sarah Polley, Nick Park, David Fincher, Susanna Clarke, or Stephen Colbert.
A related reason is a death whose manner is movingly tragic or wasteful or simply horrific. It’s hard to speculate about these in advance, but I’m sure I’d cry if Winona Ryder hung herself or were Eric Idle to be devoured by a tiger.
Some artists OWE me, and were they to die now, their debt would remain outstanding. I would never forgive Terry Gilliam, Jodie Foster, Jeff Goldblum, or (yes) the Coen brothers if they failed to redeem certain missteps or omissions.
Media reactions can also overwhelm deaths that would be otherwise observed with composure. I fear the tributes to Bill Watterson will be more than I can handle.
The death of certain artists can portend the passing of an entire category or degree of excellence in art itself, and therefore provoke tears. When Peter O’Toole, Ian Holm, and Tom Stoppard leave us, I will be inconsolable.
And then there are artists whose work and lives have become so personally meaningful that their death reminds us of our own mortality. I don’t think I will be able to avoid weeping when Matthew Broderick or Christian Bale die.
Finally, let me say that not a day goes by that I don’t have a tear for Douglas Adams.
What an interesting question. For me, the answer was easy: Lori McKenna. Lori McKenna is a contemporary folk singer whose music has been the soundtrack of some of the most important events of my life. I was listening to her song “Never Die Young” on a solo roadtrip across the country when I decided to get a tattoo. I walked down the aisle at my wedding to her song “Fireflies.” And I was listening to her album “Pieces of Me” during the birth of my daughter. (And those are just a few examples.)
Her music and lyrics speak to me in a very personal way. On top of that, I love the story of her personal life. She is from a blue-collar town in MA. She married her high school sweetheart who is currently a plumber for the gas company. She has five kids and writes her music at the kitchen table once her family is asleep. She used to work part time in a factory to help pay the bills. And because she’s my age, she makes me feel better about finding my path so late in life. She’s a living example that just because you are a wife and mother, it doesn’t mean that you can’t still pursue your dreams and achieve great things.
Several years ago Faith Hill recorded some of Lori’s songs and Lori went on tour with Faith Hill and her husband, Tim McGraw. Even though Lori clearly has the money to buy a big house and fancy car, she still lives in her tiny one story house with a rusty swingset out back and drives a minivan. She is as unpretentious as she is brilliant and that endears her to me even more.
One pal of mine writes:
Bonus grieving opportunity: one of the joys of parenthood is that you can mourn your children’s losses before they themselves realize them. Tim Allen better hang on until my kid is in college.
Oh, and Jim Henson still hurts.
I get a little choked up each year at the Kennedy Center Honors television broadcast when I see the depth and breadth of a life of accomplishment with the performing arts – particularly when the honorees range from the likes of Ossie Davis & Ruby Dee to Mike Nichols to Steve Martin to Julie Andrews to Itzhak Perlman to Diana Ross, just as a tiny sample. Each career retrospective overwhelms me. But would/will I cry over any of their deaths? I might feel sadness and respect, but I can’t think currently of any artist I don’t know personally who would elicit actual tears.
Recently I read Marjorie Williams’ collection of essays, The Woman at the Washington Zoo, which compiled political profiles and life observations written for the Washington Post, Vanity Fair and other publications. The final section featured a series of essays written after she had been diagnosed with liver cancer at age 43. She managed to live another 3 years and wrote straightforwardly about her medical treatment, dealings with doctors, and her family as she came to terms with her early death. There might have been some sniffling as I finished up the book, but I’m not sure this applies to your question, as 1) she had been dead for some time when I cried, and 2) I sort of did know her. Her family lived next door to my grandparents in Princeton and to my own family when we took over the house, and we were friendly with them.
So, there may be the death of a stranger that will make me weep and flow like a fountain, but I’m hard-pressed to think who it may be.
I sent you a list, to which I would add Tim O’Brien. I sometimes get a little weepy about Raymond Carver. Fucker quits drinking after decades of the heard stuff and immediately gets untreatable lung cancer. Dumb Fate. And Spalding Gray made me sad, for a variety of reasons.
Elayne’s list is as follows:
Artists whose death, depending in part on the manner in which it came, would truly bum me out:
Rufus Wainwright
Martin Scorsese
Lucinda Williams
Amy Hempel
Nick Flynn
Richard Serra
If I didn’t cry when Muhammad Ali lit that Olympic torch, I don’t think I’ll ever cry over an artist.
Amy was a little agog when I said I was more likely to cry over an athlete’s death than any writer, musician, cartoonist…
“I guess I can understand you’d cry if Jeter died,” she said.
I replied, “Um, actually, ANYONE from the 1996 Yankees…”
One of my cartoonist buddies writes:
Both Gaddis and Hawkes are gone, and I am still wearing black for them, but my heart broke this last year when I read in manuscript form THE SHADOW FACTORY by Paul West, who is fortunately still with us writing. The book chronicles his 2004 stroke and recovery and his struggle to speak and write once more. Like my late grandfather used to say, “Love then while you still have them.”
I pondered this all day– very thought provoking. I often cry at the thought of artists who HAVE died, especially when confronted by their work. But it is hard for me to imagine someone passing until they have. I guess, in the end, I don’t want to go there, or maybe the passing of time intensifies the importance of the loss.
If David Lynch died, that would devastate me to no end. He’s the reason I chose to be a filmmaker and why I moved to New York.
Same with David Bowie. If he died, the waterworks would switch on.
Actually, you were one of the inspirations for this post, Mike. I forgot to mention it above, but I recall you telling me and Amy that you cried like a bitch when Robert Altman died.
So I guess I should’ve expanded this question to “which artists’ deaths caused you to cry in recent years, and why,” but hey.
Another pal writes:
Same pal writes:
I can sympathize; I cried at the end of The Iron Giant.
I’ve certainly been saddened – most notably over the passing of Ella Fitzgerald – but genuine tears? Not yet.
When Tennesee Williams died I remember spending the weekend re-reading his short stories. He was one of my favorite writers and even though his best work was far behind him, I still felt a twing of loss for someone who had devoted his life to his craft.
Artitsts of today? Many come to mind but as you said, the circumstances of their death would have more to do with my reaction than their actual death.
That said, I’d be upset if Madonna left us before hitting 75.
One of my (near-)Ph.D. pals writes
This is an interesting question. Like the last person who posted, I wear my heart on my sleeve a lot of the time – I cry at movies, and even the occasional insipid commercial. That being said, I cannot think of one artist whose death would make me cry. I don’t cry when celebrities die – but the senseless death some random person who I identify with can bring tears to my eyes.
Stevie Wonder. How could you not cry if Stevie Wonder died?