Death, in and of itself, isn’t tragic – it’s inevitable, and one of the only things that truly everyone on earth has in common. We view it as a tragedy because of the ways it impacts our own lives. We typically don’t mourn the loss of people we don’t know, whether they live down the street or across the globe, because it doesn’t change the way we live on a day to day basis. But when we lose a loved one – even a pet – it devastates us because it forces us to change and confront our lack of control. The impact artists and public figures can have on people they don’t know, simply by way of their talent, can be profound. Because their work takes on a meaning that’s specific to your experience and makes you feel like you know them, even though they’ve never actually participated in your life, it makes sense that an artist dying could have an emotional impact on you. That said, over the past few years, some aspects of public reaction to celebrity deaths have caused me confusion and surprise.
The issue initially struck me upon the death of Michael Jackson back in 2009. This particular death had a lot of subplots because Jackson had become such a different character than the one he initially became famous for. The Michael Jackson we loved – the cultural icon who entertained us better than anyone else and transcended the boundaries of race, gender, sexuality, and genre for nearly all of his first 35 years (the Jackson 5 were signed to Motown Records when Michael was 10) – had already been all but dead for nearly 15 years before he overdosed on anesthesia medicine. That beloved figure was replaced by an equally confusing, disturbing, and reclusive one, defined by the strangeness of excessive plastic surgery, short, hard-to-believe marriages to Elvis Presley’s daughter and his “dermatology nurse,” living in an amusement park, and allegedly molesting children. The closest thing to an MJ comeback was the 2001 single You Rock My World which – ironically – didn’t. By that time, whatever hope anyone had that the “old Michael” would ever reemerge was gone.
I know it sounds callous, but when I heard that Michael Jackson died I felt relieved. His death allowed us to refocus on the great things he accomplished without having to worry about the other stuff – the damage that had been done to him, and that he’d likely perpetuated onto others. For years prior to his death, we were all faced with the conflict of knowing we’d already lost the man who made that great art, but still seeing this “white ghoulish creature” in the news every now and again, reminding us of his tragic fall. Upon his death, we were finally able to resolve that conflict. At last, we could walk down memory lane without tripping on a reminder of the ugly present. In a sense, death was the only redemption left for him.
The aspects of public reaction to MJ’s death that surprised me most were how truly sad people seemed (given his eroded creative relevance), how long the public mourning continued (given the time that had already passed since his discomforting transformation became the status quo), and the subsequent outrage at the revelation that his death had come at the hands of a negligent, irresponsible physician. To be clear, Conrad Murray was undoubtedly practicing outside the realm of legal and ethical medicine and deserves punishment for that … but Michael made himself an addict. Nevertheless, it felt like in order to fully forgive him we needed him to be the victim of someone else‘s villainy. That distinction should probably have fallen more on his abusive father Joe, but confronting Joe’s impact would have brought us back to Michael’s fall, which we were eager to forget.
The most recent celebrity death of international note was Whitney Houston. Like Michael Jackson’s death, there was more to the public mourning of Whitney than just the loss of a transcendent, beloved artist because she had also publicly fallen from grace. However, unlike Michael’s, her death was not surprising because of her widely known drug use – and it didn’t feel like a relief. You’d think there would be some element of that, given how tortured a person must be to require constant medication in spite of their seemingly ideal circumstances (fame, fortune, talent, beauty, etc.) But with Whitney and others (i.e. Aaliyah, Kurt Cobain) the tragedy of their death was that their potential – and our ability to enjoy that potential – went unfulfilled. Though Whitney was further along in her career than the other two, she was still young enough for us to imagine her exorcising her demons and making a triumphant comeback that could be sustained into old age (see Aretha Franklin). The fact that it will never happen compounds sadness with disappointment.
To me, the strangest commonality of Michael Jackson and Whitney Houston’s deaths – which probably says more about our current relationship with the idea of celebrity than anything else – is the fact that their memorial services were televised productions. In today’s culture, the expectation of celebrities is that every aspect of their life is subject to broadcast for our entertainment – this is never clearer than when one dies. In both Michael and Whitney’s cases there was an unsavory, fairly transparent implication that their death was an unmatchable financial and PR win for everyone else who held a stake in their success. This not only highlights the greed and shamelessness of show business, but serves as a reminder of the divide that “celebrity” causes between entertainers’ BRANDS and their identity as human beings. To watch a brand flourish (MJ was the top-selling recording artist of 2009) at the literal expense of the human life that birthed it – is bizarre and disturbing. Moreover, assuming these human beings did have anyone in their life left who truly loved them separate from their public accomplishments, I’d imagine those people would feel their opportunity to appropriately mourn and appreciate them had been soiled.
I think this is the aspect of reaction to celebrity deaths that gives me the most trouble – I feel uncomfortable with the public display of sadness at the loss of someone you didn’t know. The reason it feels weird to me is that in most cases your relationship with an artist or public figure after their death is no different than when they were alive. The piece of them that you loved – their art, music, words, or impactful actions – will live on forever, and in most cases in a way that you can continue to enjoy and relate to just as you always have. While it makes sense to feel attachment to them, to react to a stranger’s passing as if you knew them trivializes the mourning of the people who actually did know them, the mourning of people you actually knew, and the mourning of people who died in more honorable pursuits.
When I die, I hope the people I’ve known and loved remember me fondly. I hope they’ll gather together in consolation of each other and in remembrance of my virtues. I hope they’re willing to overlook my flaws, if only for a while. Though it sometimes makes me uncomfortable, I also understand that a celebrity’s death is often the only opportunity people take to truly pay tribute to them – to celebrate their body of work, their impact on others, and to forgive them of their inevitable missteps in work or in life. I know that ultimately that’s a positive thing, but it might feel even more positive if we all made it a point to show appreciation of each other’s gifts and accomplishments – and tried harder to forgive each other of our faults and struggles – while we’re still here.
Strongly Weekly 