Suicide has been the weapon of choice by creative people in facing the grim reaper. Whether they’d be painters, writers, or musicians it seems to give a certain grand exit for them, or at least that’s what they think. Vincent Van Gogh did it, Kurt Cobain did it, I don’t know any writers who did it, and the reason behind it is as weird as the artists themselves, and being one myself let me tell you what I think.
We are misunderstood people, shunned by the difference of thinking from the ordinary crowd, we live in a lonely planet. It’s not that we’re anti-social it’s just most don’t understand the processing of our creative minds. The society we all live in is logically guided, which is good, but for us artists it’s a struggle to make others fill in our shoes. We seem to be always far from the normal grasp of reality, daydreamers perhaps is a way to put it. Some find us weird but the truth is we create our own reality, a world where imagination rules rather than straight thinking.
It’s not really hard to comprehend if you’re not the creative type, look at it this way: you seem to almost always masturbate at a racy photograph of Scarlett Johansson, why? Because you know at the back of your mind you will never get to taste those juicy bits of hers. You momentarily live in a dream world where she (Scarlett Johansson) is sucking the hell out of you, a parallel universe where you’re the man and you can do whoever you want, the sad part is it all ends within 3 mins. Sure we all fabricate scenarios every now and then, but what differentiates artists from the rest is: we eternally live in our own imagination.
That being said, what defines a true artist is not the capability to envision a weird world of autographed urinals1 and life-size sculptures of Super-Saiyan-Son-Goku-jacking-off2 but the capability to fully believe in them. Take for example Salvador Dali, during his last years he tried to dehydrate himself thinking he would become immortal. Is he just a flipped out crackpot who has been absorbed by his own little world due to long-term effects of inhaling a lot of turpentine? No. He is a true artist, an enlightened one at that.
Now here’s where I separate myself from the creative community as I can not speak for everyone and we all have our own interpretation of things, “to each his own” as they say. Blasphemous as I may sound but all artists are gods (true ones that is), gods of our own world. Creators of a vision conceptualized outside the limits of comprehension therefore unappreciated by commoners. But godlike as I want to portray artists we are still humans, one shot to the head and we’re dead, and it’s a difficult act of balance between the identity of an outcast and that of a supreme being. Fortunately for the very few artists who has reached the status of Enlightenment there is a way to overcome this dilemma. It’ll be a hard decision but the only way to Nirvana is to let go of the lesser character, for:
“Suicide is an act of freeing oneself from the physical limitations of the material world completely fulfilling our destiny as gods, unbounded by any universal thinking that is confined within that universe alone.
I’ve always wondered if this is my inevitable way to go…
but I’ll die anyway so I’m not really in a hurry.
1 “Fountain” by Marcel Duchamp
2 “My Lonesome Cowboy” by Takashi Murakami