I take a bit of warm satisfaction when I see a certain library, with floor-to-ceiling shelves, chocked-full of thousands of dusty and well-thumbed volumes that probably don't often see the light of day because of their incalculable value. The library at Trinity College in Dublin, Ireland is famous for housing, perhaps the most valuable illuminated manuscript in existence--the Book of Kells. But as you make your way to the case where you can view the two pages currently on display, you get to stroll past several other illuminated volumes as well.
I've been there twice. I'm not a person of faith, and I don't read or understand the languages with which these beautiful volumes have been created. But while I do not understand or share in their language, I respect and understand their value and beauty.
And that is what is so special about an artist like David Bowie.
It has been more than a week since my mind came to know that he is gone, but my heart is still in denial. It's as if a wing of one of the most incalculably valuable libraries has been destroyed in a fire, and there is nothing left but ash.
Like that library filled with so many valuable and important works, I didn't always understand, or even like what Bowie brought to the table, but I always understood that the artists I found less challenging and easier to embrace, existed and were better because of him.
The only similar loss I have witnessed in my lifetime was the loss of John Lennon. I know some would argue that Michael Jackson and Elvis left similarl sized voids, but neither of them stretched and strained against boundaries and convention in the ways that Lennon did. Or Bowie.
Music has always been a vital part of my life, but I didn't come to realize it so much until I was old enough to start choosing what to listen to for myself. I have no talent for music, but luckily love requires no skill, and its only limits are self-imposed.
I started to explore on my own and developed a passion for music around the time of the so-called Second British Invasion. There was a wave of boys with bottle-colored hair, lipstick and eyeliner. They were all artfully delicious, and they all consistently credited one man for their existence--Bowie. I had casually listened to, and liked David Bowie over the years, but now I wanted to know why he was so important to so many.
I dove into the world of Ziggy Stardust, and "The Man Who Fell to Earth." I didn't understand his journey at the time. That kind of understanding only comes with experience, exposure and scars. Just like many people, I loved the David Bowie in the movie "Labyrinth," and I loved the infectiousness of the song "Blue Jean." I always sing along. It's easy to love that which does not challenge. It's harder to love what you don't understand, but more worthwhile, because it challenges you.
And that is why losing a David Bowie is a heartbreak. Clearly, I did not know him. I was lucky enough to see him live once--a bucket-list item ticked off. The heartbreak is that someone so stunningly illuminating to so many has gone dark, and I don't know where that kind of light still lives.
I am much older now than I was when Ziggy first played in my little cassette player, and the universe we live in now doesn't seem to be sending out too many artists like David Bowie these days. Knowing how especially illuminating he was for so many artists, I worry even more about the void he leaves behind.
Who will inspire the generations to come to ignore boundaries and to create themselves all the way to their last breath like Bowie did? Who will prevent my daughter from being dragged down into the mire of homogenized mediocrity that sounds mostly the same from station to station on the dial?
Without David Bowie, I just don't know.
http://youtu.be/_gjZP8OPH-U--Without You by David Bowie
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