I’m writing this because I was inspired by Amy Winehouse’s death. Well not by her death itself, but by what internal darkness, torment and torture can do. And I don’t mean the death part. I mean the inspiration part.
It has been a long time coming, but what got me to finally put pen to paper – or rather fingers to keyboard – were the words I heard from someone recently, “personal torment is a terrible thing to waste,” he said. Referring to Amy Winehouse’s death during the past week, he described how only the most tortured artists produce the greatest work. It takes internal darkness to produce art. A true artist is one who taps into their deepest, darkest places and express their feelings about it, be it in the form of a song, a portrait, or any other art form. The privileged don’t produce good work. There is an ancient Jewish proverb which says that words that emanate from the heart of the one saying them penetrate the hearts of those to whom they are being said. If people are not moved by something you say, then it is proof positive that the words did truly emanate from the depths of your own heart. Singers and actors are told to think of their own personal heartbreak or loss before performing a song or scene involving the same emotion. Producers and directors know that authenticity produces true art and that audiences can detect authenticity.
A clear example could be seen with the role of The Joker played by Heath Ledger. It was apparent that he had and tapped into a deep, dark place within himself in order to play the role of the dark evil character. Anything less, and it would be hard for audiences to really feel the authenticity of the evil Joker and it would have been just another Hollywood interpretation of a comic book. Passable and mediocre, but not authentic.
The authenticity was apparent in two ways – one positive and one devastating. Critics and audiences felt the evil and became enveloped in it. It emanated from within the artist and it penetrated the viewer. People who slept well after watching the gory Saw movies couldn’t sleep after watching the Batman comic book movie which was considerably less gory and horrifying. And that’s because it was authentic. It was true pain, torment and darkness that were being displayed, and it was shown and could be felt.
Conversely, actresses like Paris Hilton who have no real torment or joy to tap into fail time and again to produce anything worth watching. Despite her popularity, fame and well-established brand, Ms. Hilton has failed consistently to capture the public with her supposed art. And that’s because she may be going through the same motions as another actor, but the sincerity and authenticity is missing. And it’s not because she’s not talented. It’s because authenticity is not something that could be bought or earned. It’s something you either have or you don’t. Paris Hilton’s authenticity lies in the fact that she is a privileged young woman. And because that’s her reality, people feel it and they buy into that aspect of her brand – the merchandise and the lifestyle. But because there’s no authentic torment, she could never be a real artist in the true sense. It shows when the very same people who will wait for hours at Macy’s to meet her and be one of the first to buy her new perfume for close to a hundred dollars, will not even spend the ten dollars to see her latest movie.
The key, however, is the having ability to tap into the internal turmoil without allowing it to suck you in and swallow you up. It’s similar to a person standing at the edge of quicksand who simply wants to dip their toes into the quicksand to feel its texture and the sensation of the pull but, but who needs to be extremely careful to not get sucked into it to the point where one cannot pull oneself out. As with everything in life, balance is key: to not become enveloped in only positive or only negative, but to use the strengths that both provide to advance and progress in life.
Until now, I stood on the peaceful, serene beach. Sure there were waves, but I pushed them aside and held them back, but I did not ride and use the energy of the waves. But now the waves have come ashore and can no longer be ignored. The waves have penetrated me and the riptide is trying very hard to suck me under, but I am holding onto the shore. Holding on for dear life, but my grip is weakening. The feeling of hopelessness, pointlessness and despair keeps rearing its ugly head. And when it does, I lose all of my motivation and will to go on. I become numb to the world around me and detached from the goings on. But it’s my wife and children that keep pulling me back just when I am about to go over the edge. They need me, and they don’t know or care about what I am going through. You see, the good thing about reality is that it’s a selfish bitch. It goes on whether you like it or not. And it doesn’t care about what’s happening. If it needs you then you’d better be there.
My favorite example of that is when, shortly after September 11, 2001, I began working as a direct care worker for adults with developmental disabilities who were living in a group home in New York City. My co-worker told me about September 11 when the entire world, and especially New York City, were in turmoil and utter chaos. The entire city was shut down and people just wandered the streets with stunned, shocked expressions. But not the staff who were charged with caring for those with developmental disabilities who absolutely needed them. The stock market could wait. The supermarket could close. The electronics store was not a necessity. But the disabled clients or, similarly, patients in hospitals could not wait. The World Trade Center may have been destroyed and the city could be crumbling but the doctor on call must respond to the patient in Room 212 whose tracheotomy alarm was ringing, and the heart surgeon cannot cancel the next patient’s lifesaving surgery. The clients in the group home don’t know, understand or care
I am writing this at a point in my life where I am standing at the edge of the stormy, swelling ocean. And the waves have attacked deep into the beach. And each time they hit me they try to pull me into the undertow. I grab whatever I can get a hold of, but all I feel is the sand. I dig my hands into the sand as the waves pull me by the feet. The sand sifts through my fingers. I dig deeper into the sand. And what I find is that the waves, in an odd way, help me hold on, because while the dry sand would simply slip between my fingers, the sand made wet by the waves is slightly more solid and sturdy allows me to dig my fingers in. but it’s still not a strong hold.
And that’s where the cold, hard, real life comes to the rescue. As I’m becoming more and more lost in my sense of hopelessness and dread, my kids call me asking for breakfast, then I need to break up a fight, change a diaper, then change a light bulb, go to work so I can get paid and pay my rent. And my wife tells me about how she feels fat today and that she’s frustrated that she hasn’t been losing weight despite the fact that she’s been eating so well.
No time to wallow in self-pity. It will have to wait while real life happens. And since real life doesn’t stop happening, it will have to wait until never. But the turmoil is real and the torture is deep. It just gets pushed deeper but it has to be tapped into, acknowledged, and dealt with. And then the joy and happiness comes. This too shall pass.
But until it does, this is my story.
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