il primo fallimento (third station)
acrylic and oil on canvas, 72" x 72", Rico '14
There's a favorite cultural myth that we cling to above all others; that man pulls himself up by his own bootstraps in isolation from the world around him and achieves greatness/wealth/fame by merit and hard work alone. The claimed rewards proof, -irrefutable, that he alone is deserving of the overflowing cup from which he now drinks deeply. We worship celebrity for this very reason; celebrity being both our gods and everyman. It plays into the very same mythos as the impoverished, inner city youth who rises to professional fame and wealth in sports through hours of dedication and practice against all odds. We need to believe in meritocracy if only to keep us from losing hope in our fragile puritan ethos and desperate belief in fairness. In reality there are far fewer slices of pie than can ever be enough for all of us, and most; no matter how talented or brilliant or dedicated they may be, will never rise from obscurity.
So we lost an amazing actor yesterday; an artist. There will be many talking heads paraded across everyone's television screens and op-ed columns saying why we should mourn or why we should pity or condemn. There were, no doubt, sermons. There will be "serious" talk about addiction and help for addicts, the victims of their own hedonism or escapism fueled by the overwhelming pressures of their fortune; good or ill. Many people who have never so much as smoked a joint will decry the wretched cultural scourge of illegal drugs; equating heroin with abusing Adderall, blaming rap culture and immigrants and of course, Obama.
Can we instead take a breath for a moment and recognize that a man is dead? People die every day, each death is tragic; each has some back story that, unlike the high-profile death of a celebrity, will never be told. To some degree, most of us will die with our pants at our ankles (metaphorical speaking). Death doesn't wait until it's convenient. Death is the price for life, and everyone pays the same fee when the check comes to the table. I'm far more inclined to view the death of a six-day-old baby as tragic than someone my age who couldn't wrestle his demons to the ground, but the real truth about addiction is that the users are seldom the victims anyway; the victims are almost always the families. Those left behind. It is those people who deserve respect, privacy in their mourning, and compassion. The dead don't care what we have to say about them, or when we grow tired of speaking of them at all.
I've seen friends go down the rabbit holes of crack and heroin. It's ugly and deeply saddening, and there is a moment, right before they go under when you're still reaching for them and trying to do everything you can to pull them out. In the very next moment you realize they will pull you under too, and you salvage what you can, step back and hope they make it; and promise yourself you'll be there when they do. Sometimes you can be. But not every time.
The christian's prophet said, "let he who is without sin cast the first stone." Implicit in that statement is that no stones be thrown at all, because who among us is blameless? Who among us hasn't failed? We may have the presence of mind to not shoot horse, but that doesn't mean we won't die behind the wheel for any number of equally-preventable and similarly banal reasons. It doesn't mean we are superior. It only means we had the opportunities to make different choices, and somehow, maybe even in spite of ourselves, we acted on those opportunities. I won't claim innocence when it comes to drugs. I'm fortunate to have a peculiar immunity toward addiction to some substances that others try once and it seals their fate. Lucky me; but it owes far more to biochemistry than moral fortitude let me tell you. And while heroin is a peculiar journey during which at one point everyone knows how it will likely end, when you're in it, it may not seem so clear and rational and clean. I've overcome some demons, so have many good friends. But others, equally dear, are not here today, and that doesn't make them weak or bad people so much as it makes them human and frail and more like me than I can sometimes own up to to care to admit.
As I think about the stations of the cross, what intrigues me is that it is the story of a man who knew how his story was going to play out. He could have opted out at any time, walked away, lived a long life or (if you buy their theology) simply stepped off this mortal plane and onto another. The most human thing in the world to do is to avoid pain. The compelling arc of story is that he faced his fate with eyes wide open and in so doing provided an example of how each of us can do so as well. Some are born to discover new worlds, create research that will forever change the world we live in, be great artists, composers, actors or world leaders. Some are born to be great parents, courageous teachers, or simply play the supporting role in other people's lives while never seeing the spotlight themselves. Whatever our path, whatever it is that we were born for, whatever gifts we have been born with, we must grab that destiny and run with it. Live it for all that it's worth and squeeze every ounce of sweat, blood, spit and sex out of it until we collapse in a lumped, bruised heap at death's door. I believe we are born to live, even if we cannot escape death. The
when and perhaps the
how of dying isn't up to us; but we make our own terms when it comes to how we live.
These paintings are an existential journey for me. I don't have any answers; I'm too busy asking questions.
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