Stain

Stain
By Phelyx
April, 2007

I know, er, make that knew, yet another person who has recently died. Anymore, I’ve lost count, and
this is one of the hazards of surviving them. More and more, all around me, people die. They have
to, and so do I. The older I get, the more people I lose. It’s simple arithmetic.

I do get some solace from the belief that memories and stories keep people alive in some way. Even
when their atoms are redistributed into the earth, the legacy they leave keeps them as part of our
lives. I can tell you that my father’s voice is still in my head, and that he would be very relieved to
know that I actually listened to more than was evidenced by my behavior back then. Of course, as
the father of a teenaged girl, I long for the same evidence that my lessons are being absorbed, but
see little.

I wonder, then, if this is why there is this global, humanly instinctive idolization of celebrities. Mind
you, today’s celebrities are contemporary, comical caricatures of the royalty of historical times.
Before information was efficiently distributed, the personalities celebrated as “celebrities” were the
inbreeds running the King’s court. As the distribution of information evolved, so did the assignment
of celebrity.

Why do children worship the clown Paris Hilton over Bill Gates, who could buy Miss Hilton with the
pocket change that is lost in his couch cushions? Why is it that most Americans couldn’t possibly
name the Governor General of Canada (The Right Honourable Michaëlle Jean, for trivia), but can
fare well in a game of “Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon”? I’ll tell you why. Oprah will tell you why.

Oprah was encouraged to run for president of The United States, and you know what? She would
likely win, but she is far too smart for that. Oprah recognizes that she has much more power and
influence over the people in this country, and most others, if she stays right where she is. Oprah
Winfrey is so damned famous and powerful, in fact, that the auto-spell-check in Microsoft Word
recognizes her name. Think about it.

Now, Oprah’s got a whole lot of dough, and I think she deserves it (and she’s encouraged to hire me
any time). There are a whole lot of Americans who couldn’t name the richest man in the world,
however (Ingvar Kamprad, the Swede who founded the retail furniture chain IKEA, at around $53
billion). So, then, it isn’t really money that inspires this idolization after all. It’s the power of fame,
and I believe that it’s instinctively appealing. By this, I mean that we are compelled to mimic the
behaviors of the famous and to strive to achieve the same notoriety on a very instinctive, very primal
level. It’s the figurative version of sowing our seeds, in the interest of procreation. Leaving some
kind of legacy seems to be one of life’s purposes. It is clear that having a voice that is not just heard,
but listened to, beats fortune, hands down.

For years, as an artist, I have been very curious about why this title of mine seems so appealing to
the left-brained. Why does the legitimate stereotype of eccentricity, as licensed by creative
occupations, seem so romantic? Initially, I was inclined to believe that it had something to do with
some manifestation of the resistance to mediocrity, in the face of our awareness of our own mortality,
to develop an inner-child need for Peter Pan syndrome, paired with the common misconception that
being an artist was in any way similar. A care-free, frivolous life, flitting around, doling out the gift of
dream, sure would be a nice alternative to being a cubicle jockey, I grant you. You know better than
to believe that’s the artist’s lifestyle, however. Surely there is no way that people long for the strife,
pain, and angst that are also commonly, and often accurately, associated with the arts. So what is it?

Yes, mustering the balls to bravely stand nude in front of strangers might be an enviable version of
confidence and courage, and I can tell you that exhibiting a painting feels like it must be a similar
sensation, but have you ever, in your life, carved your initials into a tree or park bench? Why did
you? It was to simply leave a mark, right? Maybe you paired your initials with someone else’s and
drew a heart around them? Fundamentally, you wanted to leave your personal brand in some
permanent way, or you wanted to make a meaningful romantic statement by your destructive,
permanently knifed proclamation of never ending love.
Artists do this for a living (or what modestly passes for one, in most cases). I am going to admit to
you that I am comforted in knowing that, after I die, my work may still be speaking to people in some
way. It is thereby that I might have that voice that will help me be fondly remembered. I can hope.

I may never get my name in a star on, or my paw prints pressed into, the sidewalk in Hollywood, but I
sure hope to leave a stain that can’t easily be rinsed off this planet, after I’m gone. I at least want
this to survive me in the brains, hearts, and stories of my children.