"I know that fate is harsh, but I am loathe to accept this." - Hillar Liitoja
Please do understand, that if you are an older artist; the time is ripe for suicide.
For, what do we have to live for?
It has been made clear to us countless times, through social media — never mind the exclamations of arts councils and younger artists — that not only are we no longer necessary — but what we have viewed as our ‘contributions’ must not only be ignored, but erased.
You may think you know what is like to be told, in your ‘declining years’ that you are responsible— not only for your own decline — but for the present decline of the world. What about being told that you are not merely to blame for climate change, economic decline, and the rise of dictatorships, but also for what is perceived as a present day all-pervasive and toxic moral decadence?
We are told now that everything we stood for (i.e.’beauty’ and ‘aesthetic excellence’) are not values, but corrupt and inhumane signifiers of evil.
Older creators are told that the scandalous ideas and images that were (at one time!) debated, in our plays, poems and novels, in our dances, paintings, videos, music, have been the cause of pain and hurt on the part of the young.
The result is that in Canada we have seen the suicide of artists like R.M. Vaughan and Brent Carver (to name only two). Recently the world has seen the death of Sinead O’Connor — as yet unexplained — who described herself, after the recent tragedy of her son's suicide, as a kind of ‘undead night creature.’
Of course they may have have been victims of a mental illness.
But what of the reasons they were able to stay alive for so long was that they had thought that their creative lives meant something!
We, as older artists have (of necessity!) spent years wrapping ourselves around inspiration, fighting to understand the strange, often repellant machinations of our own inner selves.
We have confronted our demons, and others have — as a kind of side effect — had the opportunity to glimpse their own personal darkness through us.
For many artists, taking a fearful look ‘inside’ is the only way for us to deal with our own propensity to spiral. And those personal explorations have lead to some kind of relief — or at least a kind of level of psychological subsistence that allowed us to ‘keep on going.’
No more.
Today the suicides of elder artists will be welcomed by some (if not many!) of the young.
It is a harsh fact.
For many years, young artists have been yelling at us: "Your time is up!" And, If elder artists commit the crime of continuing to create, it is seen as an obstacle to the young.
"How can we move ahead?" they say"‘with you ancient, privileged ‘keepers of the keys' guarding the gates?"
Younger artists want us dead. They secretly (and now publicly) rejoice at our demise; it is not only death of the old order (many say, the old ‘fascistic order’) but the possibility of new doors opening for the young, and a new life too.
Who could resist?
Perhaps it is our fate; it is after all, an acknowledged truism that the old must move aside for the young.
And if so, we are fulfilling the destiny of art by taking our own lives.
If only we were sure that the young still know what art is.
And remember; in the past, when we moved aside, there was talk of learning from history, of artistic legacy, respect, and of lives well lived.
No more.
I would love to take this opportunity to appeal to older artists to stop taking their lives.
But hopefully you can understand the lack of success — at this point — that such an appeal might have.
The damage has been done.
I know from a conversation I had with an older artist of my acquaintance who recently committed a kind of ‘slow suicide,’ that it was more than just neglect (I decline to reveal his name because I think some have not yet come to terms with his suicide) — it was the abolishment of all the values he held dear as a creator (moral ambiguity, exploration of his own subconscious, and generous confession of his own most spiritually frightening impulses through his work ) that led to him finally admit to me — one overcast, post-Covid — late spring day “I have no more reason to live.”
As long as we continue to attack art and artists, and to be suspicious of those who question ideology, but instead worship beauty — our elder artists will continue to lose their will to live.
So, sadly:
Expect more suicides.
