Drawing/Collage: I Don't Deserve It / Would you rather burn brightly for short time or live a long dim life? / Mark E Smith

RTomens, 2021

 

A long dim life? What I mean is a long life, after which you've created nothing, left nothing for posterity - you've not left your mark on the world.

I thought about this just now as I walked back from the local Co-Op having bought some tomato puree for the meatballs I intend to make tonight...so I thought about the selfie I took this morning of me holding my passport because ID was needed to sell art on a site - god! - I looked...old...how the hell did I get this way? (Living). It wasn't flattering, put it that way. But it served the purpose.

To rewind my thought pattern further, I'd thought about how I could still do a podcast - you know - cash in on the fact that everyone's stuck at home. Trouble is, I'd look...well, like that old man staring back at me in the photo I took. Mind you, I could arrange the lighting so as to hide a lot of the agedness, couldn't I? And LJ has plenty of make-up I could use...

For some reason Mark E Smith popped into my head as I carried the shopping home, bitter wind biting at my ears. He's what prompted my musings on age, longevity and legacy. He only reached 60, a nice round number to go out on. Booze, drugs, fags...he lead an unhealthy lifestyle. He was his own man. 60 is considered 'young' if that's as far as you get, these days. But look what he left behind. All those albums which constitute a singularly spectacular, original, mysterious musical catalogue, the lyrics of which will have scholars puzzled for decades to come. 

So I asked myself, given the choice, would I opt for a relatively short life in which I gave something to the cultural landscape, or a long one (say 95) which just produced children? Suppose you had that choice? On one side you have more time and good health. On the other, the art (music, art, film, whatever). Well? Tough choice, eh? Not that we actually have a choice. Plus, some people manage both.

I saw Mark E Smith at The Fall's last London gig (The 100 Club). He had to be wheeled through the audience and couldn't stay on stage for the whole set. In one sense it was tragic, but in another, it was strangely apt, the way he continued via a mic in the dressing room...the way he had...decayed, not in some romantic Rock 'n' Roll style, but as raging, rebellious prole art poet.

OK. Those meatballs won't make themselves. For now, friends, farewell!