Something about Amy Winehouse, death, tragedy, and the subjectivity of art
I was really furious earlier, with online opinions that I would ordinarily ignore without any problem at all. Amy Winehouse was found dead today, and for every expression of sadness or respect there was another talking about how her death is not comparible to the scores that were killed by Behring Breivik in Norway yesterday. Some were talking about how she ‘chose’ to become addicted to drugs. I was so so mad.
So over the last couple of hours I tried to chill out a bit and I thought about my own reaction to the two tragedies. I was shocked when I heard about the bomb in Oslo, even more so when I heard the bomber had gunned down a load of teenagers before being apprehended, but I was saddened by Amy Winehouse’s death in the same way as I have been saddened by the deaths of family friends, my ex-boyfriend’s Mum, even my Grandma. Have I become desensitised to the mass murder of ‘unknowns’? Has ‘celebrity culture’ fooled me into thinking troubled musicians are my personal friends? Or did I just have a shitty relationship with my Grandma and any other rational person would consider the two bereavements worlds apart? It’s probably all three.
I started thinking a bit about the times when I’d listened to Amy Winehouse’s music a lot. I was living with a bunch of strangers in Manchester, and my housemate Garry and I bonded a bit over her second album. We played it to death until about Christmas of 2006 and then both promptly got bored and moved onto something else. Pretty soon I was bloody sick of hearing her stuff every-bloody-where but I’m listening to it now and it’s a fucking cracking album. I’m also struck by how much she had in common with Janis Joplin, but that’s probably another blog post entirely.
So, I had determined that Amy Winehouse’s death had affected me more than the Norway massacre, and I had determined that I really liked her music, even if I’d barely listened to it for years. I started thinking about my relationship with celebrities, specifically about Stephen Gately from Boyzone. When he died I’d riled a few people by stating on twitter that I didn’t like Boyzone’s music and hoped his death wouldn’t be used as a catalyst for their careers. This was undoubtedly an insensitive thing for me to say so soon afterwards. But, here was a pop star who had been very much in the public eye during my teenage years, who had come along just as the trend for publishing a celebrity’s every bowel movement was becoming endemic, and I had felt not a flicker of emotion when I heard of his death. Of course I was shocked because he was still so young and I knew, academically, that his family and friends would be suffering, but there wasn’t that pang in my stomach. He had never really touched my life.
Then I thought about the death of Lucian Freud a couple of days ago; another artist whose work I love and admire, albeit one who reached the good old age of 88. I was saddened by his death because I respected him, could study his brushstrokes and have to stop and exhale at his sheer talent, but he hadn’t been a part of my life. My actual life experience. I hadn’t picked up my A-level results with one of his self-portraits looking down on me. I hadn’t danced to one of his naked lady portraits while I got to know my new life in a big city. There simply hadn’t been the same emotional connection between myself and Freud as there had been between myself and Amy Winehouse.
As usual, I don’t know where I’m going with any of this. The student in me wants to conclude with something final and determined about the part artists play in our lives, and where the line between respect and affection lies. I respect Lucian Freud. I have affection for Amy Winehouse. I was shocked by the Norway massacre. If I’m completely honest, I’m probably not all that shocked by Amy’s death. I am fucking gutted about it though.
