Ode to the arti’st

Nina Simone:
http://www.radioblogclub.com/open/115265/ne_me_quitte_pas/nina%20simone%20-%20Ne%20me%20quitte%20pas%20%28If%20you%20go%20away%29

All girls go through this and some girls hang on to it for way too long- the romantic love for the artist. We have all met the broody, talented (in some cases even talent less) man – that as a modern day Mr Rochester, is tormented by a secret, burned by his passion, consumed by his misunderstood talent. A contemporary miserable that struggles everyday to survive in a world that does not bow to his creative spark. With an agenda full of personal lost fight, rejection to come up against and hours of self pity and “no one can understand me, really” stories to tell- it’s surprising that this creature actually finds time to date or better to allow himself to be approached my idolising girls. Their eyes full of “I can fix yous” and “let me be your harbour of peace” these girls inevitably fall in his trap. They will fight all his battles, sit quietly in a corner and to the rhythm of “ne me quitte pas” will stand by his side as an old and loyal hunting dog feeding off the scraps of his time. They will defend him vehemently, at the sole mention of his self-obsession and negate their very self for a kind word. History is full of them, if you dig deep enough. Contrary to their talented partner – they are not remembered. Their existence of self-sacrifice is summed up in a footnote at the end of his bio. See for yourself, do you know Jeanne Hebuterne? No, but you probably know her husband Amedeo Modigliani, yet his bio reads:

“Amedeo Modigliani died in the Hospital de la Charite. The next day Jeanne Hebuterne, in an advanced stage of pregnancy, committed suicide.”

That is all we have to say about her. I ask you is this really what love is about? Becoming a nobody for someone else, destroying you very essence to feed that of your partner? It sounds to me more like cannibalism… How can you become the recipient of someone’s love when they are all too in love with themselves to even have time to notice you?

Hollywood, literature and poetry should take a good look at themselves and admit guilt for having hatched a bunch of foolish, dim-witted self-sacrificing women and rethink its role models. Why not write the “ode to the accountant” or “portrait of the banker as young man”? Better yet the “unbearable lightness of being a thirty something guy that is not too into his job but really enjoys life”?