Chop Up the Soul (or What to Do When Your Favorite Artists Get Lost in the World)

“Kanyeezy you did it again!“—Jay-Z (2003)

I’ve lost a lot of art this year.

Art made by people I felt like understood me, or at least, understood something about America that needed to be said.

Cue the incomplete and growing list.

Jerry Seinfeld, who, unwilling to accept his own missteps, continues to mistake the politics of language as something other than basic empathy.

Roseanne Barr, who, striving to be the everywoman, got pulled out to sea by a riptide of white fear and fragility.

Dave Chappelle, who, misunderstanding the danger of comedy at the expense of trans people, showed his age and unwillingness to grow.

Louis C.K., who, tapping pathos for art, hurt women by leaning too far into his neuroticism and stunted sexuality.

Sherman Alexie, who, fearing a loss of relevance, used his power to bully people he claimed as part of his community.

(Maybe even Roxane Gay, who, explaining humanity’s beautiful complications, seems to have complicated herself into a thesis-less corner.)

And, of course, Kanye.

Who has perhaps meant more to me than any other modern artist. Who I can’t really explain my affection for. Who I have loved through his misdeeds. Who I am done defending.

Each time I lose an artist, the energy and love I’ve given to their art goes with them. Not all at once. I’m left full of holes. Pockmarked and sieved. The love draining out.

So. I struggle. I grieve. I perform the postmortem.

Picking at the past. To determine what went wrong. With me for loving them. With them for becoming someone or something different.

Postmortem is an unfair word. It presupposes that I have no more forgiveness and they have no chance of redemption.

Maybe a better way to put it is this: I have finite hope. Which I strive not to waste.

If these artists are truly as great as I once believed, they can save themselves.

Maybe. It’s a nice thought.

But I hope you can understand if I stop holding my breath.

And make more art to fill the holes.