Goodness me. I was surprisingly overcome with emotion after learning at dinner on Saturday night that Whitney Houston died. I gasped in the middle of the restaurant, and was more surprised that other people weren’t as upset. I remember buying her first album on tape. I burned a hole in that tape from playing it so much. Misia and I spent the weekend belting out her songs like we were getting paid. Top of our lungs.
I think the reason why people like Whitney have such predictably tragic endings is that we as humans are not yet equipped to handle that kind of stratospheric fame. Whitney Houston’s talent was so great that she seemed to change gravity. A certain level of self-medication is understood, almost encouraged to some respect to deal with that level of giftedness. Michael Jackson, Amy Winehouse, Kurt Cobain: all of them felt the pressure of their greatness. We like to see people fly to the sun and are unsurprised when they burn up.
But I can’t help but be broken up about Whitney. Hands down the best voice ever.
I had a similar experience (more devastated than I would have expected). I think though it is not their talent or gift that they can’t handle, it’s the price of fame—thoughtless, anonymous less-talented people talking about them in cruel and public ways as if they are not people with real hearts.
You chose the perfect picture.