How did you feel when you learned David Bowie had stretched his last limit?
When you learned Hunter Thompson had penned his last story?
When you heard Tupac was out of rhymes?
Jeff Buckley could give us no more love?
George Carlin’s wit would no longer bite?
How about the death of Kurt Cobain? Or Robin Williams? Heath Ledger? Michael Hutchence? David Foster Wallace? Lemmy? Mitch Hedberg? Jean-Michel Basquiat? Bill Hicks?
Did you cry for these people — these people you’d (probably) never met? For their families, whom you’d also never met? Or did you cry for you, for the end of the art?
It’s that last bit — the end of the art — I get worried about. We need to remember to keep creating. No matter how much genius passes before us, no matter how much of it falls away, it’s incumbent upon us to keep the legacy of art alive for our contemporaries and for our future generations.