It’s taken awhile to digest the events of January 2016. It will take longer to come to grips with the loss of one of the most diverse artists of all time. Whether you were a fan or not, you were familiar with David Bowie. Mime, musician, actor, designer and all round Renaissance man who sang with Bing Crosby because “his mum liked him,” Bowie had something for every age. His wife, in her own words, married David Jones. The persona belonged to the fans. The Folkie, The Mod, The Spaceman, Alien, Pirate, Spider from Mars; Ziggy Stardust, Thin White Duke and Diamond Dog, traveling from Station to Station; the Eighties man in the yellow suit, waiting so long, looking back in anger? No. Never. A Nineties man in a Tin Machine pulling nails with Trent Renzor, retiring to reflect, heal and posit; Lazarus leaving a parting gift in a Black Star and possibly more releases in 2017.
The stars look very different to me today, not because he’s gone, but because I finally understand what he was: A shining diamond who made it okay to be different. Since his passing, I’ve dug out my old platforms, dusted off my vinyl and have taken to drawing again. I smile as I take a break from the WIP (work in progress) to work on my Blue Bowie.
Why not, darling?
Keep cool. Diamond dogs rule.
Adult, unapologic and wholly cognizant,