I didn’t want to write anything about this at all and I’ve deleted the entry twice now. It feels a bit false and voyeuristic to mourn celebrity.
This morning, I read a piece by Penelope Trunk where she writes of her fascination with suicide. I am not fascinated with suicide. I say, perhaps simply, that we should live until we don’t and not go at our own hands. But Trunk writes poignantly and straightforwardly, she almost convinces me:
It’s true. I am fascinated by suicide: Why don’t more people kill themselves? Life is very hard. And there is no sane reason to believe it will, at some point, get easier. So why do we keep going? I don’t know. This fascinates me.
This morning, Alexander McQueen killed himself.
McQueen was my first encounter with couture – with fashion, really. His art had whimsy and it was curious. It was maniacal and fantastic and kind of strange, but never just because. His clothes made me heave and smile in one go. At his best he took me somewhere else to think and stare at my too-plain shoes.
I’m not fascinated, but I want to understand. Maybe they’re the same thing, in the end.
[all images via]