" But in Bergotte's case, my preconceived idea of him from his name troubled me far less than my familiarity with his work, to which I was obliged to attach, as to the cord of a balloon, the man with the goatee bard,without knowing whether it would still have the strength to raise him from the ground . . . that he smiled as he bore his mind back to the idea of his books; which at once began to fall in my estimation (bringing down with them the whole value of Beauty, of the world, of life itself), until they seemed to have been merely the casual recreation of a man with a goatee beard. I told myself that he must have taken pains over them, but that, if he had lived on an island surrounded by beds of pearl-oysters, he would instead have devoted himself with equal success to the pearling trade. His work no longer appeared to me so inevitable. And then I asked myself whether originality did indeed prove that great writers are gods, ruling each over a kingdom that is his alone, or whether there is not an element of sham in it all, whether the difference between one man's books and another's were not the result of their respective labours rather than the expression of a radical and essential difference between diverse personalities."
Marcel Proust, Within a Budding Grove, pp. 590-591
I don't know what my response would be if I actually met one of my favorite writers or artists or songwriters. Here Proust has, through the machinations of Mme Swann, had the opportunity to meet Bergette, one of his favorite writers. For Proust, he brought down the "whole value of Beauty, of the world, of life itself." I remember meeting the director Robert Wise years and years ago when I was in college, but at the time I didn't know enough about film to understand the significance (and, truthfully, I'm not that big a fan anyway). I've had this running joke with my students for years that the only famous person I would chase through an airport in pursuit of an autograph is Ric "Nature Boy" Flair. Maybe we need these creative forces to exist in the shadows, and if we actually associated the works with common annoying people it might make the entire process out to be the "sham" Proust fears. My favorite song, arguably, is Neil Young's Helpless, and for decades I believed that the opening line was "There is a town in north Ontario, with dream, comfort, memory, despair." However, I've also seen it listed repeatedly as "There is a town in north Ontario, with dream, comfort, memory to spare." Considering the painfully elegiac nature of the song I still favor the former over the latter. Now, if I ever met Young and he assured me that it was in fact that latter, I'd have to try and convince him that clearly he clearly confusing his own memories of his own creation. More importantly, if I met him would I be disappointed, and this would, in turn damage my perception of his work (although, after listening to the songs for thousands upon thousands of times I suspect I'm pretty well conditioned). It does bring up the question, what do we want from our artists? And why do people want to meet their favorite artists anyway? Do they think that their favorite artists will share some secret with them - or clear up the second line from their favorite song? Or will they somehow share the magic? It can't simply for for an autograph (unless it's from Ric Flair), unless the assumption is that the name itself conveys some sort of sympathetic magic. In the end has Warhol been proven correct in that celebrity has transcended the art itself?
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