The Platform On the Ocean— Arthur Russell
#365Songs: April 15th
Arthur Russell died of AIDS 32 years ago this month. He was 40 at the time. He’s one of those artists whose music continues to be released as new, even now. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was still alive and well, recording daily.
Turns out, he left us with over 1000 songs in various stages of completion. He was a tinkerer, a constant reviser, many tracks unfinished, remixed, rewritten dozens of times. A classically trained cellist and composer, Russell blurred genres the way he experimented with his sexuality, ultimately settling firmly as an Avante-garde artist in disco-era New York City.
Arthur Russell is far more popular today than he was at any point of his life. Though he was always hovering in the right circles — the Talking Heads, Phillip Glass, even dated Allen Ginsberg (who didn’t, right?) — he preferred to stay deep underground, out of the spotlight, doing his own thing in his own way.
The platform on the ocean
I hear the sound of the white caps
Out on the platform on the ocean
I hear the sound of the white caps
Out on the ocean
I hear the sound of the white caps
Out on the platform
That’s the thing about deeply conceptual, brainy artists who experiment with words, sounds, paint, photography. What they accomplish and who they influence all too often comes into clarity long after they’re gone, when biographies are written and other artists point to a body of work as influential. Arthur Russell is the consummate example. It’s no wonder the cult following continues to grow the longer he’s gone.
I looked down I saw the fish
Which way its tail was pointing and why
I looked down and saw the fish
Close as I came
I looked down, saw the fish
On the wood platform
I looked down I saw the fish
Close as I came
Overnight platform, overnight wave
I looked down and saw the fish, its over I see it
Wide angle, wide angle in a bite
I think about all the artists like Russell who are currently working under the poverty line, in small city apartments or remote mountain cabins. Creating for the sake of art, the audience be damned, never getting recognition. I have so much respect because I’ve always gravitated to that sort of writer, and now as I’ve gotten deeper into film that sort of filmmaker. And while I’m sure Russell and artists like him receive plenty of validation in their insular circles, I can’t imagine spending so many years producing so much without ever knowing who’s listening, or reading, or watching. I suppose that’s why so many of us run from our own talents. Validation for our work isn’t just a dopamine hit, it’s also how we silence imposter syndrome, how we know we’re on the right track, creating something people truly care about. That feedback loop is a drug, and a poison. I’ve lost count of all the work I’ve abandoned because I desired validation long before the piece was ready.
Let’s not forget those artists with closets full of manuscripts or unseen films, too afraid to share their work with a harsh world. What are we missing out on, what brilliance dies when the artist dies, never to be seen or heard?
Art is still art, after all, even if it dies alone.
But that gets me to a darker point: what if these artists never wanted their work to be released? Salinger didn’t. A few weeks ago, publishers released a Gabriel García Márquez novel that he demanded never see the light of day, and then reviewers drubbed it — an undeserved reputation hit. Same thing happened a few years ago with Harper Lee shortly after she died.
What about Arthur Russell, who was never happy with a song to the point that he perpetually reworked it, what of those 1000 songs? How many went unreleased because he didn’t want them to be released? I’m not sure where the ethical line lives, what I won’t consume out of respect for an artist. If an artist was adamant about something never being released, I don’t want it. That’s not so clear with Russell, who was still creating and recreating right up until his premature death. Perhaps he’s different, given his sensibility, that a song was only finished when he was no longer there to edit it.
In any event, what a treasure he left us, what a reminder he provides us to keep creating no matter who’s out there to consume. You never knew when, and how, an audience will find you.
