A year ago, I thought, I'm going to gather together all my books and magazine articles on Prince and shove them together in one photo to show to all my devotion and love to all his music. As if doing so would prove to the world how much he meant to me. To show, I suppose, the depth of my grief. The loss of that voice, his suggestive eyes and moves, his incredible, electrifying guitar ability. But I didn't do it--take the photo, that is. I just couldn't bring myself to see it lain out in front of me.
Earlier this week I had read and re-read accounts of when he had died along with some updated articles from the NY Times you can find here, an account of phenomenal singer Judith Hill on the flight that landed in Moline, IL, 6 days before Prince's death, here. There are more links to other article within these two articles.
There was also an article in The New Yorker from April 6th, in which the author, Ben Greenman, says,
When I encounter someone else who is as devoted to Prince’s music as I am, I tend to turn away from that person, embarrassed by the recognition of mutual interest, eager to return to the safety of private joy. There’s an early Prince song, “Private Joy,” in which he jealously keeps a lover to himself: “Ain’t gonna tell nobody nobody ‘bout my little pretty toy.” I knew what he meant.
I know, too.
When you love an actor or musician or author so much--when their work affects you so deeply and has become a background benchmark to numerous events in your life, your loss isn't fleeting. It's deeply personal and deeply cutting, and painfully lasting, or as Prince sang in the song Adore. "until the end of time..."
My tribute from this day last year.
