The Ache of Lost Prophets

Thursday was a sad day as I was informed of the passing of JD Salinger. A good friend called me at work and the sinking feeling that prevailed in the wake of the news was almost too much to bear.

It isn't that his is an untimely death - the man was 91 - but that it marks yet another loss in the artistic community. In fact, my emotions on Thursday and the days that followed have been reminiscent of similar losses. Less like David Foster Wallace or Jeff Buckley, more like Madeleine L'Engle or Kurt Vonnegut.

I'm reminded of Reva's lecture, what's now so long ago, and her grief after Vonnegut. Upon hearing of his death, she lamented to her husband of all the prophets dying off - the world barren of truth tellers. Wisely he replied that others would surface. Indeed the world waits for a new generation of prophets.

Why is it that we ache for them? Continue to recognize our need? I believe they are vital because they continue to paint the ways we can redeem the world. Art is a form of redemption, no matter its form, and when another craftsman leaves us, the vacancy is felt with such weight, and it is difficult to hope for the void to be filled again.

Indeed with all the technological advances shoving us away from traditional means in which to make art (it's somewhat miraculous any of us commits real pen to real paper anymore) we wonder, if not publicly, in our own heads, if we are the last ones who will continue the tradition. Will the prophets, the artists, eventually die out?

Coming to this question, or this realization, does more than sober, it terrifies. Art is a shining light in a world so often dimmed by fads and frequencies, vapid entertainment distracting us from the true, the whole, the beautiful.

For today, the gift of the prophets, the storytellers, the artists, is still with us. Recognition and gratitude are how I choose to respond, even in my grieving the loss of another.