My Imaginary Friend, David Bowie
Notes plunked from a piano play over a white screen. We slowly pan down, and the white gives way to hair the saturated color of orange soda. We see a pale white face with cheeks and lips a cotton candy pink. Two electric blue lozenges of eye shadow encircle beautifully mismatched eyes. One eye with a normal pupil, looking at you passively. The other dilated like a shiny black marble, its depth making you feel as if it knows you very well.
And then we see David Bowie: thin, trim, and tall in a perfectly tailored, bell-bottomed, turquoise suit. A pin striped dress shirt, chunky platform heels and a busy tie with a slash of red complete the look. He is alone on this bleached sound stage, almost as if he absorbed all the color around him. He is an ethereal clown. He is not masculine, he is not feminine. He just is. And he's singing to you.
This was the first time I remember seeing David Bowie, in the music video for "Life on Mars". I have to think I was watching MTV or VH1, because I have three brothers and was always voted down on what channel we got to watch. I wanted the Disney Channel and The Little Mermaid, they wanted MTV and Beavis and Butthead. Most of the time I'd zone out their trademark "huhhhhhhh" laughs by playing with my Barbies (the DRAMA in that Dream House rivaled The Real World).
But this time was different. I couldn't look away from him.
Now she walks through her sunken dream/
To the seat with the clearest view/
And she's hooked to the silver screen
In my ten-year-old brain, life was still pretty black and white. Boys wore pants, and girls wore skirts. Boys liked sports, and girls liked ballet. Cats are girls, and dogs are boys, etc. But David Bowie wore pants AND heels. He was a man, but he wore MAKEUP. Basically, my mind was blown. He absolutely fascinated me. He was so alien, yet oddly it felt like I had created him from my own imagination. He was pure magic. In that moment, David Bowie became my imaginary friend. The sad thing is I would only realize that on the day he died.
Thinking back on this as an adult, I can see why I was so enthralled by him. He embodied being different. As a kid, especially when you're bordering on puberty (Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes), conforming is survival. You want to look, talk, and act like everyone else desperately. But everyone has to leave childhood and enter the scary, uncharted waters of being a young adult, and I was going to have to realize that I wasn't part of that herd. And that was terrifying. To see someone so poised and comfortable in their shining uniqueness, and an adult no less, made me feel safe.
Now, in that moment in front of the TV in 1995 I didn't know all that. I saw a gender-bending beautiful face and a bright suit and amazing makeup, which dazzled me. But I know my subconscious knew. It saw David Bowie and knew I had found a person who could guide me out of the crowd and show me what it meant to truly be myself. He could lead me by example that showing the world your true, crazy, imperfect colors is a risk, but the most important one you take in life. All of my fears about fitting in or being a "loser" disappeared when I saw his cool confidence and utter lack of shame in who he was.
When I ate lunch in the bathroom in 6th grade because I didn't have anyone to sit with, Ziggy Stardust sat on the tiled ground next to me and let me know that was ok made up in heavy eyeliner, a bell-sleeved silk dress and thigh-high boots.
When I got in hormone-fueled fights with my parents (who had NO IDEA what it was like to be a teenager, GOD), I nodded sagely as he sang "they're quite aware of what they're going through."
When no one asked me to dance at the 7th grade formal, he beckoned me to dance by myself (it's more fun, anyways) in a one-sleeved, one-legged blue bodysuit with a flame on the crotch.
When sexuality was confusing and a little scary, Jareth the Goblin King…well, made it a little more confusing and scary in boots, a leather jacket with a duster and skin-tight spandex pants that left little to the imagination.
When I fell in and out of love for the first time, the lyrics to "Heroes" went off like a light bulb in my head. Love is ephemeral and it hurts, but that doesn't mean it's not worth it.
He celebrated with me when I found my life's joy and passion in theatre by dancing in the streets with Mick Jagger in a trench coat and a belted, patterned jumpsuit.
When my niece and nephews were brought into my loving, crazy, funny family, I held them and murmured into their sweet ears "'cause if you stay with us, you're gonna be pretty kookie too."
When I made some very questionable 3 AM decisions as a twenty-something in many an Astoria bar, he egged me on with "Rebel, Rebel".
When I began to suffer from depression and bulimia, I felt less alone as he sang "then I ran across a monster who was sleeping by a tree/and I looked and frowned and the monster was me."
After my first (which didn't actually turn out to be) one-night stand, when I said goodbye to the gentleman and closed my apartment door, I smirked and whisper-sang "Ahhhh wham, bam, thank you ma'am!"
He was a benevolent, semi-dangerous, all-knowing presence in my life. He gave me courage and support even though I didn't realize it. I just knew he was one of my favorite artists and I loved his style.
When I woke up this morning to the news of his death at 69, I stared at my phone for minutes. My dog pawed at me to take him for his morning walk, but I didn't really feel it. I was shocked. So shocked, I had to take a step back and figure out why it was hitting me so hard. Yes, he was one of my favorite artists, but I hadn't reacted this way when others had died. Then and only then did I realize that I had thought from that very first moment in front of the TV that he was going to be with me forever. I felt like the Banks children when Mary Poppins floats away at the end of the movie, except my problems hadn't been neatly resolved. He was magic. He was immortal. He was my guide. He was my friend. And then…I cried.
To realize David Bowie is your imaginary friend at 30 is jarring. To discover it on the day he dies is incredibly sad. The world lost an amazing artist and human being. His art asked me to play, to dance, to rock, to love, to give the middle finger, to think, to never be scared to show and love and give the world the gift of who I really am. That gift is far from perfect. It's wrapped in some thin-ass paper, a too-tight bow, and filled with contradictions and flaws. But David Bowie made me feel like there were people in the world who would open that flawed, freaky, funny gift and say "…awesome. I love it."
I can't thank you enough, David.
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