let the children boogie.

In Bowie I hear a voice crying in the wilderness. Really. He is this plaintive voice which feels radically alone, commanded by a black star. That’s what’s coming for all of us, and that’s the sign that hovers over all of Bowie’s work. It’s only when that black sun of melancholy and depression is exerting its force most strongly that the counter movement could be felt. That is the apparent paradox of his work. This is also the riddle of great comedy: that it’s always about the dark side of the moon. It always portrays an experience of the most incalculable pain, and it’s only when you’re in the company of someone who’s frequented that pain, who is open to it, that something really resonant can take place. His music comes out of that feeling, out of a very basic mood which asks “Are there people who feel at home in the world?” It always seems like there are. Those people at the bar seem to be having nice time, but I’m sure to them it seems like we’re having a nice time, like we’re at home in the world, talking to each other over a beer. But I never felt at home in my skin, so when Bowie spoke to me I had that sense of connection with someone who understood how remote someone could from this world and how anxious this world makes you feel. And eventually, of course, you discover that everybody else feels like that too. Bowie is legion.

New York, 1999, by Irving Penn