On the edge of Opus (aut non tentaris aut perfice)
If it’s true that every one falls into 15 minutes of fame, everyone is also capable of producing their own magnum opus, a masterwork. For some it may only be a finger-painting frozen in time on their parent's fridge. For others it may be something supposedly more substantive and influential. Regardless of the circumstances surrounding an opus, a masterwork marks a beginning as well as an end. One may not recognize the importance of the work until much later. We call these individuals many things: modest, oblivious, and artistic. There are, of course, others who overestimate the importance of their work, who try to elevate themselves to an immortal place embedded in the collective consciousness of humanity. We call these people many things as well: accomplished, successful, arrogant, deluded, and megalomaniacal. It is natural that we admire the latter and pity the former. According to Hobbes, human beings are naturally violent, destructive, and uncontrollable. This is not a point exclusive only to Hobbes. Freud, as the obvious example, conceptualizes work and play as merely sublimations of one's innate sexual-animal urges. We simultaneously hate and admire the arrogant self-promoter, yet feel pity for the "unaccomplished" artist. Success is now derived from acclaim and fanfare, afforded by the spectator gaze. But, accomplishment is not a matter of fanfare for the artist. He envisions something, something that may be seen as unpractical and "unproductive". But he senses a rigour and importance about his work outside of the criteria of acceptance. For him, the very activity of creation is fulfilling. Fulfillment and accumulation are linked in a pursuit of success. One accumulates to find meaning in the act of accumulating. What is important to the provincial ground of 'success'? It is the accumulative process. For the artist, fulfillment cannot be achieved only pursued. Dream inextricably about untenable horizons, the artist says.
T found success early. Book deal. Three million copies. Self-help queen. What else could she want? Helping others before one can help oneself is often the price of success. Because we all have to be reminded of the relevant cliche, there is a price to success. The following is not a magnum opus, just a story about one. T graduated from Wesleyan summa cum laude, interned at the Boston Globe, wrote for rags that ranged from the Wall Street Journal to Cosmopolitan. And on one beautiful night, her fiancee, Theo Hunter, CEO of Yorkton Communications, proposed to her; she accepted. She thought her life as blessed and arranged for her baptism, so she could share Theo's faith. And like any would be Christian, she sought the opportunity to proselytize. She wrote her bestseller Chaste Excellence, touting the virtues of a disciplined and pious feminism. The bible belt ate it up. Once again, three million copies and countless stints on Oprah later, she was a media darling thanks to her book, although filling out a dress in the right places doesn't hurt either.
Now, dear reader, you must be asking, how is any of this at all interesting? Well, like any story of success, most of it is a lie. Theo Hunter was CEO of a Fortune 500 company and did not live in a monastry. T thought her 'cutie-poo' was pure as the driven snow, when in reality he liked lines of snow a bit too much. Yes, not the stuff that falls on the ground. And he enjoyed whores too. But that shouldn't surprise anyone. T? Was she an angel? No, nobody's an angel. She was indeed driven and disciplined and pious, as the title of her little book suggests, but she had her own skeletons. Wesleyan summa cum laude has a story behind it, which is better left for later on for if nothing else dramatic effect.
Although she never mentioned it, T had an older sister. Her name was Karina. Karina worked in the adult entertainment business after running away from home at 15. She obtained a fake ID and worked for a man named Peter Lindo, founder of Lindo Entertainment Ltd.. From most accounts Karina was genius, scored off the charts in IQ and standardized tests. However, she had a rebellious streak. When her parents, John and Joan, locked her in her room after they found her performing oral sex on a boy, Karina did them one better, packed a bag and hitchhiked from Hartford to Beverly Hills. Of course Karina did not perform under her given name. From the moment she lost her virginity on screen to Lindo to her untimely demise, she was Susan Sunshine.
