Scrolling through my Facebook feed last week, I was a bit confused when the face of Willy Wonka, from the iconic 1971 film, began to flood my screen. After a quick search, I found the sad reason: Gene Wilder, the man beneath the hat, had died.
Social media was filled with saddened comments about his passing. Some commented on his many great film roles, while others spoke of a deeper grief.
The comments had another theme, though. Many said something akin to, “Not another icon gone! Robin Williams, Bon Jovi, Prince, and now Gene Wilder? Who’s next?”
While this was one popular reaction, I noticed a few comments of the opposite variety. They spoke of how silly it is that people get worked up over celebrity deaths. After all, we don’t really know them, do we?
It’s true the last few years have sadly had a handful of deaths of celebrity, and often iconic, figures. And it is true that many of us don’t know these people. Reactions, though, would suggest otherwise.
My Snapchat last week was filled with video clips of college students re-watching “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory” and commenting on childhood memories of the film.
Somewhat similarly, when Prince passed away, Paisley Park was a site unlike any other. As a Minnesota native, I saw firsthand as hundreds gathered at the gates of the recording studio and filled the fences with purple balloons.
I would argue the passing of a great icon means much more than simply the loss of a person we don’t know. One thing I often say of my favorite musical artists is that although I do not know them, I know their words, and to me that is still a strong connection.
Art shapes and defines our years, particularly in adolescence and college. I put on certain albums and suddenly am listening to the soundtrack of my high school memories. I pick up an old book and remember how the words of an author touched me in a way that changed my views and thoughts.
I can’t help but think, if I am only twenty-two years old and have been shaped by great artists, how must the baby boomer generation feel about the recent passing of icons?
Indeed, the reactions are hard to miss.
Just last week, I was at an outdoor concert with an audience of people mostly older than 50 years old, and the band played “Purple Rain.” The reaction was magical and quite unlike anything I had ever seen. Everyone jumped to their feet after the performance and clapped for minutes straight.
These deaths, then, are even more than memories of years past. They are a reminder of the continuous passage of time.
I do not mean this in a disheartening way. Instead, these figures are examples of the lasting influence a life can have, that art can have.
Through mourning the loss of icons, we are actually celebrating the art that shaped us.
sdloughr@indiana.edu
