"Every man's life ends the same way. It is only the details of how he lived and how he died that distinguish one man from another."

―Ernest Hemingway

Yesterday, I learned that, in early January, an artist for whom I have enormous admiration simply disappeared. He went for a walk along a wild cliffside above the cold, crashing sea, and that was the last anyone saw of him.

He was by all accounts a successful artist, having sold pieces worldwide, including to celebrities, and being greatly in demand for commissions. He had his own gallery in a tourist town on the seacoast, and his paintings and prints charmed and delighted even those who could only afford to buy a greeting card.

Yet in spite of all of this apparent success and happiness, he took his own life.

Many if not most artists never see their talent for what it is. When they create a piece of work all they can see are the faults and flaws. Even the great poet Maya Angelou spoke of her sense that at any moment, she would be revealed for what she was, an impostor.

Many if not most artists are also highly self-conscious about putting their work out there, because that very action supposes complete vulnerability, not simply of presenting something as art, but also sharing - with everyone - a creation that has been infused with the author's very soul and character. It's no different from disrobing in front of strangers - awkward, humbling, and yes, frightening.

Many if not most artists have felt the sting of careless insults or indifference (one is as bad as the other). Often, the utterer of such insults is not even aware of the stinging impact of their words. Indeed, the words may hardly seem cruel to most. But the artist and his or her art are one and the same, and any criticism directed at the creation also invariably cuts into the heart of the artist.

Van Gogh. Hemingway. Diane Arbus. Frida Kahlo. Mark Rothko. Nicolas de Staël. Sylvia Plath. Kurt Cobain. Chris Cornell. 

Perhaps like Icarus, they flew too close to the sun.

"Dying / Is an art, like everything else."

—Sylvia Plath, Lady Lazarus