MUSIC AND ART

I VANT TO BE ALONE

or the disappearing woman artist

By Lauren Heine

Converse 

To ensure a life of fame, one must do no less than sell one’s soul to the devil. A dangerous deal with never-ending consequences: some immediate and some far into the future. While many celebrities accept their fate, others attempt to negotiate the fine print and squirm out from under the devil’s contract. But ironically enough, the only way out is the way in which they came: a life as a nobody. For many, this is a worthy trade, a life doing what they love in return for little life outside of that. However, the problem is that even the renegotiation of the contract is fraught and difficult to maneuver.

Fiona Apple, at a tender age

Singer-songwriter Fiona Apple has been re-working this negotiation for 28 years. Beginning her career at only 18 years old, a horrible time to deal with the devil of fame, Apple, apart from her immense talent, has a reputation for “instability” (The New Yorker). Since finding herself on stage at the 1997 Video Music Awards, Apple has time and time again pushed back against the expectations of celebrity. She boldly stated:

So, what I want to say is - um, everybody out there that's watching, everybody that's watching this word? This world is bullshit… you shouldn’t model your life about what you think that we think is cool and what we’re wearing and what we’re saying and everything. Go with yourself. Go with yourself.

By attempting this, Apple shatters the illusion of grandeur associated with fame. Her second album was a response to a bad interview, resulting in the now famed 90-word title, When the Pawn… (1999), making it blatantly clear she isn’t afraid to fight back. She shared:

I have a temper. I have lots of rage inside. I have lots of sadness inside of me. And I really, really, really can’t stand assholes. If I’m in front of one, and I happen to be in a public place, and I lose my shit—and that’s a possibility—that’s not going to be any good to me, but I won’t be able to help it, because I’ll want to defend myself.

Yet, while Fiona Apple has been utterly vulnerable inside and outside of her work, she has published a magnificent but somewhat small amount of music. With the release of only five albums over 28 years, Apple actively combats the “more is always more” capitalistic mindset. She remains selective with her work and, especially now, is even more selective with her forays into the public. Nowadays, Apple resides in Venice Beach, hardly seen or heard from for months, sometimes years. She has no social media presence, except that of her housemate and dear friend, Zelda Hallman, whom she allows to post certain photographs and updates. She rarely leaves the house, going as far as even recording her most recent album, Fetch the Bolt Cutters (2020) in a spare room.

Apple crying, maybe. Or performing?

Although Fetch the Bolt Cutters was met with critical acclaim, named the #1 album of the 2020s (Pitchfork), Apple has shared that any thought of public perception, whether positive or negative, brings her to shivers: “Even the best circumstances of being in public may be too much.” However, despite being both elusive and reclusive, Apple has not disappeared. She has one foot in, and one foot out the door of life of fame. In her own way, Apple aims to negotiate her deal with the devil, in turn trying to recapture her soul and leave the public stage. While Apple has seemed capable of carrying out this veiled threat, it is unclear if it is a path she will ever truly pursue.

In Emily Nussbaum’s article, “Fiona Apple’s Art of Radical Sensitivity”, she places Apple in a tradition of disappearing women artists: “She had always possessed aspects of Emily Dickinson, in the poet’s ‘I’m Nobody’ mode: pridefulness in retreat. Apple sometimes fantasized about pulling a Garbo: she’d release one final album, then disappear.” So far, Apple hasn’t done it, but Garbo, a beloved Hollywood actress working in the 1920s through the 1940s, did. While her career itself was exceptionally successful, her abrupt exit was even more sensational.

From childhood, Garbo was recognized for her individualism, stating that she was, “sad as a child for as long as I can think back. . . I did some skating and played with snowballs, but most of all I wanted to be alone with myself.” This sentiment later turned into Garbo’s catchphrase: “I want to be alone.” This line from her 1932 film, Grand Hotel, eventually came to represent her entire persona. A 1926 review from Motion Picture Magazine writes, “She is not so much an actress as she is endowed with individuality and magnetism.” That’s true and you can’t miss it, but Garbo was uncertain about using that quality as a commodity. She refused to partake in many of the niceties associated with stardom: never attended award ceremonies, granted shockingly few interviews, and kept a clear distance from her fans making impossible and unnecessary demands about access. Ironically, that move was her undoing, entrapping her in an endless cycle of celebrity interest. As Margaret Talbot writes in her 2021 article “What Was So Special About Greta Garbo?” from The New Yorker, “She shunned interviews so consistently that in the end her privacy became its own form of publicity.”

At just 36 years old, Garbo gave in to her desires and decided to walk away from the industry. Disregarding constant requests for a return, she moved to New York where she remained hounded by paparazzi despite her exit from the screen. Talbot writes, “People loved the mystery of it all; photographers were always chasing after her. But she wasn’t in hiding; she got out. One wag called her a ‘hermit about town.’” Garbo’s allure grew even stronger, as few could understand how could anyone walk away from fame and fortune, let alone one’s life's work and supposed dream. Garbo negotiated herself out of one trap only to find herself in another. Amidst the rumors and theories, Garbo continued to live in semi-secrecy, eventually sharing with a friend, “I was tired of Hollywood. I did not like my work. There were many days when I had to force myself to go to the studio. I really wanted to live another life.”

The answer remains somewhat unsatisfactory; a mystery energized with apathy. But apathy is a force of nature, a powerful emotion often underestimated. Acting upon such emotion, Garbo set a precedent: the disappearing female artist. While levels of fame and levels of “disappearance” may vary, the mystery continues to perplex us all: what can make someone walk away and why, and in some cases where do they go? This is the answer to why leave, why quit, why go. There might not be an answer.

Described as a “modern-day Greta Garbo” by GQ, Maggie Cheung continues to entice the public’s fascination in her semi-disappearance. Cheung, the now 60-year-old Hong Kong actress, began her career in the mid-80s. Throughout her career, she acted in roughly 80 films, an extraordinary number despite being active for only 30 years. Like Garbo, Cheung took an abrupt exit from the limelight, retiring at only 46 years old, long before expected. Cheung has even gone as far as to claim, “After being away from film sets for 12 years, I no longer deserve to be called an actress!” Instead, she now fills her time with pursuits of music, editing, and other artistic endeavors. Her absence on the screen, however, has left its mark. Chung’s ex-husband, the French director and screenwriter, Olivier Assayas, describes her saying, “It’s not just that Maggie felt like a movie star, it's more like she felt like the modern version of what a movie star could be—and no one had really tried that.” Cheung was raised between Hong Kong and the United Kingdom, setting her roots in the industry through pageants and television work. In 1988, Cheung acted in her break-out role alongside Jackie Chan in Police Story, quickly amassing such fame she became an international celebrity. Able to speak Cantonese, Mandarin, English, and French, Cheung worked across multiple countries and languages, building bridges between audiences and fanbases.

Cheung was continuously undefinable, making her own set of rules for success. In a 2024 GQ article, “Maggie Cheung Walked Away from Acting 20 Years Ago, but Her Legend Endures” Raymond Ang writes, “Even at her most prolific, Cheung was willfully elusive when it came to Hollywood, passing on opportunities to appear in blockbusters.” Additionally, actress Greta Lee describes Cheung as, “…unbothered by any sort of gaze, by any sort of audience—which makes it so powerful.” Both on and off the screen, Cheung makes decisions of her own accord. Before abandoning the profession for good, Cheung turned from large movies to smaller, yet more personally fulfilling roles, working alongside installation artist and filmmaker, Isaac Julien. The pair began their venture in 2010, as Cheung acted in three of Julien’s pieces. These roles subsequently, and surprisingly, became her last. Discussing Cheung’s decision to leave acting behind, Julien remarked, “I think perhaps when somebody says ‘No,’ in a way, it creates an aura… Which is something which is felt in an intergenerational way.”

This aura continues to surround her as she lives her life almost entirely out of the public eye. While Cheung makes sporadic appearances at events, most of her life is now shrouded in mystique. Once again, another female disappearing artist overcome by apathy: she simply no longer wanted to do it, and no one could make her. There was no fallout or continuous drama cycle, but rather, at the peak of her career, she decided it was no longer what she wished to pursue. Yet, unlike Garbo, Cheung seemed to harness the negotiation of fame in her favor. In her respite, Cheung seems much happier, appearing to sincerely enjoy her life. Cheung supplies the public with just enough to satisfy their ravenous cravings. She trades surprise appearances and dribbles of information in return for the stolen pieces of her soul.

It’s not uncommon to be indecisive. Every day we change our minds countless times. But once one achieves such stature, it becomes incomprehensible to leave it behind. Part of this surprise lies in the glamorization of how we idolize not only success but the wealth that results from it. Another lies behind the ability to abandon an artistic endeavor. This becomes increasingly paramount when looking at women artists who have not yet achieved that level of fame. When they walk away there is little to hold them back other than the love of the art. However, when they do decide to leave, they become harder to find, sometimes completely disappearing. No red carpets, no paparazzi, just a complete cut to black.

Barbara Livsey, a soul singer active for a brief period in the 60s and 70s, pulled this off. In his article “Soul Singer Barbara Livsey Cut One Star-Making Album and Vanished” for the Chicago Reader, Steve Krakow writes:

Creators deserve privacy, and some actually manage to maintain theirs, as impossible as it can seem. Soul diva Barbara Livsey might be doing just that, and in any case, she left the limelight long ago… No matter where Livsey is now, the allure of her songs endures.

Livsey began her career in high school, joining her cousin to form the musical group, The Du-Ettes. The pair signed with One-Derful Records in 1963, resulting in a collection of singles and avid touring, but ultimately called it quits after just two years. In 1969, she founded her new group, Barbara & Gwen, but found little success. In response, the group rebranded, adding a new member, and changing its name to Barbara & the Uniques. Finding some luck, their first single, “became a national hit, spending 11 weeks on the Billboard soul chart in late 1970 and early ’71” (Krakow). This luck was short-lived, as their next release was unable to find its place. The group eventually moved to 20th Century Label, where they created not only singles but an entire album.

The DuEttes and then gone

This move became the beginning of the end, as when their contract with the label expired, Barbara stepped down for good. From that moment on, Barbara vanished. As she never accumulated much public notoriety in the first place, the rest of her life is unknown. Unlike Garbo, her private letters are not in the Smithsonian. Unlike Cheung, there are no fashion shows to attend. Her negotiation with fame ultimately became a straightforward deal: one or the other. In the end, Livsey got her privacy, but both she and we lost out on what could have been. While it is clearer why Livsey succeeded at making such a stark transition, her desire to do so is more shrouded in mystery. We have no tools to peer into her mind to uncover her thoughts. Did she simply give up? What did she do instead? These are questions that will never be answered.

While fame leads to mystique, anonymity leads to pure mystery. Connie Converse, a singer-songwriter who worked primarily in the 1950s, is the quintessential disappearing female artist. Despite none of her music being released during her lifetime, Converse has posthumously collected an impassioned group of fans, captivated by her beautiful melodies and intriguing lyrics.

Converse spent her New England childhood avidly studying and writing alongside her best friend, Frannie Flint. After graduating as valedictorian from high school, Converse attended Mount Holyoke, which she attended for two years before abruptly and mysteriously dropping out: her first disappearance. She then reappeared nine months later in New York City. For a brief period, Converse reunited with Flint, embracing the dream of bohemian artists. However, after Flint’s father passed unexpectedly, she was forced to move home. As her mental health rapidly declined, Flint took her own life, which was not only heartbreaking for Converse but prompted a change of paths. Drawing inspiration from Flint, who had always been musically inclined, Converse began to write, play, and record her own songs.

This newfound hobby quickly became all-consuming. Howard Fishman, the author of the biography To Anyone Who Ever Asks: The Life, Music, and Mystery of Connie Converse, writes:

By all accounts, Converse was self-taught, both as a songwriter and a guitarist. And she was not kidding around… If there is scant evidence of a robust social life during this next period of her life, it may be because she was cloistered away in her apartment, practicing, experimenting, learning.

This music was groundbreaking, ahead of its time, and unconfined by contemporary genres. Yet, it was also scarcely heard. Apart from one television appearance on The Morning Show, Converse played no large shows. She never amassed any fame, in the words of Converse herself, having only, “dozens of fans all over the world” (Fishman 433). Instead, she performed for small groups of friends and recorded her songs at the home of a loosely acquainted recording engineer, Gene Deitch.

“If you love something let it go:” a sentiment we often hear but rarely follow, but in Converse’s sake, she did. In 1961, Converse moved to Ann Arbor, Michigan to live closer to her brother, Phil, and his family. When Converse left New York, she also left behind music. It is clear through her efforts to preserve her work that the love for work was intact, yet the desire] to walk away was stronger. Converse lived in Ann Arbor until August 10th, 1974, and then at the age of 50, she disappeared. Forgoing her departure, Converse hand-wrote an assortment of letters, saying goodbye to her loved ones. She then delivered each to the proper recipient, packed all her belongings into her car, and drove away. Converse has not been heard from or seen since.

While her physical presence is gone, her spirit lives on through her music, something Converse ensured. Before leaving, she assorted her work into a highly organized filing cabinet in Phil’s garage, complete with a guide specifying the location of each object. Within it, she left one last letter, which unlike the others was typed. It began, “TO ANYONE WHO EVER ASKS: (If I’m Long Unheard From) / This is the thin hard sublayer under all; the parting messages I’m likely to have send: let me go, let me be if I can, let me be if I can’t” (Fishman 430). Converse encapsulates her final thoughts into a haunting message, pleading to be left alone. This sentiment pierces her being, one which despite, being utterly clear, we still have trouble accepting. We still have trouble letting go.

After Flint’s death, Converse defended this decision, declaring “One of the main rights that every person has is the right to do away with themselves if they wish to." This rather controversial ideal permeates Converse’s being as well as her absence. In both cases, Converse attempts to curate the perception of her life. It was important to Converse that she didn’t fade into oblivion. She spent time and thought, not only collecting her work, but assembling and notating it in a way that was easily accessible. Fishman describes the filing cabinet as “an art installation, an immaculate archaeological find… a self-contained universe, the not-unproud distillation of one person's life of ideas, accomplishments, and unbridled creativity, all carefully curated and preserved."

Converse is fascinating, as she skates the between a radical shaping of legacy and an erasure of self. She was in no way apathetic, like all these women with the possible exception of Garbo, she was dedicated to her work. Yet, she was able to not only quit, but leave her art in the hands of someone else. Rather than even attempting to re-negotiate a deal with the devil, she abandoned it entirely. But erasure in such a fundamental way feels wrong, we as onlookers are unable to sit with it, uncomfortably peering into the abyss of the unknown. We begin to treat these artists as the mystery, overlooking the mysteries of their inherent questions: how does accrue fame yet sustain their soul? How does one begin negotiation before the damage has been done? How does one rewrite the fine print? These questions remain unanswered, and even perhaps subjective. Yet, the conflict between public art and private life appears integral to the awe of celebrity, and a substitution may never make itself known. In turn, artists will continue to search, and in turn, artists will continue to come up empty-handed, and in turn, artists will continue to disappear.

©Lauren Heine and the CCA ARTS REVIEW