Between Two Poles: A longer Piece on Bipolar Disorder

February 10, 2015

Note:  I had published assorted versions of this piece.   This is the longer version. It goes into some depth regarding bipolar disorder and my recent diagnosis with Borderline Personality Disorder. 

This started out late last night and early this morning as a simple edit.  It ended as a flow of consciousness recounting of my planned exhibition this year and the path that got me to that point and the one that is leading me to this one.

Currently, I am working in "overtime" mode to raise funds and awareness for my show. I just began a Gofund Me for it.    The link is here.

You can see more of my work on my web site.

Should you have questions for me, please email me.

An Artist Statement, of sorts, on Between Two Poles

by:  Kurt von Behrmann

              When I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder in 2013, it was as if someone had just died in the room, me. It was both a surprise and a relief when I realized I had a serious mental illness. The many problems I had experienced over the years made quickly made sense. However, knowledge did not stop the power of this crippling illness. 

                I tried to commit suicide.

                Having support, going to support groups, therapy and medications, none of that was able to prevent me from committing suicide. For me, there was no real use in living. All thoughts were dead ends. The things that mattered so much simple ceased to do so.

               Suicide attempts, in my case, lead to my first hospitalization for mental illness. Carried in an ambulance, tired and what empty, I spent an entire day in a waiting room hoping for a hospital bed. There was high demand, but low supply.

              The first day was numbing. The second filled with groups. One followed the other. At the tie I did not have insurance. That ensured my stay would be brief. After three days I was released. Although the Psychiatrist was emphatic that I had a serious mental illness and that I needed intensive therapy.

             That did not happen. I was released from the hospital, but there was no exit plan. I went from a behavioral health facility right back into “the real world.”

             There were many difficult ups and downs having and not being able to afford treatment. I would heal, and then relapse. Drugs that were intended to help had my briefly lose my equilibrium. 

A painting that shows the spinning  I felt in Bipolar madness.

             Acquiring insurance provided care. But the drugs I were taking simply were not effective. The wonder drug “Lamictal,” was totally infective. Depressions and hypo mania were bound in a restless cycle that had me up and down. My emotions transformed into a violent roller coaster. 

          When the day started, I might feel optimistic, happy, even filled with bliss. Rapid thoughts accompanied fast thinking.   Ideas were flowing so fast I stumbled on my words. At the high point, I was a jester spilling jokes all around me. Nothing could stop me. I was invincible.

           The downside was that this euphoria did not last. Within a day or two, it would slide into depression. What goes up, must come down. The trajectory I was on always lead to a fall.

           One day's pain turned into days and weeks of me laying on a sofa unable to do anything.   I was falling into immobility.   Every day I was suicidal. There were times I wanted to kill myself, but I was literally too exhausted to do it.

               

                The pain of hopeless, depression, anxiety and lethargy are hard to describe. They are powerful but elude any kind of crisp description. When I was at the lowest, everything shut down. I felt pain, but not a physical kind.   Nothing hurt, but there was a powerful pain. It was both intense and cold. The very idea of the world had no appeal. Nothing mattered except the depression. I could not pull myself out of it because my entire mind had become this void.

Those were my first cuts.   Most have healed. Months later I still reminders. 

                There were tools given to me by therapy. It my worst state they were of no use. The drugs that were supposed to at least alleviate the pain enough to get some kind of grasp of things were not powerful enough.   I had contemplated, seriously, ending drugs, therapy and any other support. When I need support the most, there was nothing to grab. There was no substance to anything. 

                The only thing I had in depression was depression. The grasp of this illness was reaching a point where I started to feel nothing at all.   There was only me wanting to end all of this insane jumping from high to low.

                As all of this was happening, my identity was drifting away. All of the things that made up me, the artist, the writer, the educator, the politically aware person, everything that made up me was taken away. It was not slow. Depression moves quickly. It leaves nothing untouched.

                My life was becoming surreal. There were moments where it felt like a film. I was either starring in it, or removed from the action. Simple events were monumental moments. 

                Then there were times when I just felt myself pulling so far inward. I was rejecting the world, other people and to some degree myself. It was like drowning and no one was hearing your screams.

This drawing came from long ago.  This was before I knew what was to come.  In retrospect it sems prophetic.

                Now that I look back, I had often felt like I was screaming, but no one was listening. I was in my own personal hell but no one knew I was in it. I either kept it hidden, or it resulted in some odd behavior on my part. 

                My life reached a new kind of low when I started cutting myself. I wanted to see if I could endure the pain of slitting my wrists. I am not a person who likes pain, but I was just feeling so much of it lately that I wanted to see how much physical pain I could endure.

                I can’t say that I thought of cutting as a deliberate act. The idea to get up and cut myself was not a formed idea.   The impulse to do was that. Without a lot of emotion at the time, I was jumped up from my sofa, walked into the kitchen and started.

                The first marks were tentative. I really wanted to slit my wrists, but I was not sure if I had the willpower to do that. This was like a test run for the real thing is how I saw my cuts.

                I started, slowly and I kept going up my arm cutting a little bit deeper every time. I was totally transfixed by what I was doing. I was drawn to this. There was an addictive side to this. I hated the pain, but I could not stop.

Although very much  in progress,  "Cutter" is a chronicle  in visual terms of what I felt like when I started to cut.  To date it is one of my darkest subject matter.

                The scars created by the knife fascinated me. I kept cutting. Briefly, they gave me a release. The scars were expressing the intense pain I had no other way to express. The escape those marks offered was short lived.

                I would stop, realizing this was not a good idea.   Rational thinking intervened. Consciously, I knew I should stop. Emotionally, I felt like I shouldn’t. I broke away to call a support person from my support group. That borrowed time.

                I called the warm line, a phone line that offers support for 15 minutes to people in crises who need to talk. I think I actually reached a former cutter. That only borrowed more time.

                Self-preservation stepped in.   I called a friend of mine and we talked about things other than cutting or bipolar.   I had stopped.

                That was only for a while. I resumed again. No one knew it until well after the fact.

                Much was taking place, but I had reached a point where I wanted to change health care. I was seeing a Nurse Practioner whose healthcare plan was clearly not working. I felt weak, really weak, but I was up when I made my last visit. 

                My feelings made no sense. I was cutting, then left to see this “buffoon.” I was happy, really really up knowing feel well this was my last visit. My feelings were totally out of sync with everything. I was cutting, and then very happy. 

There is so much isolation to Bipolar mixed with Borderline Personality Disorder.  There are so many times when I just wanted to be left alone.   The struggles of daily life were become too much for me to handle.  The drugs and therapy help.  Support groups help, but when you are hit with the downs of depression, it is like being struck with an axe. 

                Eventually I did find a “Psychiatrist.” I am really not an advocate of Nurse Practioners at all. I really do not believe they have the medical knowledge to deal with mental illness, at all unless under the strict eye of a Psychiatrist.   Even then, I have grave reservations. 

                Under new care, a new therapist, things started to move forward.

Bipolar can offer you a few days of mania that can jump start your motivation. I was slow moving and tired, but I was making progress in November of last year. 

                Now it is February of 2015, and I am starting to put the pieces back together. The current combination of medications and therapy seem to be working. I still have bad moments. But, the addictive cutting has ceased.

                 I can paint. I finished a work in January, and about to complete one this month and I know I am create more innovative pieces.

                The only problem is that I do need funds. Between not being able to work or even find work in my state, I have fallen behind with bills.

I am not a VET, but I felt the need to express that kind of suffering.  This painting, which was featured at the Herberger Theater in Phoenix was my take on the Middle East Wars and the toll it took on the men coming home. I had a chance to see VET suffering and for some reason I felt I understood it,to some degree. Although I was spared the horrors of war, I was not spared the emotional pain of mental illness.  I am not putting my pain on their level.  That would be presumptuous. But, I think there is common ground. 

                This is why I am asking for support for my solo exhibition of new art “Between Two Poles, A Bipolar Themed Exhibition.”

                Before I became seriously ill in late 2014, I had created a proposal for an exhibition that talks about bipolar disorder from the perspective of an artist with the illness.

The works would be centered around the idea of expressing the euphoric ups and the damaging downs of Bipolar. 

 

                The idea for the exhibition came about when I realized how many of my pieces dealt with canvases being divided in half.   Works literally had a dark side and a light side. This has been a salient feature of my work for some time

.

                After looking over my recent creations I began reading Dr. Key Redfield Jamison’s book “Touched with Fire: Manic-Depressive Illness and the Artistic Temperament.” I started to see strong connections between Bipolar and creativity. There is a good case made for it in this book. The unusually high number of artists with this affliction makes a compelling case that bipolar is connected to high levels of artistic achievement.

The list of artists who have suffered from mental illness, depression and bipolar, is extensive. The artistic temperament is a live wire that ignites everything it its path.

                There was a study in Sweden, and I cannot recall the details. In this study they examined high achieving student’s psychiatric records. They discovered that a number of them were bipolar. 

                What I have experienced is that Bipolar can literally send you a million and one ideas at once. It can create wild associations between ideas and visuals. It provides the “fire” that sparks the imagination.   When in a hypo manic moment, you get added inspiration and drive. Your sense of purpose is extremely drawn. The only down side is when the depressions hit so hard you cannot move, let alone create a piece of art.    

                For me, my artistic temperament was fueled by yet another diagnoses, Borderline Personality Disorder. That brought another element into the “mix.” From what I have read thus far, a number of bipolar people also have this personality disorder as well.    

              There is the belief among some in the psychiatric community that Borderline Personality Disorder maybe related, or even on the same spectrum, as Bipolar. This is speculative on my part, but I do feel that there is a connection between the two of some type. I am not a psychiatrist so I can only offer what I have seen, but mood and personality tend to be connected in mind closely.

              Amid all of the anguish and chaos, my proposal for a Bipolar Exhibition was approved by the prestigious Shemer Art Center in Phoenix, Arizona.   If all goes well, I will have a show there opening June 25^th to August 6^th of this year.   

            The show is really the one thing that has kept me going. Knowing that my identity as an artist is intact and that my work and ideas are taken seriously by a well-respected art institution in Phoenix Arizona is confirmation at a very good time.

The divide between the cool feeling of depression and warmth of bipolar mania.  I always see depression as cold and very blue. I see red as the fire and spark of hypo mania. 

           I believe my recovery, which is permitting me time to create this document, is in large part the result of this upcoming exhibition. Advance response to the new pieces has been overwhelmingly positive. The content and imagery in the new work is different from anything I have done.

          A positive sign of my own “renaissance” is that I will have work at a new art center opening this March. The Director invited me to participate. I am very thrilled about this. It will be my first showing of 2015.

         This month I also completed a small commission.   It was small. But at least it was something. I am grateful for small things. Bad times make you appreciative.

          Sadly, I had tried to apply for a grant. Due to my inability to fully function at the time, I had made a mistake and the grant was rejected. This is what Bipolar and Borderline personality can do to you.   

          I know that if I can get through the next few months, I know I can get back to where I was creatively. I do want to teach again and make art and write.

         What I need, desperately need, are funds to purchase paints, frames, canvas and the like to continue.   Funds are literally spent. I mean zero. So anything you can throw my way will help make this possible.

I always feel like I am asking for something.  Then I remembered something I had read.  Prior to Harper Lee writing "To Kill A Mocking Bird," she had a friend give her enough money to stop working and just write.  The result of that one year was a masterpiece.

       Whatever you can do, a few dollars, or just spreading the word helps. I would love to see my web site go viral. Links to my web page, looking me up on twitter and facebook, my web site has the links, all of this counts. I would like to go viral. 

          Aside from me for a moment, Bipolar disorder is a serious mental illness. It can literally kill you. Awareness is increasing. This is good. Alleviating stigma is still a problem. It prevents people from seeking treatment or even knowing what to look for with regards to mental health. 

          We tend to ignore mental health. If things in life are not working out as planned, or your are depressed, the assumption has always been that you have a character flaw. If discipline is engaged, your difficulties will vanish. “Pick yourself up by your bootstraps,” and “ Just plow ahead, “ are the standard assumed answers.

         Life has never been that simple. There are instances where simply plowing ahead will get you ahead. Not everyone suffers from a mental illness. 

          But, when you think of suicide, when your behavior becomes erratic, when you moods change for no reason, when your so depressed that suicide seems like an excellent option, it is time to seek professional help.

          No one, myself included, wanted to believe I had a problem. I was somewhat functional in the world. I had overcome obstacles as most people do. I had set backs. I buckled down and moved forward.   I just assumed everyone becomes suicidal. I assumed everyone becomes depressed for weeks on end. I assumed everyone becomes restless, reckless and takes risks. I assumed a lot.

As long as the bills were paid and nothing terrible happened, I was alright. 

I felt like a spinning something.  Forever in motion by not going anywhere fast.

            I was terribly wrong.   If I have ever made a huge mistake in my life it was not seeing the signs. They were painfully obvious for a long time.   The moodiness of High School. The suicidal thoughts at a teenager. The frequent bouts of suicidal thoughts off and on over the years.   Manic behavior that would keep me up all night and active during the day for weeks on end. 

             When I went to my first Behavioral Health Facility my first thought was, “these poor people, and thank God that is not me.”

            The joke was totally on me. I was just like those people and had been for a very long time.

         No one selects to be Bipolar. But, if you seek treatment, persist and become your own advocate, you can hope for a positive outcome.   Bipolar can do a lot of damage, a lot. But there is hope.

           I can tell you that there maybe ups and downs. Everyone is different. For some, recovery comes with medications. In time the pills go from several a day to just one.   For some people, that is realistic.

          For others, Bipolar means taking care of oneself.   For me that means a healthy life style. It means no smoking, no drinking, eliminating certain foods and certainly no drugs other than those prescribed.

"Toulin" is still my most autobiographical painting to date.  It said so much when  I made it and says much now.  If I had ever painted a self portrait that was accurate, this was it.  All the wounds are open here.

            I have not been in recovery long enough to know what it means for many people. What I have seen informs me that it does require vigilance. 

           I do know for certain that not taking psychiatric meds, not altering your lifestyle, or ignoring Bipolar is life threatening.   No one gets better without psychiatric meds, therapy and support groups.    People may say they do, but I have only seen cases becoming worse, a lot worse.

           If you think, even suspect, that you are Bipolar and/or Borderline Personality Disorder, please seek professional help from trained professionals. Talking to friends is great, but that is not enough.

Thank you for reading this document. If any of this helps just one person, I feel very successful in my goals.

        I am actively seeking support for what I know will be a unique exhibition.   Help me make it happen.   I have much to say and this is a subject that demands a public dialogue.

          There are so many myths and misconceptions about mental illness. There are just as many about what constitutes “good mental health.” There needs to be a conversation about Bipolar.

A direct link to my video

This is an image from my upcoming exhibition, "Between Two Poles: A Bipolar Themed Solo Exhibition. I am very excited about this.  The concept for this presentation came about as a result of the connection between bipolar disorder and creativity.  

Dr. Kay Redfield Jamison's book, "Touched with Fire: Manic-Depressive Illness and the Artistic Temperament" makes a compelling point with substantial data that many successful creative works were the result of people having bipolar disorder.

The revelations and connections that can be made in hypo-mania, and possibly mania, can be the very fuel that sparks high levels of creativity in a variety of professions.   The number of visual artists, actors, authors, writers and scientists who live with bipolar are staggering.

When I looked at the work I had created over the past few years, there is a duality to my work.

Right now, I am looking to seek funding to support for my solo exhibitions, actually two. One will be at the Shemer Fine Arts Center, Phoenix, Arizona.  I will have a second one is Scottsdale.   We are working out the details. The Shemer Show will open late January. 

My Kickstarter is where you can support my project.

I am very excited about this exhibition.

Sing Lady Gaga

Perhaps she should do this, acoustic music?


Lady Gaga Sings 


A man sang Paparazzi as a ballad with minimal accompaniment.  I always wondered how this song would sound if Lady Gaga performed it with just a piano and her voice.   By accident looking for how to fix a pc issue — I found this video.   I always thought there was so romantic about this song about longing.   If you have ever fallen hard for someone indifferent to you, this is the song.  It has a haunting melody.   Gaga does a great piano intro.   She reminds me of Prince in that they both are accomplished musicians and can do big grand big scale songs, but can take it down to do something compelling.  

My big want list for Lady Gaga is to do an entire suite of songs with just her voice and a few acoustic instruments.  That side of her would be interesting to see.  She has a fine voice and she does have an ability to turn out a melody.

On a side note, and I was speaking to a certain someone —he will go nameless—who said I had no sense of fashion.  Well, I went from spending time in G.Q. and Interview in the 80’s and 90’s and turned to art and gadgets.  It was a slow move.  I loved clothes, but then I loved art supplies, assorted things that glitter.

She does do it big!  What if she scaled back to just her voice and the music?

My point is that I always appreciate high fashion.  It is not as superficial as it seems. If you love art, it makes sense to love clothes that turn you into art.

That is what Lady Gaga does.  She makes there huge creative moves and they have some meaning.  The steak dress was high conceptual art making a statement. I thought it was a great idea.  They always treat artists like so much meat.  You are just a commodity not a person.

I said this because someone trashed Gaga for her clothes.  Well I think she does a great job.  If I were in her position, I would do the same thing. Paper suits, oversized hats, I mean the Talking Heads did this and no one was upset.  Gaga goes further and some people’s children have an episode over it.

Margaret Cho had the right idea.  When they put you on the worst dressed list, you probably are the best dressed.  I say take risks.
As long as it is about style, art and having something to say, you will usually get it right.

If not, you will be someone they all talk about later.

Domestic Violence A Drawing

Domestic Violence A Drawing

I have decided to upload every day drawing that has not been seen, or on exhibition, daily.  I have a whole section of my oeuvre that has remained unseen.   Much of this work is not typical of my current work, although I am seeing connections.   As I was going through my drawings, I realized just how many were figurative. 

 Much of the work I have shown have been abstract.  The process of looking back is always educational.  It also shows what works, what was a near hit, near miss and ideas worthy of further exploration.

At the time I created this piece, “Domestic Abuse,”I was living in downtown Phoenix.  My environment was vastly different from the one I have now in many ways and my work often reflected that world.   Ideas from the news, or people I knew and met were all subject matter.  My art was very much a diary of what I encountered. 

In retrospect there was a “dream like” quality to my life back then.   To this day, I do not know how I survived during that period.   I was self-sufficient, but it was a struggle.  I managed for a long time on dreams, aspirations, frustrations, debt, a living room for a studio and art.    Flash forward a few years and I have a dedicated space as a studio.  I envisioned these things happening, but had no idea how I was going to move forward. 

 It is funny how I was able to predict where I would be then.  I had a picture of the future, and I wanted that picture.  I suppose that is part of art, romantic wildly unbelievable wants that you hope become very real.

Art is always a struggle.  It was then, and it is now.  But I have always held on tenaciously to my art.  It has never been compromised to the point where I was embarrassed with what I created.  I held on to my vision with steel like determination.   My feeling has always been that you owe yourself, your patrons and the public the very best work possible.  It is a duty to expand, grow and develop.  To become stagnant is the ultimate sell-out. 

“Domestic Abuse” was my comment on violence in the home.  Personally, I have never tolerated any form of physical abuse.  It is horrific that we have confrontations that end in pain, destruction and sometimes death.   At the time I created this drawing, a crime had been committed that was drawing a great deal of media attention.  The details escape me.  

What remained of my memory was that this work was centered on the type of images shown to victims of violence.  The images are black and white generic people with notation on where a wound was delivered and the like.  They had a minimalist feel to them being that they were stark black and white line drawings.

I took the images I had seen in the New Times of those crime aids and transformed them into a prisma color drawing.   The tension between the dark image and its source was contrasted with bright colors.  I liked the contrast.  The notion of this kind of duality has been present in a number of pieces I have created.   The gathering of dark subject matter with bright bold up beat color has always had an attraction to me.   Aesthetics mean a great deal to me. 

One of the reasons, among several, that I create art stems from the simple fact that I like beauty.  What I am referring to is not the saccharin  common placer definition of beauty, but something richer that is often ignored.   Finding beauty in the unlikely has always held an attraction for me.  “Is there in truth no beauty?”  I have often asked that question.  “Is there no beauty in truth?”

Check out My web site

Miley Cyrus Tries Again, Sex Sells, But What and Why

Sex, Eroticism, Art and why does this have to be so cheap.



It is all about shopping.


I am not offended, but I am bored. What I do not understand is how this is of any real interest? I would find this interesting if Cyrus was making a statement. If she had something meaningful to say and this was part of that expression, then I would find this interesting. Sex has always been fascinating. It is the best indoor sport every invented. There are so many interesting things that can be said about it and there are people how are doing just that. 

This on the other hand is just near nudity. If she showed up naked, and was saying something by doing so, that would have been interesting. Just wearing pasties is not all the profound.
This is not about being prudish. I enjoy art and nudity in art. I do not think there is a problem there. But if you are an artist, musical, literary, etc, I expect a lot more than a simplistic stunt.

Sure, going to a party in pasties is going to get attention. But none of this makes you "edgy" "sexy" or particularly interesting.
The human body nude is a great thing. To turn it into something cheap and sensational is to me an insult.

While I am on the subject, why do we make sex and sexuality so vulgar?
Why do places and things associated with sex have to be so cheap and sleazy? Why can't these things be placed in a more artistic more elevated space?
I really think the reason why I like sex and eroticism in art is because they are elevated, never turned into trash.

All Miley Cryus did was take the human body and exploit it for attention.
Of course, she is not alone.

Madonna started this idea that you can flash you butt and somehow you are interesting.
I know a whole slew of male models who are a lot more interesting than this and they do not reduce sex and nudity into something vulgar and disgusting.

So my whole point is to make sex "upscale" sex, respect nudity and eroticism and stop using the human body for cheap stunts designed to draw attention to yourself for attention and money.
At the very least men and women in the sex industry are a lot more honest about what they are doing and why.
Plus, men and women in the sex industry are a lot more interesting that Miley Cyrus with this latest weak and pathetic bid for attention.

An article about this on Huffington Post

#mileycyrus #kurvonbehrmann

More Sex Drugs and Rock and Roll: An Insider View

There Goes Gravity: A Life in Rock and Roll by Lisa Robinson

A book Review by: Kurt von Behrmann

                Access is crucial to any journalist. However, acquiring it in the rarefied realm of contemporary music presents special challenges. The biggest obstacle is gaining the trust of musicians, particular those who have achieved stratospheric success.  Lisa Robinson had entrée into that world, and all that comes with it, the good, the bad, the ugly and even the boring.

 “There Goes Gravity: A Life in Rock and Roll” chronicles Robinson’s encounters with acts that achieved iconic status and those that were seminal in the underground music scene of 70’s in New York.  The thrust of the book focuses on her stint as a traveling journalist with the Rolling Stones and Led Zepplin.   Both from the U.K., wildly successful and huge fans of African-American music, their respective tours included the obligatory chartered jets, stretch limos and the inevitable conflicts that place egos and artistic integrity into battles of the wills.

                Robinson correctly notes that unless you are part of the self-indulgence that comes with the rock and roll highlife – quick sex, long drinking bouts, endless supplies of drugs and the usual mayhem that accompanies creative people on the road, you are on one tour and they are on another.  Robinson was not a part of the party.   It is obvious from her observations she was aloof from the debauchery. 

                Even if you were not a participant in the shenanigans, it seems a little odd that a reporter would not want to be front and center to the action, if there was any.  Clearly things were happening on tour, but Robinson has either turned a blind eye to the excesses or had no real knowledge of them.  What emerges rather quickly is that Robinson is both fond of her subjects and a little protective of them.  This certainly fosters great friendships, but it hardly makes for exciting reading.

                If you are expecting an expose of the behind the scenes workings of pop music in high gear, you will be disappointed.  A Wendy Williams type of insider providing the “hot topics” is not here.  There are no truly sordid stories here that one may not have read about elsewhere.  

                But, that doesn’t meant that Robinson has nothing of importance to say.  What she does communicate well is the excitement of being on tour and the attendant luxury that comes with huge global success.  She does convey some of the wonder and thrill of perpetual jet travel, meeting the famous and staying in high end hotels in exciting cities.  There is plenty of that here.   

                But there is also a down side.  There is the unexpected consequence of having some so much so soon and so often that it can lead to a type ennui.  After a while the travel becomes tedious and one hotel starts to look very much like the other.  When your world becomes work, travel and work, even with the trappings of success, it can lead to a blur. Even the performances themselves suffer from the unrelenting pressure to maintain stardom.  It is hard getting to the top, and just as hard staying there.  The fear of slipping into irrelevance is omnipresent when you are a proven winner.   

                Robinson captures those feelings, but she seems to be unable to draw any conclusions from what she sees.   She makes note of the chemical dependencies and one night stands with groupies, but she never looks deeper to ask the penetrating question, why?

                Robinson seems content to list her encounters with high powered Rock and Roll acts, but seldom offers up any type of conclusions or assessments of what she has discovered.  There are comments here and there, but nothing that really sums up what all of the travel, music and mayhem was really all about.   There is clearly meaning here, but it feels decidedly ambiguous.   While ambiguity can be a useful tool for an artist, it can ruin a reporter.

                Short of funny anecdotes, or stinging gossip, Robinson does manage to get a few digs in from time to time.  For the most part, she genuinely likes her subject and makes no bones about that.  But, if a celebrity doesn’t connect with her, the dislike is openly expressed.

                One can argue about the talents of Madonna, but one cannot deny that she was a game changer.  Utilizing the emerging world of music videos, hers were about image and sexuality married to dance music.  Like her or not, she created the template for solo female acts that is still in use today.   

                Robinson did not feel the need to accord her a place in the pantheon of game changers in contemporary music, which is her choice.  But she had no problem finding her distant and self-absorbed.  Robinson was looking for something more from Madonna.  Whatever that something was, it left a substantially negative bad taste in the author’s mouth.

                Allegedly, according to Robinson, Sir Elton John didn’t have a particularly high opinion of the material girl either.  “The only thing she has done for the gay community is take their money,” supposedly said Sir John.   

                Another musician that “irked” Robinson was Yoko Ono.  For a period of time, John Lennon and Robinson enjoyed some rather detailed exchanges.  Ono was also included on some of these conversations. The relationship was cordial.   In one of the books better crafted moments, Robinson makes a surprising revelation about Ono. It doesn’t speak well of her. It also provides a dramatic moment that is much needed in a narrative that at times seems to be monotone at moments.

                A thread that comes up periodically are the conflicts of fame and creativity.  Robinson outlines the phases of a band from garage to recording studios and the price paid for success.  It is in the words of the musicians themselves that one witnesses a self-awareness that is worldly, wise and a bit cynical.

                Common to all of the bands are the years of struggle. The battle to make music, be seen, be heard and obtain that most sacred of documents, “a recording contract” are the first phase.  Following the support of a record company, sales start, recognition and fame follow, if lucky.  With the fame comes the money, the acclaim, the awards, the adulation and sometimes the hangers on.

                In the world of popular music, it is an unstated rule that you can’t appear too ambitious.   The image of a musician is someone who loves what he or she does and the other aspects of success are incidental.  The truth of the matter is that all successful musical acts are wildly ambitious.  They simply do not put it in print.

Madonna, early one, happened to be very open about her ambitions.  For acts based on usurping authority and traditional values, ambition and success can be the death of a muse and the annihilation of artistic integrity.

                Robinson does successfully touch upon this point at several times. It is worth noting.  The biggest problem for an act is both success and obscurity.  If you are a maverick and a rebel, a certain kind anyway, you need the edge that comes with the struggle.  If you hang onto your principles and play long and hard, you win an audience and have a muse.  But, if you fail to reach an audience, you are forever stuck in a bohemia where you have limits and restrictions on what you can do.  Certainly, you can inspire and brave new ground, but without some support of some kind, your art dries up and evaporates.   One cannot stay in the underground for too long.   If you do, you  risk sliding into obscurity.

                Should success hit, you have support, an audience and fame.  Now your work hits worldwide and everyone knows you.  First comes acclaim and then the monetary rewards.  Now come expectations.  Then come the compromises that arrive with fame.  Without notice, you are living the type of life your musical was critical of, and now you may well risk losing the muse that inspired you to create music in the first place.

                Sure, these are simple scenarios, but they do reflect the winning and losing side of fame and the downside of remaining a cult act.   Robinson does bring light to the conflict and a few other realizations that add up to the fact that life on the road is never easy, and trust is a dicey concept when you are successful and everyone wants a piece of you.

                Conclusion

                Lisa Robinson’s tour through rock and roll from underground bars in New York to world tours, makes for fascinating reading if for no other reason that peering into the inner lives of successful musicians is always intriguing.  There Goes Gravity depends on the reader having that interest.  Flowing in and out of time, sometimes it becomes awkward going from one tour to the next awkwardly going in and out of sequence.  The repetition of some statements doesn’t help.  Also annoying are some rather clichéd lines that crop up from time to time.

                This is not a particularly poorly written book, but neither is it a particularly exciting one.  What should have been a world of wonder and ideas starts to seem rather pedestrian.  The biggest failing of the book is the failure to capture the personality of the musician in question. Too quickly the book feels like a fleeting note pad of meetings, conversations and events that don’t add up to much more than descriptions.  Minus any analysis, all that is left are descriptions.    The occasional biting comments help. The provide some change in rhythm.  A few stories of seedy activity or self-importance ruining an image supply some spark, but they cannot become a substitute for real insight.

                This is not a bad diversion.  It does open a door into a world few enter, and that is the main selling point of the book.  For an insider view, it should have been significantly more insightful and definitely more fascinating.