Electric Word, Life. The Horcrux of Prince

It means forever, and that's a mighty long time

—Prince, Let’s Go Crazy, 1984

AUDIO VERSION (10 min)

Curator reads "Electric Word, Life" with gentle ambient visuals

I think from the beginning, as I was coming into my own persona and understanding of who I was, I never talked down to my audience.

And when you don’t talk down to your audience, they can grow with you, and I give them a lot of credit to be able to hang with me this long because I've gone through a lot of changes, but they’ve allowed me to grow, and thus we can tackle some serious subjects and try to just be better human beings, all of us.

—Prince, Tavis Smiley Show, 2004

Like Prince, I’ve never liked the word fan. Short for “fanatic,” as he reminded us. I’ve never liked the underlying dismissal that word carries—an unsettling judgment, faint or strong—usually phrased “I’m only a fan.” Or, with an eyeroll, head shake— "she’s an obsessive fan." By contrast, I know it’s also used with passion and pride in its high notes—“I’m the biggest Prince fan in the world!” is how someone disarmingly introduced themselves to me the other day. Uncontestable.

Yet so often fan feels like it undermines or diminishes the value of what might at best be even sacred—the bond between artist and audience. 

There’s something special about people who knew or worked with Prince, and their precious memories. Unmediated, direct. We sit at their feet with gratitude and listen to endless hours of podcasts. Same for all the celebrity stories about Prince. A flash of pride every time someone mentions Prince in the public realm. Which they still do. “Walk with me, Prince” will forever be my favorite, from Stevie Nicks, invoked whenever she needs courage walking onto the stage.

I feel like Prince is with me…When I’m nervous, I’ll talk to Prince [..] And before I go on, I always say, ‘Walk with me, Prince.’

Yet, it shouldn’t mean everyone else is swept into the shadow, as if the hundreds of thousands, the millions, of people who also loved him, or were moved or uplifted or comforted by his music, by his example, who kept him by their side in their minds when they felt alone or were going through the hardest times—as if their voices don’t count. I know it can’t be true. 

So what do we name these people who carry a tiny spark of Prince—his art, his life on Earth, his deep, personal meaning for them—in their hearts? 

Prince preferred the term fam, like family, and many in the Prince community embraced it. I don’t know—did he use it all his life? I get the feeling it was only some of the time. He did call the people who came to his concerts “beauty personified” (1997, Chris Rock).

I like the word audience. 

Meaning, everyone who listened to Prince. 

Meaning also, everyone who listened to his message, who witnessed this artist in some way—in a recording, a concert, a film, a poster, dancing in a music video, in popular consciousness. All the ways we may have encountered him: as an artist, neighbor, fellow musician, churchgoer, anonymous benefactor, lover, son, brother, uncle, cousin, friend, mentor, guide.

Prince’s audience: all of us present to some dimension of this artist.

One of my favorite tributes circulated widely in the wake of his passing. Maybe it wasn't originally said of Prince and I saw it in various forms, but it resonated deeply: we who were fortunate to live in Prince's era.

What if, because of how his memory and spirit dwell in us, Prince lives on through us? A luminous horcrux of Prince, distributed across a million points of light, living in the heart of his audience. 

I have a sense from the recordings and audience testimony that many who witnessed his final Piano and a Microphone tour entered into the realm of the spiritual, or something like it. You can hear and feel the tender waves of love emanating, pulsing electric between artist and audience, glowing bright on our spinning dark globe— Australia, New Zealand, USA. And the Gala performance at Paisley Park in January 2016 that kicked it all off. Prince and his piano, ghost-thin, almost spirit, for endless, impossible hours of bliss—and barely a break for even a sip of water. His last concert in Atlanta, hours before he collapsed, days before he died.

Phillip from Melbourne shared his Prince story this week, how Prince helped him through a traumatic childhood filled with abuse. He writes: 

I first heard the 1999 album when I was 9. Prince's music saved and shaped my life, it liberated my mind from my early childhood trauma and kept me sane/got me through the darkest of times of my adult life.

Brave to share this, but he also shared something else about Prince. A vision at one of the 2016 Melbourne concerts, where Prince grieved his long-lost beloved Vanity (Denise Matthews) in the fresh wake of the news of her death, which he'd received just before he walked onto stage. Phillip writes:

Witnessing the P&M tour was the highlight of my life, seeing a wounded Prince grieve Vanity, his muse/love of his life in show 1 was very deep and profound. I also witnessed a flash of light during his final Purple Rain performance during show 4 in Melbourne, as if he began to transcend and was ready to depart this thing called life. I knew that would be the last time I'd see him.

I see Phillip sitting quietly in the audience, plush theatre, red velvet seats, returning again and again to see every Melbourne concert, knowing suddenly this was precious, finite time. The tender urgency, the farewell. Phillip shares:

Losing Prince was a deep grieving process that lasted a few years, on par with the loss of my parents and husband. I'm so grateful for the music and wisdom Prince shared with us - it will be forever in my life.

Someone asked recently: “Oh, so it's a fan museum?" I wanted to say no (see above), but what I really wanted was to be encouraging. So I said yes, but it's more than that. It's not about Prince memorabilia, but about our lived experiences expressed through art and story. It welcomes everyone—the fans, the fam, and the audience. Ultimately, it's for Prince.

Given I’m a mystic at heart, I like to think it’s actually a museum of love, reflecting back to Prince what he gave us, like a bat signal we send back out into the universe to him, showing him our gratitude for the life he lived and what he created. 

Whatever Prince meant to you—that's what we're gathering.

The People’s Museum is only a beautiful idea until it is brought into being with the stories and art that create the collective testimonial of why Prince mattered to so many.

Daily, contributions are arriving from around the world: personal stories, music, découpage, hand-made tarot cards, videos, intricate drawings. In a recent workshop, we discussed Super Bowl memories and explored how someone who worked as stage crew for Prince's legendary performance will present her memories and materials to share with the museum.

Your contribution—of a story or art or other object—is what will make the vision become real. Please join us and add your voice.

Phillip shared his favorite Prince lyric:

Whatever you heard about me is true, 

I change the rules and do what I wanna do. 

I'm in love with God and it's the only way, 

You and I know we gotta die someday

—Prince, Let’s Pretend We’re Married, 1982 

Prince is gone, we are here. We're the ones who carry his light forward now.

We have more workshops in January if you have questions or want to explore how you can share your story and/or art. Sign up for the newsletter to stay updated on workshops and news. Submissions and more information

https://www.peoplesmuseumforprince.org/participate

Artwork Credit: Purple Passion (detail). Watercolor, acrylic, ink, 2016 by Lori Kay Blake-Leighton