“I have since learned that every paradise is like that: modest and fleeting.”
Two schools of thought. The first pretends we never fade, never falter. That we go forth gracefully, forever filled with promise, awe and infinite potential always near, the next triumph within our grasp, until the day we die. The other contends that we must face our finitude. That we age and our powers will diminish, regardless of how much we rage, rage against the dying of the light. Time, in either case, is unshakable.
During our group discussions for this new string of publishing, I mentioned, at one point, how it was very likely that my best work might be behind me. I didn't mean it as a negative, and I wasn't fishing for sympathy. This wasn't "giving up", either—just an acknowledgement, really. I don't think genius cares about age or time, but I do believe we fly towards an apex until we begin the unavoidable dive. Where the arc will bend is unknown, and it could very well happen late in life. Grandma Moses comes to mind. What I'm absolutely certain of, however, is that in every artist's life comes a period of perfection. A confluence. The point where the compounding effects of inspiration, urgency, and abilities, come together and explode. For most of us it's likely to be a private experience, away from the public sphere. An echo lost on anonymous trails. For the uniquely lucky few, the personal arc might even become a wave and the moment repeats, exhausting its power across mountains and valleys instead of a single curve. Until the pattern dissolves—an extension, sure, but still finite.
“We share our filter, our way of seeing, in order to spark an echo in others. Art is a reverberation of an impermanent life”
Serge Fiori, a famous Quebec singer, passed away on June 24, 2025. He'd been a cultural giant, the kind whose arc bends an entire nation along with it. But he'd reached those heights early in life. In an interview following his death, his long-time friend and manager told a story: they were listening to L'Heptade, the final album by his 1970s uber-iconic group Harmonium, when Fiori looked at him and sighed ...What more could I have done?
Acceptance. Pride, perhaps, but judging by his friend's account, tinged with melancholy. I couldn't help but wonder when, exactly, he'd felt the weight of this singular achievement. Because how do you wrestle with that? With the knowledge that you created that rare cornerstone, an album that transcends generations, your ultimate statement... and that you did it before your twenty-fifth birthday? I can't imagine. I think you go on, but you do so sensing the downward shift, an incline now ushering you away from the stars.
“This raises an important question, though. If nothing any of us does has any significance, provided you zoom our far enough, what’s the point of doing anything?”
For many—too many—years, I've lingered on the futility of marking territories bound to ultimately disperse in the vastness of space. It was an internal argument always focused on the harshness of impermanence—our own, but also of all things. A personal rebellion that would fuel wild swings between urgency and apathy. But I've changed. Impermanence imbues creation with meaning, not pointlessness. We bask in the light when it shines, harness lightning when it hits, or absorb the shadows; but we go on scratching the walls of our cave, regardless.
So we may call ourselves explorers
in the end having done
all we could've done.
