Acts of Violet

by Margarita Montimore

They call themselves survivors, the loved ones of those who went missing. But that’s not what I am, not really. I wish there was a special word for those of us living with ambiguous loss. There isn’t a language that feels right, a sensical way to parse out and assign definitions to the thoughts and emotions. Usually, I don’t think of myself as surviving anything. Usually, I see myself as someone who was left behind.

There is an ever-widening sinkhole of mediocrity trying to consume us all and we need to find higher ground.

Let’s be clear: I’m defending her work, not her as a person. We’ve reached a point where society refuses to distinguish someone’s creative work from who they are. A lot of great art has been made by shitty people. Is it disappointing when someone you admire turns out to be a scumbag? You bet. But if I don’t keep the work separate, there’s a hell of a lot less of it for me to enjoy.