Celebrity Detox: (the fame game) by Rosie O'Donnell
Authors: Rosie O'Donnell
Tags: BIO000000
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that I was a transmitter. Now that I have understood this, I am also understanding that I need to develop some kind of spiritual practice, in part just to keep the chaos at bay, and to not get re-addicted. Barbra was a part of this.
L: How so?
R: Barbra is my best self. My ideal. Part of a spiritual practice may be to develop an ideal, which is not necessarily the same as idolizing. Idolization can be blind, but it can also be an expression of your highest hopes for yourself, and a reminder of what you need to strive for. After Barbra’s tour was finished, I flew back to Nyack on the plane. And I was crying. Why was I crying? I was exhausted—doing
The View
, being a wife and mother, all at the same time. I was moved, emotionally. I kept thinking of her seeing my things, my life, the real Roseann O’Donnell, and the world felt less lonely. I used to love hide-and-seek as a kid. The thrill of finding a secret niche while someone counted to ten, waiting, crouched really low down. I was always so good at that game. I developed the strategy of hiding in plain sight, and it was amazing how hard it was for someone to find you when you were right in their line of vision. And I remembered how odd it was for someone to look straight past you, to literally not register you. It’s the same creepy feeling I get when I go into a restroom and use the automated sensor-driven soap dispensers. Sometimes, for me, those dispensers don’t work. It’s like I’m not there. And then I am. The soap spurts out. Or the person suddenly realizes there’s another person in their path, and you are caught. You are got. On the plane, flying back, that’s what I felt. I felt sensed. I felt seen. I felt that this, perhaps, was what I needed to do for those who come to me—simply see them. Simply say, “I found you in your hiding place. You can come out now. Game’s over.”
And maybe they will. I will hold out my hand and do the best I can.
CHAPTER 9
The Sound of Color
I paint. I started after 9/11, started numbly, mindlessly, driven toward the canvas, toward whiteness I could cover with color. And since then, I have not stopped. Every aspect of painting pleases me, so much so that I want to do it at times over and above anything else. In my craft room I have tubes of Grumbacher oils, of Sennelier pastels, those bound wax sticks that, once pressed to the paper, leave behind a pure path of blue, or yellow. Saying it now, I can feel the color in my throat, behind my eyes, and sometimes at night, before falling asleep, I close my eyes and see the paintings I am not good enough to make—unfair, I can see them so well—the cobalt curls, the cadmium shapes blocked out and perfect. What actually is color? I could look up the explanation for that. But my question is more of the metaphysical sort. Animals don’t see color like we do. Their spectrum is narrower, and they get just these washed-out reds and muddy greens. So maybe, on some other planet, or even among us now, there are beings who can see beyond the spectrum. Maybe we are surrounded by indigos that are more vibrant than we can imagine, or reds that transcend red and are something altogether . . . what? Redder. Something. More.
I don’t need anything more beautiful than what I have now. What is color? I can answer that question for myself. Color, I believe, is God’s way of laughing, the liquid sauce in which he marinated his monochromic creations after he was finished. I imagine the first draft of our world was black and white, and God stepped away from his canvas, scratched his stubbly chin, and thought, “Hmmmm.” He adjusted his beret and took a sip of the merlot he always kept by his easel. Something wasn’t right about the mere mortals he’d sketched out. The faces were flat. The shadows looked like soot. The oceans were too tarry. What was it? He didn’t know. He drew a rainbow, black and white stripes, that, when he sighed with disappointment, suddenly leaped into light,
L: How so?
R: Barbra is my best self. My ideal. Part of a spiritual practice may be to develop an ideal, which is not necessarily the same as idolizing. Idolization can be blind, but it can also be an expression of your highest hopes for yourself, and a reminder of what you need to strive for. After Barbra’s tour was finished, I flew back to Nyack on the plane. And I was crying. Why was I crying? I was exhausted—doing
The View
, being a wife and mother, all at the same time. I was moved, emotionally. I kept thinking of her seeing my things, my life, the real Roseann O’Donnell, and the world felt less lonely. I used to love hide-and-seek as a kid. The thrill of finding a secret niche while someone counted to ten, waiting, crouched really low down. I was always so good at that game. I developed the strategy of hiding in plain sight, and it was amazing how hard it was for someone to find you when you were right in their line of vision. And I remembered how odd it was for someone to look straight past you, to literally not register you. It’s the same creepy feeling I get when I go into a restroom and use the automated sensor-driven soap dispensers. Sometimes, for me, those dispensers don’t work. It’s like I’m not there. And then I am. The soap spurts out. Or the person suddenly realizes there’s another person in their path, and you are caught. You are got. On the plane, flying back, that’s what I felt. I felt sensed. I felt seen. I felt that this, perhaps, was what I needed to do for those who come to me—simply see them. Simply say, “I found you in your hiding place. You can come out now. Game’s over.”
And maybe they will. I will hold out my hand and do the best I can.
CHAPTER 9
The Sound of Color
I paint. I started after 9/11, started numbly, mindlessly, driven toward the canvas, toward whiteness I could cover with color. And since then, I have not stopped. Every aspect of painting pleases me, so much so that I want to do it at times over and above anything else. In my craft room I have tubes of Grumbacher oils, of Sennelier pastels, those bound wax sticks that, once pressed to the paper, leave behind a pure path of blue, or yellow. Saying it now, I can feel the color in my throat, behind my eyes, and sometimes at night, before falling asleep, I close my eyes and see the paintings I am not good enough to make—unfair, I can see them so well—the cobalt curls, the cadmium shapes blocked out and perfect. What actually is color? I could look up the explanation for that. But my question is more of the metaphysical sort. Animals don’t see color like we do. Their spectrum is narrower, and they get just these washed-out reds and muddy greens. So maybe, on some other planet, or even among us now, there are beings who can see beyond the spectrum. Maybe we are surrounded by indigos that are more vibrant than we can imagine, or reds that transcend red and are something altogether . . . what? Redder. Something. More.
I don’t need anything more beautiful than what I have now. What is color? I can answer that question for myself. Color, I believe, is God’s way of laughing, the liquid sauce in which he marinated his monochromic creations after he was finished. I imagine the first draft of our world was black and white, and God stepped away from his canvas, scratched his stubbly chin, and thought, “Hmmmm.” He adjusted his beret and took a sip of the merlot he always kept by his easel. Something wasn’t right about the mere mortals he’d sketched out. The faces were flat. The shadows looked like soot. The oceans were too tarry. What was it? He didn’t know. He drew a rainbow, black and white stripes, that, when he sighed with disappointment, suddenly leaped into light,
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