Aretha Franklin’s death last month was jarring in a way that left me scrambling with sudden and inefficient mathematics. How old was I when I first heard/cried at her voice? Which performance of hers do I find indelible all these years later? (Watch her and Smokey Robinson and swoon with me. Or the VH1 Divas moment with Mariah.) What year was it we yelped I Knew You Were Waiting (For Me) nonstop on a road trip with poor Dad? How much money did I spend on her music while she was alive? The answer to that last question in particular gave me pause.
In an era in which so much of our lives are lived on the internet, I am well versed in the language of online social movements. In my time, I have carved out space in all the tags, ironic and sincere: #iamwriting, for example, when I am resolutely not writing; or deploying a quick #blackgirlmagic to mark my spine-tingling moments of preternatural charm, as well as the less photogenic scenes of me tearing cold meat apart at the open fridge, illuminated only by its warm glow. Celebrating the life of an artist on social media after they are gone is a lovely gesture. Even nicer? To have thrown a little money their way before then.
Black women’s art has saved me in countless ways, but championing it is very different from buying it. I dutifully bought a Franklin album as soon as I heard of her death, and rejoiced in her genius all over again, but it wasn’t the same.
If you love an artist, buy their art the minute you are able, and buy often. To that end, this week I bought a print from a London-based designer I have long admired. Art needs patronage. Don’t wait for death to force your hand.
