He gently shakes his head as I flit my focus back to the installation.
“In this picture, a Sudanese girl is starving to death.” The image I stared at for endless days appears in my mind with little prompt. “The way she’s postured, on her knees, hunched over, it’s as if she’s in the midst of desperate prayer.” I draw upon the memory of the image, and the details become clearer. “She’s got nothing but a necklace on, her outline skin and bones, clearly on the verge of death. She looks so small, so tiny, so helpless, and it’s easy to conclude her time is running out. And, Jesus,” I say, unable to help the tremble in my voice as Easton inches toward me. “Just behind her sits a vulture who’s close to the size of her. His presence is menacing because you know it’s just waiting for the chance to pick her apart.” I swallow, trying desperately to reel my emotion in.
“Anyway, the photo appeared in the New York Times, and Carter won a Pulitzer for it. But the only question I had after seeing it was what action he took to protect her after he snapped that photo.” Anger surfaces at my initial reaction and the mixed reports I read on the web just after. “And I wasn’t the only one. Soon after, the paper and Kevin were put under fire regarding the fate of the girl and what Kevin did personally for her after he snapped the photo. You see, by industry standards, Kevin did his job. He reported the truth of the situation with a powerful image bringing awareness about the famine. Still, the fact that his actions after were put into question is another thing entirely.”
The image again flits through my mind, forever burned in my brain. “In my eyes, there should never have been a muddled story behind what happened after he took that photo. One report stated he was standing near a waiting plane and used a long lens to take the shot and had no way of helping.” I shake my head. “An excuse I found inexcusable. How could any human being walk away from a dying child who was about to be picked apart by a bird?” I close my eyes in disgust. “Not only that, it was a separate team of people altogether who investigated what happened to that starving girl—who turned out to be a boy—after the photo was taken. Initially, there were so many conflicting reports, facts seemed impossible to come by.”
Silence stretches for a few seconds before Easton speaks up. “What happened to him?”
“He didn’t die that day, and according to Kevin’s recount, he chased the bird away, and the “girl” managed to make it to camp where they were unloading food. What still infuriated me is that Kevin received the greatest of honors for the shot but never once investigated her fate for himself. It was the concern of others and the criticism he received for not knowing after taking that shot that became a defining moment for me. Then and there, I decided exactly what type of truth-seeker and journalist I wanted to be and that I would never aspire to be Kevin Carter.”
I look over to Easton. “And I won’t be the vulture, either.” His eyes bore into mine. “Nor will I be the one to feed them. If you don’t understand or care to know anything else, please know that about me.”
I look back at the sculpture. “But that’s the thing about perception. I initially hated Kevin for his lack of action and the vague reports about the after and fed into the negative beliefs about his judgment and character…until I found out he committed suicide months later due to depression. Clearly, his work was affecting him on a massive scale. His empathy for having witnessed far too much in his career had taken a significant toll on his mental health.
“In his suicide note, he stated he couldn’t handle the amount of pain in the world. I assume the backlash he took from having shot that picture added to that. Even though it was taken almost two decades before I was born, I was just as guilty, so quick to condemn him like everyone else. Maybe he did lie to save face, or perhaps he’d already become so ill from what he’d witnessed that he wasn’t in the right frame of mind to step in because he was too busy trying to find reasons to continue his own life. Maybe he saw himself in that little girl, and in turn, those who judged him became the vultures. That’s when I became obsessed with getting the whole story, gathering all the facts before I put out any human-interest piece. Sadly, his suicide isn’t even mentioned in some of the articles, and I have no doubt it’s because people are so quick to villainize someone and keep negative perceptions prominent in the world we live in. The day I read about Kevin’s suicide was the day I realized the true power of the media and what damage an incomplete or biased story is capable of causing. Even now, I don’t think we’ll ever know the facts or complete truth of that story.” I shrug, “Maybe my theory is wrong.”
With the slight tilt of his head, Easton weighs my words.
“Easton, tell me why you’re so hesitant to give an interview for something you’re signing up for.”
He focuses back on the installation as bated silence ensues but surprises me when he finally speaks up. “The most I have to give to anyone is my music. That’s personal enough.”
“But it discredits you as a human being.”
“I don’t want to be human, not for them, because I’ll be crucified no matter what, and you can’t convince me otherwise. I want to—strike that—I have to keep a piece of myself for me and those close to me.”
“But what if your music inspires people so much they can relate and want to know more about you?”
“Then it’s the music they relate to, my feelings, my experiences, maybe my politics or beliefs at the time I was feeling them when I wrote it. I don’t want to be held to some inhuman standard. I want to be able to make mistakes and evolve, just like everyone else. So, no, I’m not signing up for anything. I’m sharing my music. That’s it. I don’t want anything else from it.”
He looks over to me, his voice grave.
“I wasn’t made for this, Natalie. Creating and playing may be the only thing that comes naturally to me—and might be construed as talent—but the fame aspect is not something I’ve ever wanted, and I was born into it. It makes me feel less than human. I feel trapped, imprisoned by it, and for that, yeah, I’m just fucking unappreciative. As selfish as it may seem, I don’t want to be responsible for people that way. If I play, it will be for entertainment. I’m no one’s messiah and don’t strive to be. Kind of like your Kevin Carter. I know exactly what I want and what I don’t. I want my music heard. I want to play it for those who enjoy it. That’s it. I don’t want you to print any of this to paint a picture of another fucking ungrateful rock star’s kid, who already feels trapped by fame before he even releases. It’s my worst nightmare. Pick a different angle, any fucking angle.”
“It’s the truth.”
“It’s part of the truth,” he insists, not giving me anything else.
“We don’t have to be friends, Easton, and I may grill you for the truth, but I can promise you that I won’t sacrifice any part of you for them.”
He remains silent, his jade gaze magnetic as we stare off.
“I know I haven’t given you a single reason to trust me, and I may seem a little out of…” my fucking mind, “sorts, but I assure you I am capable of writing an honest story full of whatever your truth may be. If you decide to grant me an interview.”
He nods, unrelenting in his observation of me as more silence ensues.
“Will you at least tell me what you’re thinking right now?”
“I think you’re beautiful,” he rasps out, “and I feel sorry for you.”
I can’t help the bark of a laugh that bursts from me as my pride takes another solid hit. “Screw you, Crowne.”
His lips lift slightly in another almost smile before he extends an open hand toward me. “Come on.”
Frowning, I stare at his outstretched hand as he extends it further, urging me to take it. Hesitantly I grasp it, and he encases it in his warm palm before leading me into the next room.