A mustache comb — tiny and crafted of solid silver. In the photo, the auctioneer presents it with ceremony. That something this small has become an outsized part of the sale he's running is only because of the comb's owner.
I've avoided Sotheby's auction of singer/songwriter Freddie Mercury's belongings being conducted on behalf of his longtime girlfriend and confidant, Mary Austin. In a BBC interview, Austin stated she had to be "brave enough to sell the lot," to let go of the belongings of a man so creative, so compelling, so damn good-looking. Friends have sent the Sotheby's catalog to me, thinking, as the biggest Mercury fan they know, surely, I must want to peruse every page. After all, I cried for days when he died in 1991, pregnant with my first child and trying to comprehend the loss of such an intrinsic part of my youth. What they don't know is how difficult this is to process and how deeply I understand what Austin is going through.
In 1978, I was a music-loving kid who wanted to be a writer. I spent hours in my parents' Detroit basement, listening to music, reading Rolling Stone magazine, dreaming of being backstage asking questions, partying just a little, then sequestering in my hotel room in Cleveland or LA to write up the story. Queen and Mercury were the stars of that fantasy. They were the first concert I attended at 14, lying to my parents about where I was, then sneaking off downtown. In the years that followed, I collected all their records. I saw them several more times, once even scoring backstage passes, and met them when they stayed at the hotel where I worked while in journalism school.
Brave is exactly the word that comes to mind to describe this act. I listened to her BBC interview and felt compassion, where once I felt only envy.
Though I submitted college newspaper clips to magazines, a job never materialized. At the same time, I met my future husband, who eased the let-down, telling me I could write for other purposes like PR or advertising. So I did. I created a lovely, yet different life than I imagined. I became a mother and settled into a beautiful suburban existence until my husband of 25 years received a surprise cancer diagnosis in 2008. By 2010, he was gone, and I was left with a house full of memories, both ephemeral and physical, trying this time to comprehend the loss of my whole life. And with none of Mary Austin's bravery.
I feel no disdain for her decision to part with Mercury's belongings. After he died, Mary inherited his home, Garden Lodge, which he'd filled with collections of everything from tiny cloisonné boxes to 16th-century furniture, closets of clothing, walls lined with gold and platinum records, books of handwritten lyrics, jewelry by Cartier, art by Picasso and Chagall. I dreamt of stepping into Garden Lodge and being surrounded by all that Freddie-ness. Now, I think how suffocating it must have become. I realize Austin's pain in living among these things, her further ache at deciding to let them go, and the challenges she faced doing so in the public arena, a place she has purposely avoided. Brave is exactly the word that comes to mind to describe this act. I listened to her BBC interview and felt compassion, where once I felt only envy.
I've downsized twice since losing my husband, once to move to a smaller home and again more recently, when life changes compelled me to take another look at what needed to go. Austin says she wishes to put her affairs in order and not leave this for her sons to deal with. Like Mary, I too wish to spare my children from reading my late husband's love notes or journals. Along with more personal items, there are favorite sweaters, books, tools, golf clubs. Nothing like the Mercury collection, of course, yet it's still exhausting, emotional work.
Even as I consider, as a fan, that I would keep Mercury's remarkable collections, I know as a widow and as a chronicler of these women's stories that I could never question Mary Austin's need to free herself of these beautiful yet burdensome artifacts.
As hard as it is to rid myself of things, keeping them makes me feel mired in and moored to a past I relate to less and less. I am now, at last, a music writer. And with a book being published, I feel I'm on the verge of a new life, one I'm finally ready to say I'll live without my late partner. Perhaps this is just the passage of time, or perhaps it's the result of purposeful work to move forward.
Writing my book has also allowed me to have a deeper understanding of Mary Austin's situation. In it, I profile the widows of rock stars and what they've taught me about grief. Each woman, like Mary, has dealt with lifetimes worth of belongings. They are keepers of art and music, valuable guitar collections, and unreleased music. They deal with copyrights, contracts and royalties. They're dedicated to preserving legacies. I alone decided which of my late husband's things would remain with me, go to family or friends or be discarded. Yet these women deal with family, former band members, managers, lawyers, and overzealous fans who all think they have a say. One widow was forced to move all the belongings from the home she shared with her rock star boyfriend within one week of his death. Returning later to a storage unit, she opened the door to see among her things, her solitary bike inside. The sight of her bike alone after his had been taken brought her to her knees. Rarely are these women seen as doing right.
Even as I consider, as a fan, that I would keep Mercury's remarkable collections, I know as a widow and as a chronicler of these women's stories that I could never question Mary Austin's need to free herself of these beautiful yet burdensome artifacts. I'm sure she's agonized over what to do. I can hear Freddie say, Get rid of it all, darling, if it will make your life easier. But that doesn't comfort your heart as you watch a collection of Japanese boxes, or even a slip of paper with his writing on it, taken away, whether it's headed to a collector or to the recycle bin. Grief happens again and again.
After receiving a third email about the auction, I finally decide to click. I scroll through the photos, admiring the ornate and the common, and imagine owning one of Freddie's T-shirts — an odd feeling, I'll admit. It is expensive, stunning stuff, all these belongings of a man whose work and talent I still miss so very much. I wonder why we wish to hold onto things and then decide finally to let them go. Scrolling on, I feel more melancholy with each item. How do our belongings define us, especially after we're gone, I wonder? When the person who inhabited these items is no longer, their meaning seems depleted. But to some, it becomes greater. Maybe it's not about love lessening over years, but about space and time softening the need for physical connections to those we still love deeply.
