Michael Jackson once recalled that whenever he’d watch James Brown dancing on TV during his childhood, he’d shout at the screen in frustration when they didn’t film his feet. He wanted to learn the moves. “If I had the chance to talk to [Michelangelo],” he told Oprah Winfrey in 1993, “I would want to know about what inspired him to become who he is. Not about who he went out with last night, or why he decided to sit out in the sun so long.”
In my eyes, growing up a Michael Jackson disciple, the art always went hand-in-hand with the artist, this mythical creature seemingly of another world. From his fantastical face to his fairy-dusted wardrobe, Michael had to look as superhuman as he did to match his incomprehensible talents and the enigmatic phenomenon he was. Watching his interviews, I had similar childhood experiences, only I’d be shouting, “Ask him about his wardrobe!” Hung up on scrutinising his eccentricities, they never did. On August 29th he would have turned 60.
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