WHAT IS YOUR LEGACY?
If you know me at all, you know I think about death a lot. Not in a morbid way, but in honouring the very thing all of us must face eventually, and how that connects us all.
I had the great honour of attending the celebration of life of a notable Canadian artist this past weekend. A truly inspiring life and incredible legacy of work. The community and stories shared from family, friends, and other artists made it clear their work and contribution were not only understood, but celebrated. It touched on the generosity of the artist in sharing the inner details of their work — something that can be intimate, becomes part of the overall narrative.
I realized this is a generosity. Their work and impact were only understood this way because they were shared regularly, as a way of life. Photos, video, audio recordings, exhibitions, and how the work was integrated into life. It's made easy to pull those pieces together and be celebrated, when access has been given beforehand.
I've built a couple of legacy websites for artists after they've passed — usually working alongside family who want to honour what was left behind. I won't get into the details of that work here, except to say this: it's far easier, and far more complete, when there's something to work from. A map, even a rough one.
And I think this matters more, not less, if you don't consider yourself a "notable" artist — if your name was never going to end up in an institution's archive or a retrospective. Because if no one else is keeping that record for you, the responsibility quietly falls to whoever loved you. Your family. Your friends. People who knew you, but maybe didn't know your work the way you did.
They may want to do something on your behalf one day. A small show, a website, a way of saying this mattered. But they can only build with what you leave them.
I keep thinking about this, especially given everything happening right now — how much of an artist's story is left to chance, to memory, to whoever happens to still have the photos. None of us know when our time will come. But the choice to share, to document, to leave a map — that's something we can act on now, while we're still here to shape it.
So if you're an artist reading this, I'd ask you to sit with a few questions:
If someone had to tell the story of your work tomorrow, using only what already exists — could they get it right?
What's the context behind your work that lives only in your head right now?
Is there an item in your studio that's meaningful to you, that someone passing through might not even notice?
Do you have any little rituals — ones no one else knows about?
Who in your life would feel responsible for your story, and do they actually have what they'd need?
What would it look like to share one of these things this week — not for an audience, but as the start of your own map?
I don't think any of this needs to be morbid, or even particularly serious. The artist whose life we celebrated this weekend probably didn't leave a map because they were thinking about endings — they left one because sharing was just how they lived. The generosity came first. The legacy was just what was left over.
Maybe that's the real question underneath all the others: not "what happens when I'm gone," but "what am I willing to let people see while I'm still here." It also cemented for me that I want a celebration of life — not a celebration of death… Let’s just say I have been witness to both. Ok, maybe that is morbid. 💀
