McQueen

The Poem

He is not performing.This is the thing about the photograph —the reason it exists as an iconrather than just a picture of a man on a couch with a drink —he forgot the camera was there.

Or he knew and didn’t care,which is the same thing at a certain altitude,which is the altitude McQueen lived at his entire life.

He is not performing

Every man wanted to drink with him.Not because of the movies — because of the ease.The specific ease of someone who walks into a roomand doesn’t scan it for approval,who sits on the couch the way you sitwhen the couch is yours and the night is yoursand the only agenda is to be exactly where you arefor exactly as long as it lasts.

Most men have forgotten how to do this.Most men are scanning the room.Most men are performing the man they think they’re supposed to befor people who are also performingthe people they think they’re supposed to be —and McQueen is on the couch drinking his drinkbeing himself so completelythat the room reorganized around himinstead of the other way.

This is called cool.This is called a legend.This is called what happens when you stop livingin other people’s expectationsand start living in the life that was actually yours.

Bullitt.Not because of the speed — because of the face behind the wheel.The face of a man not acting scared,not acting brave, not acting anything —just driving, just the road,just the concentration of someone doing the thing they were built forwithout commentary, without performance,without stopping to make sure everyone understood what they were watching.

Just himself

We understood.We always understand when someone is completely themselves.

You cannot become a legend living other people’s expectations.Fitting in is the strategy of someone who decidedbelonging to the room is more important than being themselves in it —and the room always takes that dealand gives you nothing in returnexcept the comfort of not standing out,which is the least interesting thing a life can offerand the most commonly chosen.

A life well lived looks like this —not the awards, not the box office —a man on a couch in the warm light of a lamp,drink in hand, not scanning, not performing, not adjusting —just there, just himself,the lines of a life drawn exactly as they needed to bewithout asking anyone if the lines were right.

They were right.The photograph proves it. The ease proves it.

I recognize this.Not the fame. Not the cars.The not caring what other people think.The decision — made once, quietly, without announcement —that the life would be lived on its own terms or not at all.

Thirty pieces that said exactly what they needed to sayand didn’t adjust for the room.

You cannot become what you actually are by performing what they want.McQueen knew this from the couch.I know it from the work.

The lines are different.
The arrangement is the same.