I’m A Motherfuckin’ Monster: The Spectacle of Ye
Written by Mikey Murry
“All my heroes are dead or gone crazy.” -Jamila Woods
One of the biggest commonalities between Kanye West and I is that we are both literally insane. Clinically so, even. In 2016, after being hospitalized for a “psychiatric emergency,” West was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder. In 2022, I was diagnosed with Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder (PMDD) following an extreme series of monthly breakdowns directly linked to my periods. The two conditions are really quite similar; both are cyclical mood disorders that can disrupt one’s work/life and damage relationships. However, lucky for me, my recklessness occurs privately. Ye, on the other hand, has his outbursts on a global stage for all to see and more importantly, for all to consume.
Tony Cokes’ light box masterpiece titled Face Value (Kanye West)
Now, celebrity meltdowns are not new or unique. In my lifetime alone, I have seen: A) Britney Spears shaving her head in a panic; B) Michael Jackson dangling his baby over a hotel balcony; C) Chris Brown’s series of temper tantrums; D) Dave Chapelle’s rampant and obsessive transphobia; and E) many, many more. There is something so humanizing and humbling about a famous person losing their sh*t, reminding us that yeah, they are just like us... And yet, in the same breath, we still see their real-life spirals as a form of entertainment, even if the episodes are a symptom of trauma, illness, or both.
Kanye West’s legacy as a genius, and debatably, the greatest rapper of all time, will eventually be overshadowed by his lunacy. While Kanye’s mania has gifted us with impeccable projects such as My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy (2010), it has also produced some of the most unsettling, uncomfortable, and agonizing quotes and interview clips. These glimpses into Ye’s psyche are as addictive, if not more, than the art he creates. On or off the stage, Ye is viewed as no longer a man, a father, a son, or creative. Alternatively, he is a brand, a caricature, performance art even. In short, Kanye West is a car crash we see coming and continue to gape at, even as the vehicles set on fire and become ash.
While Kanye’s career has directly inspired music artists such as Drake, Childish Gambino, Kid Cudi, and others, his tantrums have also birthed a succession of visual anecdotes, which could be interpreted as warnings or punchlines. Memes, GIFs, video clips out of context (even though in context, they are not any better) and more infiltrate the Twitterverse and continue to construct an image of Ye that is either bite-size or larger than life. Both have their consequences.
On July 19th, 2020, West took to a stage in Charleston, South Carolina for his first presidential rally. West, with “2020” shaved into the back of his head, spoke to a rowdy crowd of spectators. During his speech, West, in a whiplash-like fashion, pivoted from speaking with enthusiasm and passion to a tearful, remorseful, almost shrunken version of himself.
“I almost killed my daughter,” he confessed. He later goes on to say how both he and his girlfriend-turned-wife-turned-ex-wife Kim Kardashian had debated on terminating a pregnancy. (This is when Kim was pregnant with their first born, North West.) This clip from West’s rally swarmed the internet, and resulted in many publicly accusing him of having a manic breakdown or “being off his meds.”
One of the best representations I have seen of Kanye West’s nosedive was actually created prior to his presidential campaign rally, although U.S politics and the power of presentation plays a large role in its conception. American artist Tony Cokes’ light box masterpiece titled Face Value (Kanye West) is a play on the phrase, “Take it at face value,” meaning to understand something as genuine or authentic without questioning it. According to the exhibit label, Cokes’ artwork is a collection of West’s “grandiose and infamous statements, culled from his Twitter and Instagram feed.” Using the patriotic colors of red, white, and blue, Cokes not only makes a nod at West’s colorful politics, but also, the song and dance that is America’s two-party system. Whether you are a zealous voter or someone who ignores the ballot completely, there is no denying the performative nature of election time. From the commercials to the televised debates to the outright pandering, it is all about putting on a show. And West, a performer by nature, steps into this role without hesitation.
Cokes’ Face Value was first exhibited in 2018, two years before the 2020 Presidential Election and arguably, one of the most disturbing crack-ups in West’s career (i.e the rally.) While Face Value is a piece whose title and subject questions the ways mass media serves as a landscape for projection, it is composed only of fragments. Face Value tells a complete story while also, only sharing excerpts of the man that is and was Kanye West. It is almost like a haunting premonition of what was to come. Cokes brilliantly threads these pieces together, as if trying to make the puzzling and complex world of West easier to understand, to comprehend, to consume and spectate. Art is performance, too, after all.
Some of the standout quotes from Cokes’ piece are as follows: “The media crucify me... like they did Jesus.” “The Bible had 20, 30, 40, 50 characters in it.” “”I am Shakespeare in the flesh.” “I’m a robot... You cannot offend a robot...” Unfortunately (fortunately?), West’s statements on abortion or enslavement did not make the final product. (“When you hear about slavery for 400 years … For 400 years? That sounds like a choice.”)
Cokes’ work raises more questions than answers, but I am so grateful for his work and what it means to me, a Kanye fan, a crazy person, and a spectacle of my own design.
After all, there is no real way to understand the inner workings of someone living with a mental illness unless you are that individual.
As someone with a comparable diagnosis to West, I think often about how PMDD makes me show up in the world as fragments, as only one-liners and out-of-context slivers of madness. I reflect on the ways I have had to perform normalcy, even when I wanted to throw a temper tantrum and make my every last thought known to those around me. It is a thin line, wanting visibility while also not wanting to become an exhibitionist for trauma and drama. And then, there is always the conflict: how much of this is a stunt or attention grab, and how much of this is authentic, genuine... worthy of being taken at face value? Are we all just a single incident away from becoming a Mr. West, or is he just brutally honest (to his own version of the truth) in a way we haven’t seen before? And how do we bear witness to that?
