The Trouble with Second Hand Fame

By Madeleine Kando

I am not famous, but my parents were. They were not in the super-famous category, just the local run-of-the-mill famous, like your mayor or the neighborhood idiot. My stepfather actually is the more famous of the two. He was a photographer who made it really big posthumously. You can find him all over the Internet, which is the litmus test of being famous.

Fame doesn’t drop on your head like bird pooh, you know. You have to prime your own fame while you are alive and convince others that you are special, but it’s really the people you don’t know personally that do the real work. The more people there are you don’t know but who know you, the more famous you become. And it’s mostly the post-humous crowd that makes you famous. ‘Oh, I didn’t know her personally, but she was really a great person. So talented!’

It’s called the ‘fame by proxy' syndrome. Knowing a famous person, or just watching them drive by in a limousine, makes you feel special. There is this irresistible rubbing-off effect that people crave: to bask in a famous person’s spotlight.

We all need recognition, proof that we somehow matter. We all matter to ourselves of course, because we are all the center of the Universe. But you cannot take credit for just being, although you might argue that being born already makes you special. Of the billions of sperms competing in the race towards the ovum, the one that made you win the race.

Above and beyond just existing, we have a need to be recognized by others. Our family, our friends, our pets, and our jobs. We want to matter to others. Once you don’t matter anymore, you know it’s time to cut the cord.

The funny thing about fame is that it is a zero-sum game. For some to be famous, others must be ordinary. That’s how it works. While my famous parents were still alive, there was not much room for their children in their orbit. We were an afterthought, a fixture. ‘Oh, look at those cute children of these famous people we came to interview’. It gave a human touch to their fame.

Just the right amount, mind you. Since famous people are there for us to act out our fantasies, they shouldn’t become too real, or the fantasy is in danger of popping like a party balloon. People didn’t want to know about my famous mother’s suffering, as she grew older. Her incontinence, loss of vision and hearing. They didn’t want to know how she roamed the hallways of the assisted living in the middle of the night, trying to dull the agonizing nerve pain in her foot. And she didn’t want them to know how difficult it is to grow old. It was her secret, which she only shared with her children and a few close friends.

Maybe I am trying to come to terms with my own ordinariness, an ordinary daughter with famous parents. Is there a hint of envy in all this? Do these people ever give credit to the ordinary people who hold up their fame? Like a giant trying to balance on floating rocks. The more he tries to stay out of the water, the deeper the rocks sink.

As my stepfather’s body was slowly consumed by cancer, he insisted on filming the whole process, hoping that this would make his dying less ordinary. But dying is the ultimate equalizer; the one thing that fame has no power over.

My parents were both photographers. There is good stuff to be found amongst the thousands of photographs they took during their unusually long lives. It’s not like Mozart, who had to cram his greatness into a measly few decades. But even Mozart was a self-adulating, conflated individual who didn’t have an ounce of humility. Except when it came to his father.

During his short life, Mozart managed to sire six children, but only two survived. His eldest son adored Mozart immensely. He had these words engraved on his tombstone: 'May my name be my father's epitaph, as my veneration for him was the essence of my life.' Even in death, the son tried to uphold the father’s fame. He was trying to apologize for not being Mozart himself!

Fame runs way back in my family. I have this long-gone, super-famous great uncle, Kandó Kálmán. He was the inventor of the first electric locomotive. My maternal great-grandfather: Emanuel Beke was a Hungarian mathematician, known for reforming the teachings of mathematics in Hungary.

My father: Kando Gyula, was a painter and a war hero. He saved many Jews from being sent to concentration camps by impersonating an SS officer. He is listed at the Yad Vashem, the World Holocaust Remembrance Center in Jerusalem.

Let’s see.. oh, and there is my maternal grandmother Margit G. Beke, an absolute linguistic genius, who spoke Russian, English, German, and French, amongst others. She translated 93 literary works, mostly from the Scandinavian languages. I forgive her fame because her brilliant writing imposed it on her.

 

I never tried to be famous. My heart wasn’t in it and I am fine with that. An introvert at heart, shy and insecure, I much prefer to observe others and get a good story out of what goes on around me. You can call me a coward, passive-aggressive, or an expert at living vicariously.

But you cannot make a crab walk straight. I much prefer anonymity. The best times in my long and ordinary life, were those spent in a vast city, where I could disappear, where nobody knew who I was. I could be anyone I wanted to be! That is the opposite of being famous, a luxury that famous people will never be able to enjoy. leave comment here