The precious things money can’t buy

I have encountered many people with access to privilege who frequently report depression. Representation pic/istock

I'll confess, I'm a bit obsessed with the indictment of Sean Combs (aka Diddy, P Diddy, Puff Daddy). I scour social media every couple of hours to monitor developments. I am secretly hoping for the downfall of both Hollywood and the American music industry as we know it. Combs symbolises its complete degeneracy, its toxicity, impunity and its audacious enabling of rape culture built on the humiliation of women as well as men. Did I follow his music? Not really. Did I follow the careers of the people currently in the spotlight, like Ashton Kutcher, Usher or Justin Bieber? No. I am not invested in the case from the perspective of someone emotionally attached to any of the musicians or actors. But would I like to see Jay Z and Beyonce's lives screened to establish their role or knowledge of Combs' criminal activities? Yes.

Ever since Woody Allen fell from public grace after allegations of sexual misconduct intensified, I've been hearing people debating what to do with the art of dodgy men. Can their art be separated from their questionable ethics and their abuse of power? In many instances, and certainly at the moment, in terms of Combs' indictment, one sees clearly how the ‘art' itself was built on unethical foundations. I learned through the TikTok vine, for instance, that Rihanna was barely 14 years old when she was flown into the States and made to audition at 3 am without parental consent. I don't know if this is true or not, but it feels believable, and that is what is disconcerting. I watched footage of Lady Gaga giving an interview where she doesn't name her abuser but said that when she was very young, just starting out, she was asked, at a professional meeting, to take off her clothes. When she refused, the people in question, who she doesn't name, threatened to burn all her music. She is rumoured to have pressured her lawyers into dropping Combs as a client some years ago.

Then there are the absolutely horrific details of the allegations made by Cassie, Combs' musician ex, that point to his abusive behaviour and the many ways in which he manipulated and controlled her. I haven't been able to bring myself to watch the leaked footage from a hotel corridor, possibly after one of Combs' notorious ‘freak-offs', where he violently assaults her as if punishing her for trying to flee. It would seem like domestic violence was part of their dynamic and this musician was tortured into staying in the relationship. What's additionally horrifying is how vehemently Combs denied the allegations when they were first made, and then issued an apology once the footage surfaced, which makes it impossible to believe his present claims of innocence.

There's a part of me that feels very validated for consistently being ‘uncool' in my early adult years. As I read many of these gory details, I think of the many parties to which I was invited, in different industries, which I attended either out of curiosity, obligation, a desire to network, or because a friend was going. I didn't mind being the ‘uncool' person who only ever had a drink and maybe danced. We had some epic parties in Delhi between 2008 and 2012, but they were never ‘wild', or at least the parties hosted by my journalist friends or writer friends were seemingly harmless, all Bring-Your-Own-Booze-affairs with no debauchery because of the precarity of the lives we led. I have no regrets about my party girl era but as I grew into my mid-thirties, I was happy to turn into someone who hosted dinner parties instead with home-cooked meals. I always felt the class division, though, when I was invited to the homes of wealthier artists and collectors who could afford bartenders, catering, and a stream of waiters who went around to guests offering canapés and starters. I always felt more at home in the homes of friends who managed a buffet meal on a two-burner stove, like me, and who, like me, occasionally ran out of glasses or cutlery. We hosted out of a love for feeding, to nurture joy, and not to show off the wealth we did not have.

On the cusp of 40, I feel convinced that being rich is severely overrated. I skimmed over a piece recently about the singer Chappell Roan lamenting her rise to fame and how it has invaded her privacy. She speaks about feeling depressed about needing security to go to a thrift store, which, for her, is a big deal since a lot of her image is built by her love of thrifting. Fame frequently brings wealth, but wealth doesn't seem compatible with happiness because of the loss of anonymity. After moving to South Tyrol, I encountered so many people with access to so much privilege, including generational wealth, who lead discontented lives and frequently report depression. I'm not saying this to romanticise precarity, but if there is one thing I have learned at almost 40, its that one's happiness and quality of life intersect with the finetuning of one's moral compass and the practice of sincerity, kindness and solidarity.

Deliberating on the life and times of every woman, Rosalyn D'Mello is a reputable art critic and the author of A Handbook For My Lover. She tweets @RosaParx
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