I have a love/hate relationship with delusional types. I know a woman, for example, who clearly believes she’s a great beauty. She exudes coquettish self-assurance and is always tossing her hair, batting her lashes, and strutting in clingy clothes. She is so convinced of her own sex-appeal and blonde loveliness that she has repeatedly paid professional photographers to take “glamour shots” of her.
When I heard this, I was surprised. She’s no beast, but she’s no contender for “Canada’s Next Top Model” either.
When she gazes upon her 8 X 10, Vaseline-lensed poses, she sees something that I don’t see, something that only she, and perhaps her mother, sees. On the one hand I find this admirable — she doesn’t look like a Hollywood star (except maybe Mr. Ed), but she’s as confident as one. Good. That’s refreshing. We shouldn’t have to fit the standard idea of beauty to feel good about ourselves. On the other hand, I find her questionable grasp of reality annoying and absurd.
“You’re the only one who thinks you’re gorgeous,” I sometimes want to shout. “Your glamour shots are ridiculous and they make me laugh.”
Sondra Prill, “Nasty” (1987)
When it comes to delusional artists, I am even more conflicted. Sondra Prill is someone who genuinely believes in her own talent, and has somehow managed to convince others to believe, i.e., the insufficiently clad dancers, whoever financed the thing, the person who filmed it or played the keyboards, etc. She went to a lot of trouble, spent a great deal of time and likely a fair whack of dough recording her abominable audio version of “Nasty” and then setting it to images.
I love this video. I love it because it’s one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen. Everything about it is horrendous and hilarious—the vocals (those shouted lyrics, what the fuck?), the dancing, the hair, the ostensibly sexy moves and pouts. Sondra Prill is devoid of talent. She is preposterous. Loony.
Part of me wants to berate her for even attempting to make this video; part of me applauds her for going ahead and doing what she loves doing no matter what anyone thinks or says about it. That’s what an artist is supposed to do.
Does it matter that Sondra Prill is the Ed Wood of music videos instead of the Vincent Van Gogh? She really, truly believes, and there’s something goofy and beautiful and inspiring about that belief—she’s living her dream even if it’s an obvious nightmare to anyone remotely sane or with a modicum of taste. Something about her inability to see what’s really real, or to care, is appealing to me.
Having said that, when I think about all the Sondra Prills in my world — the literary world — I go back to feeling irked and repelled. There are so many Prill-like writers out there — talentless, but oozing self-confidence and belief in their own abilities. And like Prill, they have somehow convinced others to believe — arts council jury members, agents, even publishers, and I’m not just talking small presses here, not at all.
I kind of want the writer-Prills to stop writing. I want them to put down their pens and seek employment. I am exasperated by their delusions, especially when I’m being subjected to three or four relentless readings in order to get to a decent scribbler on the bill.
And so I remain divided in my feelings about the delusional. What do you think?
Please watch Sondra Prill perform her wonderful/terrible version of “Pump Up The Jam” and tell me: Do you pity, detest or admire the woman who would actively campaign to appear on film in a bikini with a bead-tail, something that looks like it should be hanging in a hippie’s doorway?
Sondra Prill, “Pump Up The Jam (Sand In The Crack Mix)” (1991)
– Elyse Friedman