Celebrity Detox

by Rosie O'Donnell

  J: The difference in the experience between Philly and Chicago really shows how celebrity-ness changes your life. The Philly show was September 28 and we could go and be noticed but not overwhelmed. At the Chicago show, we couldn’t even get down the aisle of the concert hall; it took us so long, because people were reaching out, trying to shake hands, get autographs, it took twenty minutes to move forward a foot.

  R: But what was more stunning was to see Oprah come in, at the New York City show. One of the security guards said, “Winfrey’ll be here in ten minutes.”

  You could hear the buzz of Oprah coming in. There was a rumble. You could feel it. It was an intense energy, something building to a pressure point, very intense, and I was thinking, “Whoa!” I stood up with Kelli and Georgette and Charles, and I was clapping like everyone else watching her come and she came right down. I was two rows behind her. I said, “Excuse me, Ms. Winfrey. I’m a very big fan of yours.” She shook my hand and looked at me and then gave me a hug the way she does. It is odd to watch Oprah hug, because she’s not a good hugger, she is more of a lean-in-and-pat kinda hugger. I am the grab-and-hold-on kinda hugger . . . Yeah, it was really surreal and the audience was clapping and it was wild, it was wild, the whole thing.

  L: I hate to admit this but I’m still not sure I really get what it is about Streisand, why she means so much to you. Honestly, what makes this story interesting to me is not Streisand, but how much you love her.

  R: All people want to do is connect, right? And so many of us have been able to connect to ourselves, and to each other, through her. She’s like a huge power outlet with millions of plug openings and millions of people have plugged into her, and are therefore able to shine on their own.

  L: Well, I don’t feel that way about Streisand at all. To me, she’s, I don’t know. She has not been a big part of my life at all. I mean, do you honestly think she’s, as a talent, that she’s heads and tails above Elvis? Or the Beatles? Here’s the thing. The Beatles, what made them great is that they pushed the envelope. They pushed conventional music to its limits and in doing so defined a new genre, basically. They made rock ’n’ roll. I don’t see Streisand being that kind of innovator, and that’s what I need in order to admire someone to the degree that you do.

  R: She is an innovator. But if I have to explain it to you, then you simply can’t see it.

  L: Try.

  R: No. That’s like trying to explain why chocolate tastes good. You either get it or you don’t, Slater. You don’t have Babs’s plug. You’re not set to receive her signal.

  L: Well, what is her talent, exactly? What is it that she does that’s so extraordinary?

  R: Singing. And the oddest thing is, she doesn’t like to sing. She never wanted to be a singer. And twenty-seven years ago, she went onstage in Central Park, and she forgot the words to a song, and she was so horrified that she didn’t perform live onstage again. She had massive stage fright, for twenty-seven years. This is a woman with the best voice in the world. And in 2000, when I saw her perform, I realized she actually used a teleprompter and refuses to go without one. And I thought, “God, if I were her friend, I would encourage her to do it without a net.” Because we love her so, the audience would catch her if she fell.

  L: So Streisand uses a teleprompter, which is not an IFB, but along the same lines, and it bothers you to no end that Barbara Walters relies on such props, and you say it makes Walters inauthentic, but when Streisand does it it’s okay?

  R: Here’s the thing. When someone is really, truly genuine, it doesn’t matter, the props don’t matter. Streisand is genuine and it comes through. Even her anxiety comes through; she doesn’t try to hide it. Walters uses the IFB to hide behind; she uses it in part in the hopes that it will make her appear smoother than she is. Streisand uses these props the way someone might use a crutch, or have a cast. It’s obvious these things are there. It’s obvious they need them. You can see it. I don’t object to the props, or the technology or whatever. I object when they are used inauthentically.

  For instance, in the recent Streisand concerts, I could tell, probably everyone could tell, she was nervous. She didn’t try to hide who she was or what she was experiencing. And the remarkable thing was that I, and the audience, witnessed the growth of her confidence from the first concert to the last. By the end, she was having fun. She was relaxing. She was improvising. It was phenomenal for me to watch her acceptance of herself as a person. It was phenomenal to witness this transformation.

  J: The whole tour in some ways was about transformation. Because during the Chicago concert we found out the Democrats were sweeping.

  R: There were a lot of things changing then. Maybe the biggest thing for me, personally, was having Streisand stay at my house. I was always extremely nervous around Streisand until she stayed at my house in Miami. She was flying to Florida with her crew and something fell through with their hotel. So they called Kendall, my assistant. This is how it works in celebrity-ville. Somebody called Kendall because they knew I had a house, and it was an emergency and they needed it right away.

  And Kendall came to me. She said, “You’re not gonna believe this.” I’m like, “What?” She said, “No, seriously, sit down. Streisand’s people just called from the plane, they’re en route to Miami, their hotel room fell through, and they want to stay at your house.” I said, “Good God Almighty, Kendall! Call them back and say yes immediately!” She said, “I already did.”

  And so Streisand slept at my house in Miami for a week while I did not sleep at my house in Nyack. Because I was just, it was just too much for me, in a great way. I could not, no way, fall asleep that night. Kelli kept telling me to go to sleep, but I didn’t sleep the whole time she was there. I was always wondering, “Where is she right now?” And then she actually called me, in our New York apartment.

  L: So you’re in your apartment in the city for the night and you pick up the phone and it’s Streisand?

  R: I think Kelli picked up the phone. I’m not sure. I think Kelli answered it and she whispered, “It’s Barbra Streisand!” I’ve talked to her before on the phone. But this time she was calling me to thank me about the house. Before this, I was to her just a fan who loved her, who said nice things about her, who sent her flowers a lot, constantly, who wrote her letters of inspiration. I’m sure in some part of her mind she’s been like, “Oy vey.”

  But then when she came and used my house, she saw that I had a whole life there. She saw that I had children, and a craft room. She saw that I have a Funny Girl poster in my hallway, but she also saw that I was more than a crazed, obsessed fan. She saw me as a mother and a sister and an equal and all those things that you hope for. She painted me a picture in my craft room, and it was absolutely adorable. And she left me notes all over my house. “Sleep well. Sweet dreams.” She is what I dreamed show business would be, and for those few days, that’s also what it was.

  J: And now you know, Ro, how your fans feel about you.

  R: Yes, I do. And that’s a startling thing to have to deal with. And this year is in part about coming to an acceptance of that, and taking responsibility for that, understanding that I am a satellite dish, smaller than Barbra but still a dish, and I have been given this job. I have been given the task of transmitting signals to people, and I have to hope my signals are clear and good.

  But the bottom line right now: it is startling to realize that what I feel for Barbra is likely what others feel for me. And the question then becomes not only a who but a what. The questions are who am I and what does it mean to be real and also what will I do with my power?

  L: What do you think you will do with it?

  R: That’s a question I have for myself. I have not answered it yet. I am first learning how to deal with the responsibility that comes from being what I am. Last time around, I’m not sure I knew so clearly that I was a transmitter. Now that I have understood this, I am also understanding that I need to develop some kind of spiritual practice, in part just to k
eep the chaos at bay, and to not get re-addicted. Barbra was a part of this.

  L: How so?

  R: Barbra is my best self. My ideal. Part of a spiritual practice may be to develop an ideal, which is not necessarily the same as idolizing. Idolization can be blind, but it can also be an expression of your highest hopes for yourself, and a reminder of what you need to strive for. After Barbra’s tour was finished, I flew back to Nyack on the plane. And I was crying. Why was I crying? I was exhausted—doing The View, being a wife and mother, all at the same time. I was moved, emotionally. I kept thinking of her seeing my things, my life, the real Roseann O’Donnell, and the world felt less lonely. I used to love hide-and-seek as a kid. The thrill of finding a secret niche while someone counted to ten, waiting, crouched really low down. I was always so good at that game. I developed the strategy of hiding in plain sight, and it was amazing how hard it was for someone to find you when you were right in their line of vision. And I remembered how odd it was for someone to look straight past you, to literally not register you. It’s the same creepy feeling I get when I go into a restroom and use the automated sensor-driven soap dispensers. Sometimes, for me, those dispensers don’t work. It’s like I’m not there. And then I am. The soap spurts out. Or the person suddenly realizes there’s another person in their path, and you are caught. You are got. On the plane, flying back, that’s what I felt. I felt sensed. I felt seen. I felt that this, perhaps, was what I needed to do for those who come to me—simply see them. Simply say, “I found you in your hiding place. You can come out now. Game’s over.”

  And maybe they will. I will hold out my hand and do the best I can.

  CHAPTER 9

  The Sound of Color

  I paint. I started after 9/11, started numbly, mindlessly, driven toward the canvas, toward whiteness I could cover with color. And since then, I have not stopped. Every aspect of painting pleases me, so much so that I want to do it at times over and above anything else. In my craft room I have tubes of Grumbacher oils, of Sennelier pastels, those bound wax sticks that, once pressed to the paper, leave behind a pure path of blue, or yellow. Saying it now, I can feel the color in my throat, behind my eyes, and sometimes at night, before falling asleep, I close my eyes and see the paintings I am not good enough to make—unfair, I can see them so well—the cobalt curls, the cadmium shapes blocked out and perfect. What actually is color? I could look up the explanation for that. But my question is more of the metaphysical sort. Animals don’t see color like we do. Their spectrum is narrower, and they get just these washed-out reds and muddy greens. So maybe, on some other planet, or even among us now, there are beings who can see beyond the spectrum. Maybe we are surrounded by indigos that are more vibrant than we can imagine, or reds that transcend red and are something altogether . . . what? Redder. Something. More.

  I don’t need anything more beautiful than what I have now. What is color? I can answer that question for myself. Color, I believe, is God’s way of laughing, the liquid sauce in which he marinated his monochromic creations after he was finished. I imagine the first draft of our world was black and white, and God stepped away from his canvas, scratched his stubbly chin, and thought, “Hmmmm.” He adjusted his beret and took a sip of the merlot he always kept by his easel. Something wasn’t right about the mere mortals he’d sketched out. The faces were flat. The shadows looked like soot. The oceans were too tarry. What was it? He didn’t know. He drew a rainbow, black and white stripes, that, when he sighed with disappointment, suddenly leaped into light, into yellow, into violet—some shadows—and in a snap the world was alive. It was Oz, and, thus inspired, he went on to make Roy G. Biv, the acronym every child learns in school, but they don’t teach you it is much more. The spectrum is the original miracle, the pulse of our planet; it is fractal, fractured, illuminating. It is an utter refusal of flatness.

  The Twin Towers had been flattened and the air smelled of smoke. I went to my craft room and squeezed some cadmium yellow onto my canvas. I remember that I was using Winton acrylic paint, pure pigment, devoid of the fillers that cheaper brands use. The paint glopped on and settled. It was thick, almost gelatinous. For a second I was scared. I had not painted in forty years, and as a kid I’d done it mostly out of art class obligation, the stick figures and square houses topped with a triangle.

  I lowered the brush and then plunged in. I stroked outward, sudden swimmer, and I could feel the creaminess come right up to my wrists, and the sensation, it is difficult to describe what it feels like to push paint around, how it glides despite the roughness of the canvas, glides but does not melt, as water would, how a stroke starts in a puddle of color and radiates outward to end in a faint spray.

  And so it was I started to paint. I had no knowledge, and no fear. All around me there was fear, and just seconds ago there had been fear inside me as well, but as soon as I started to push the paint fear left me and I was Roy G. Biv. I was not Rosie, not Ro, not Roseann, I was the brush plump with madder rose; and each shape I made became, in mere minutes, an object recognizable to me, a flower, a tree, a face, a frown. Hello, world. I can control you. I can create you. Color is definite. It does not die.

  The sky can look like a painting. I was on the plane coming back from the last Streisand concert, and when I looked out the window I thought of that first time, the smell of smoke that saturated the air for days after the attack, the Twin Towers falling, how quickly they crumpled. I looked at the sky, its tinges and the Rorschach shapes of the clouds, and I was in my craft room all over again, 9/12/01, making my canvases. And at the same time, in my mind, the sound of Streisand kept coming at me, and it felt as though sound could be chromatic, the red screech of someone’s scream, or the yellow droplets of light laughter. For a moment sound and color merged, and I was overwhelmed. I was exhausted, exhilarated. I started to cry.

  Streisand is an artist of unusual caliber, but there’s more to it than that. The more is that she has also controlled her career in a way I want to emulate. Streisand has never allowed anyone to tell her what to do, how to proceed, when to stop, or start. She stopped singing for years and years, despite the pressure from the public and God knows whoever else. She directed movies she was advised not to; she played roles that were “wrong” for her. She heard what she needed to hear, and disregarded the rest. Above all, she has never ceded creative control to anybody else. The result. Her career has been orchestrated by her.

  A life lived with integrity.

  I had come to understand that the show was not produced in the spirit of art, or even adventure. It lacked a heartbeat. A pulse. Humanity—truth. It lacked a mother’s touch. Perhaps that was because it is run by a man. A man who had a different idea about what made good TV. Could I do The View—without being in charge—could I do just enough to get by—to not be embarrassed?

  Not now though. I was on fire, in color. And there, on the plane, I thought of something Streisand had told me. Early in her career, she had explained to me, she’d had a hard time accepting her talent and the tremendous power it had over people. Sometimes her talent had even felt like a curse. But now, at sixty-four, now for the first time she said she was starting to feel some acceptance of what she could do, and the responsibility that comes with it. Now, she can love that she is loved, and by so many. I think that means Streisand is coming to see her own spectrum, and finally understanding how much joy her rainbow brings to people. I would say she is starting to see she has the power, the sheer wattage, to illuminate very deeply into our collective night.

  Ruthie, my Kabbalah teacher, tells me I am a leader, whether I like it or not. She says in my next life I will probably come back as a dog, certainly as someone or thing with no ability to have an effect, but in this life I am a leader. I have no choice—it is my tikkun, a word that means many things in Hebrew, “transformation,” or, in terms of the Kabbalah, “the reconciliation of two seemingly opposite things,” like the desire for fame and anonymity at the same time, the desire to be visible and invisible, t
o be a part of a community and also to be alone.

  “You can’t stay in the craft room your whole life, Rosie,” Ruthie once told me. She is right. I am a leader, and sometimes I like it and sometimes I don’t. I have a spectrum; I believe everybody does, but for reasons I will never understand, people are influenced by mine, and so I should not compromise it. Ever. This is what I saw on the plane, going home. I was a part of The View and The View was a part of me, for at least as long as my contract lasted. I needed to try and make it a better show.

  I love the landing of planes. I am always happy to touch down. I saw the city appear, its frail lines coming clearer, a photograph in fluid, the landscape beneath evolving from little to life size as we approached the runway. No matter how many times I have flown, I always find it odd to see the world from up high, to see it as a toy town, a Monopoly game board, and to watch as it slowly assumes its real dimensions.

  I have also learned, however, that even things you find indisputably real, or obvious, are not necessarily so. Coming down from on high, I saw the Empire State Building as a silver sword, and the George Washington Bridge strung with little lights. How can one argue with facts such as these—the existence of a building, or a certain stream of light? Some facts, you think, are inarguable. But even this is not so.

  For instance, 9/11. I remember 9/11 crisply, as most New Yorkers do. And I have written what I recall of it in this book, some chapters ago. I showed my brother Eddie what I had set down here, and he got upset. “What?” I asked him. “What’s wrong?”

  “Don’t you remember what really happened on 9/11?” he asked. “You have not written it correctly.”