My solo album is dead and buried. We had the funeral. It was sad

Hear the voice of Shirley Manson, fierce and unafraid to cloak truth in vivid metaphor: “My solo album is dead and buried. We had the funeral. It was sad and I cried a lot but it made such a beautiful corpse that we had an open casket.” In these words lies a lesson not only about music, but about all acts of creation, and indeed all of life. She speaks of endings, of grief, of beauty that remains even in failure, and of the strange dignity of letting go when a dream does not live as we imagined it would.

To call her solo album a corpse is to admit that it did not survive in the living world of art. It did not walk into the marketplace, nor thrive in the hearts of listeners as she had once hoped. Yet she does not call it ugly or wasted; she calls it a beautiful corpse. Even in death, even in disappointment, the work retains its grace. It is the paradox of creation: even when our labors do not bear fruit, they are still meaningful, still part of us, still worthy of reverence.

The imagery of a funeral speaks to the importance of ritual in endings. Manson did not simply discard her lost album; she honored it, grieved it, allowed herself to cry, and then laid it to rest. This is a profound act of wisdom. Too often, people bury their failures in silence, pretending they do not matter, yet the sorrow lingers. By naming her loss, by holding the funeral, she gave it dignity and herself release. This is how one heals—from creation, through grief, into freedom.

The ancients also understood this truth. When a warrior fell in battle, his body was burned upon the pyre, and songs were sung of his deeds. Even in defeat, there was honor; even in loss, there was meaning. Similarly, Manson honors her failed album with the reverence of an “open casket,” allowing its beauty to be seen, even though it would never rise. The act of remembrance turns failure into something more—a testimony, a story, a part of her that lives on in wisdom.

History gives us many examples of noble “beautiful corpses.” Consider Vincent van Gogh, whose paintings did not bring him fame in life. To him, they might have seemed like failed works, dead before they could live. Yet now the world gazes upon them as treasures, as beautiful remnants of a soul who poured himself into color and canvas. His funeral was private and sorrowful, but the corpse of his work has been displayed ever since, radiant for generations.

The lesson here is timeless: not every dream will live. Some visions will falter, some works will fail, some hopes will collapse. But this does not mean they are worthless. Grieve them. Hold the funeral. Weep if you must. But then, recognize the strange beauty they still hold—the lessons they taught, the courage they demanded, the growth they gave you. Even in their death, they are part of your story, and their beauty can inspire others.

So let Shirley Manson’s words be remembered as wisdom for all who labor with their hands and hearts: your creations may not always thrive, but they are never wasted. When they die, honor them. See their beauty. Then, with lighter spirit, turn to create again. For in every ending lies a seed of new beginning, and the one who has learned to find beauty even in loss has already conquered despair.