A Boy from Brixton

David Bowie was born David Robert Jones on January 8, 1947, in Brixton, London. Post-war England was grey, restrained, and shaped by reconstruction. It was not a society that encouraged colorful dreams. Yet even as a child, David showed an unusual interest in music, theater, and visual expression.

An incident in his teenage years became part of his mythology: a fight with a friend left his left pupil permanently dilated. The effect gave him a constantly strange, almost otherworldly appearance — something that later strengthened his image as someone who never quite belonged to this world.

In the 1960s, he played in various bands without major success. He changed his name to David Bowie to avoid confusion with Davy Jones of The Monkees. It was an early sign of something that would define his life: an awareness of identity as a construction.

Breakthrough — and the Birth of a Star from Space

In 1969, Bowie had his first major hit with “Space Oddity,” released at the same time as the moon landing. Suddenly, a new voice appeared in British pop — lonelier, more existential. But this was only the beginning.

The real breakthrough came in 1972 with the character Ziggy Stardust. Bowie didn’t just create music — he created an entire universe. Ziggy was an androgynous rock star from outer space, a being who shattered every norm about gender, sexuality, and identity.

On stage, Bowie became more than an artist. He became theater, performance, storytelling. For a generation of young people who felt misplaced in a rigid society, Ziggy was liberation. Bowie showed that you could be everything — or nothing — and still be whole.

But the role was dangerous. Bowie began to feel he was losing track of where David ended and Ziggy began. In 1973, he “killed” the character on stage in London — a dramatic farewell to his own creation.

Darkness — Cocaine, Paranoia, and Berlin

After the Ziggy period came a time of extreme creativity — but also self-destruction. In the mid-1970s, Bowie was deeply addicted to cocaine, especially during his time in Los Angeles. Albums like Station to Station are marked by a cold, almost ghostly atmosphere. Bowie later said he barely remembered making the record.

To save himself, he moved to Berlin in 1976. There, together with Brian Eno, he created the legendary Berlin Trilogy: Low, “Heroes”, and Lodger. It was music that broke completely with rock tradition and instead opened the door to electronica, ambient, and post-punk.

In Berlin, Bowie became more anonymous. He walked the streets, visited museums, began to live again. It was here that he truly regained control of his life — and his art.

The Superstar Who Refused to Stand Still

In the 1980s, Bowie became bigger than ever. “Let’s Dance” (1983) turned him into a global superstar. The MTV era embraced him. But while the world saw glitter and success, Bowie himself felt a growing emptiness. He had become exactly what he always tried to avoid: predictable.

In the 1990s, he once again moved away from comfort. He experimented with industrial music, drum’n’bass, and art rock. Albums like Outside and Earthling didn’t sell as much — but they proved something essential: Bowie was not driven by audience expectations. He was driven by his own curiosity.

At the same time, he became increasingly private. After marrying supermodel Iman in 1992, he found a stability he had long lacked. Together they had a daughter, Alexandria. Bowie gradually stepped out of the spotlight.

A Personal Encounter with the Icon

For me, David Bowie is not just a distant legend. In 2002, I had the great pleasure of spending a few intense days in his company during a short promotional tour in Sweden. They weren’t long weeks, not grand ceremonies — but enough to see the human being behind the myth.

What struck me most was not his star status, but his presence. Bowie carried his iconic role without any need to perform it. In meetings with people, he was calm, curious, and unexpectedly warm. There was no distance, no protective layer of rock star — just a person genuinely interested in those he met, whether journalists, organizers, or people behind the scenes.

During those days, I saw something that often disappears in the stories about him: his stillness. Not the stage intensity, not Ziggy, not the Thin White Duke — but David Jones. A man who had already done everything, been everything, and no longer needed to prove anything. It felt as though he had truly arrived at himself.

When I later think about Bowie’s final years, about how he withdrew from the public eye and ultimately choreographed his own farewell with Blackstar, everything falls into place. The calm I saw in 2002 was not accidental. It was the beginning of the final act — not in his career, but in his life.

Silence — and the Unexpected Return

After heart surgery in 2004, many believed Bowie’s career was over. For nearly ten years, he was essentially silent. No interviews. No tours. No explanations.

Then, in 2013, he suddenly released The Next Day — and time seemed to stand still. Bowie was back, but on his own terms. No press campaign. No TV appearances. Just the music.

And then, three years later, came Blackstar.

A Farewell as Art

Blackstar was released on Bowie’s 69th birthday, January 8, 2016. Two days later, he was gone.

Only afterward did the world understand what the album truly was: a staged farewell. The video for “Lazarus” shows Bowie in a hospital bed, bandaged eyes, singing, “Look up here, I’m in heaven.” It was no coincidence. It was a deliberate goodbye.

David Bowie did not only choose how he wanted to live. He chose how he wanted to die — as an artist.

The Legacy

Bowie was a musician, but also an actor, art collector, style icon, and cultural architect. He opened doors for generations of artists: from Madonna to Lady Gaga, from Nine Inch Nails to Arcade Fire.

But perhaps his greatest contribution was not musical innovation — but existential freedom.

He taught us that identity is not a prison. That you are allowed to change. That you are allowed to be contradictory. That you are allowed to create yourself again and again.

When Bowie died, many felt as if a friend had vanished. Not because we knew him — but because he helped us know ourselves.

Ten Years Later

Now it has been ten years and one day since David Bowie left the world. Yet he feels strangely present. In the music. In fashion. In the language around identity and freedom.

He was never comfortable. Never still. Never finished.

And perhaps that is exactly why he still lives.

Not as memory.
But as movement.

Intresting Fact:

David Bowie’s relationship with music was never confined to genres, borders, or traditions — not even on the most personal day of his life. When he married supermodel Iman in 1992 in Florence, Italy, he deliberately chose to avoid the predictable path of classical wedding marches and romantic clichés. Instead, Bowie made a strikingly unconventional and deeply symbolic choice.

As Iman walked down the aisle, the music that filled the room was not Mozart or Mendelssohn — but the haunting Bulgarian folk song “Kalimankou Denkou” (The Evening Gathering), performed by the legendary choir Le Mystère des Voix Bulgares (The Mystery of Bulgarian Voices).

The song’s ancient harmonies, raw emotional power, and spiritual depth reflected everything Bowie admired in music: authenticity, mystery, and a connection to something older than fashion or fame. Choosing a Bulgarian folk song was not a quirky detail — it was a statement. A declaration that their union would not follow convention, but meaning.

Bowie didn’t stop there. For the ceremony itself, he composed original music that later evolved into two deeply personal pieces: “The Wedding” and “The Wedding Song”, both featured on his 1993 album Black Tie White Noise. These compositions transformed a private moment into art, once again blurring the line between life and creativity — something Bowie did throughout his entire career.