In The Arms of This Low: Glen Hansard & Grieving People You’ve Never Met

Glen Hansard was special. 

He was a man who won an Oscar, sold out shows worldwide, and never really stopped being a busker. 

He was an artist whose limitless passion came out in his wrecking ball of a voice, and left gaping holes in his signature guitar. 

He was a modern day troubadour with a knack for writing simple, but devastating songs. In 2006 he sang about being “in the arms of this low,” and since his unexpected death on July 29, his family, friends and fans can all relate.

He was a man who mattered to countless people around the world - people who will forever find Falling Slowly somehow even more emotional than before. People who are now grieving, feeling stuck in the arms of this low, whether they knew him or not. 

Disenfranchised Grief

Grieving a celebrity can be awkward and confusing. Some voices are quick to criticize any display of grief for a public figure as fake or performative. This can lead us to question what we’re experiencing, and whether we’re supposed to or allowed to feel this way about someone we never met. 

There’s a term for this. Disenfranchised grief is any type of grief that is not accepted or validated by society or the people around you. When you’re going through this, the idea that you shouldn't be experiencing these emotions can add a layer of shame on top of already difficult feelings, or cause you to try to ignore the pain all together. 

To be fair, it can be hard to understand this kind of grief from the outside - I get the instinct to be cynical. But the depth of the response can be difficult to dismiss. 

As Bono said, Hansard’s funeral was attended by “187,321 best friends, really... [and] two and a half million second best friends,” in person and online.

In Central Park, John Lennon tributes have been left at the Strawberry Fields memorial every day for more than 40 years.

The bench from Good Will Hunting became a shrine to Robin Williams, with fans covering it in chalk tributes and quotes, including “carpe diem,” “bangarang,” and “you ain’t never had a friend like me.”

And in the days following David Bowie’s death, mourners lit candles, brought flowers, and sang songs outside his New York City apartment, with one handwritten card reading, “the stars looked very different today.”  

An Authentic Grief

So the grief itself is real - even if we don’t fully understand it or feel entitled to it.

It’s real because these people mean something to us. Just because it was a one-sided, parasocial relationship doesn’t mean it wasn't meaningful. As Maya Angelou said, “people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” 

Artists deal in emotions - their jobs are to make us feel. They make us feel comforted, encouraged, and seen during hard times. They can inspire us, make us laugh, and give us hope.

When it comes to Hansard, actor Chris O’Dowd put it best: “His energising Melodies and soulful, searching voice made the tough times more manageable, the stagnant times more beautiful, and the joyful times even more memorable.”

These moments and these feelings matter.

The grief is real because these artists are woven into our histories. Their music, movies, and art become part of the soundtrack to significant moments and periods of our lives. When they die, we’re not just mourning the person - we’re mourning the memories they’re tied to, and the versions of ourselves and the eras of our lives that are gone.

And the grief is real because the artists we love often embody the qualities we aspire to, deepening our connection with them. 

Just consider what Hansard’s peers have said about him. 

Bruce Springsteen said he was, “always positive, smiling and ready to sing.” 

Wilco’s Nels Cline said, “everyone who came into contact with this man felt his warmth, passion, and massive talent.” 

And Bono said Hansard modeled how “to be utterly yourself by being more interested in others.” I can’t think of a much higher compliment than that. 

That’s part of what makes losing artists like Hansard feel so personal. We’re not just losing someone whose work we loved - we’re losing someone who showed us something about the kind of person we want to be.

Ashes to Ashes: Permission to Grieve

Big or small, grief is grief, and ignoring it will only prolong it. It needs to be acknowledged, processed, and expressed. But first we need to allow ourselves to feel it.

Hansard was among the fans outside Bowie's apartment in January 2016. He said he was “drawn toward somewhere to grieve,” and found himself playing a solemn cover of Ashes to Ashes on the frigid Soho sidewalk.

“I’ve loved the song since I was a child,” he said. “Bowie was the one we chose to raise us in our rooms, when we first closed the door on our parents and the world,” he said. 

As far as we know, Hansard and Bowie never met, but his grief was real because Bowie mattered to him. The grief was authentic because Bowie played a real, significant role in his life starting at a young age. And in grieving his hero, Hansard gave us permission to do the same.

He showed us that it's human to grieve someone you've never met. He showed us that it's okay to be in the arms of this low.