Jennifer Beals had to have three body doubles—one of them a sixteen-year-old dude—in order to get through that number,

like a frustrating unfinished octave,

It was so refreshing to be a part of this conversation about the art and business of performing—a serious conversation about creating art out of music and movement—with someone who was a master in multiple crafts and had defied all reasonable expectations to achieve a level of success most performers don’t bother dreaming about.

It had never occurred to me that each shoe and rock and handwritten letter is an opportunity to express yourself—or it’s just one more of a million little things that don’t. It’s up to you. But why would you choose to create a life from a pile of little things that don’t actively matter to you?

I think back on that moment in Purple Rain, when The Kid’s father turns to his mother with reproachful tears in his eyes and says, “I would die for you.” He thinks it’s the ultimate sacrifice, but in truth, it’s living for someone that presents the far greater challenge.

Something I truly loved and appreciated about Prince during the years we worked and lived together was the way he took artists like these—and like me—under his wing. When he saw talent that intrigued him, he got the artist in front of people, and his seal of approval meant a lot—in the audience and in the industry. He lifted them up above the noise

the full costume crew who worked in a large, brightly lit space at Paisley Park. Prince’s office occupied the left wing of the top floor, and Wardrobe occupied the right. Pattern makers and cutters worked on long wooden worktables under broad skylights. Seamstresses and tailors fit clothing on mannequins with Prince’s body size. A stitching tailor

Lori Elle and Robia LaMorte,

would learn about him over the years: He had a way of speaking things into being. He’d say, “You know what would be cool . . .”