I work with celebrities. After Liam Payne’s death, can't we treat them as humans and not gods?

As the worldwide tributes continue, the tragic death of Liam Payne at the cruel age of just 31 has shaken the foundations of how we perceive celebrity and fame. As a publicist and strategist who has worked with many famous people, I know something about this. They are just like us – but they are different.

Fame is as seductive as it is destructive. It offers an irresistible promise: transcendence from the mundane, and the opportunity to be more than just another face in the crowd. But it also demands a sacrifice: once your head is above the parapet of anonymity, it’s very rare to be able to submerge back into the crowd on your own terms. And most insiders know this, or at least they think they do.

In my experience, celebrities enter this Faustian bargain understanding, on some level, the loss of privacy it demands. Yet few truly comprehend the depths of that loss until they are fully exposed to its glare. Celebrity in 2024 is like stepping into a spotlight that continues to follow you when you leave the stage.

And, believe me, there’s no line this invasive spotlight won’t cross. Once you’re in it, the media and public don’t easily respect boundaries. They view public figures as akin to public property, commodities whose personal lives are of as much interest as their professional output.

In the early stages, most newcomers are dazzled by the attention. It is intoxicating: fame provides validation, a sense of identity and often material wealth. And stars believe they can manage it, control it even. Believing in this illusion of control is often their first mistake.

The line between public and private life begins to blur almost immediately. At first, celebrities may enjoy the spotlight, even leverage it. But as the scrutiny intensifies, so does the desire to draw the line. The trouble is, once you’re in the public eye, reclaiming privacy is a near-impossible task.

The real tragedy is that this cycle isn’t just predictable, it’s inevitable. Without a strong support system and a clear sense of self, the line between public and private life becomes virtually impossible to enforce. And when somebody wants out, it’s often too late to escape the consequences of having once wanted in so badly.

I’ve watched this phenomenon intensify over the past four decades. The immense power of the tabloid media, paparazzi and reality television over our perceptions of celebrities created a backlash when the advent of social media turned celebrities into their own, vastly powerful, autonomous publishing platforms.

But this hasn’t made fame any easier to manage. Where a tabloid editor once controlled how a celebrity’s words and actions were interpreted by the public, now talent agents, record labels, film studios and brand partners all contribute to the construction of the filter between the person and the public idol. This filter often obscures their human vulnerabilities, and dehumanises the media and the public’s interactions with them.

And social media’s apparent redress of the celebrity-media power balance has not, in fact, made the maintenance of privacy any easier. Social media has created the expectation of a regular drumbeat of updates about that celebrity’s life; any period of silence becomes a vacuum into which gushes tawdry speculation. Celebrities who decide to seize control of their own narrative by communicating regularly can become prisoners of this practice. The amateur dissection of Payne’s final TikToks demonstrates the crushing pressure of scrutiny attracted by this ecosystem.

“Before you leave comments or make videos, ask yourself if you would like your own child or family to read them,” pleaded Payne’sex-partner and mother of his son, Cheryl Tweedy.

“Before you type anything on the internet, have a think: ‘Do I really need to publish this?’ Because that’s what you’re doing. You’re publishing your thoughts for anybody to read. Even if you don’t really think that celebrities or their families exist. They fucking do. Skin and bone and immensely sensitive.” So said Payne’s former mentor Robbie Williams.

That was aimed at the public. But those in the media and entertainment industries, the other players in the fame game, might also reconsider the duty of care we owe celebrities.

In this febrile digital landscape, it’s easy to understand why some celebrities insulate themselves with layer upon layer of managers, agents, publicists and lawyers. But sometimes, unless the balance of authentic humanity and protective corporate realpolitik is managed meticulously, this only serves to separate the human being even further from the public.

I have a client who is one of the most authentic communicators I have ever come across, but whom I often have to shield behind a straighter corporate bat to protect them from bombardment from media and social media hostilities. But in effect, what I’m doing as gatekeeper is denying supporters and critics a fuller, more authentic view of the human behind the public image.

The question for everyone who seeks or meets the public gaze is eternal: how much of themselves do they give to the fame machine, and at what cost? It transports them to places beyond their wildest dreams, but it can spit them out suddenly, brutally. We watch that, too. It’s part of the pact, but after the death of Liam Payne, maybe we will ponder whether that’s a bargain we still want.