The unexpected and unpleasant deaths of renowned artists in faraway lands prove a rather difficult emotion to manage. For one, the idea of 'mourning' in any genuine sense feels slightly disconcerting given that one has never made acquaintance with these individuals, let alone see them in flesh. Yet, through their works, remarkable artists of a wide variety seem to have become an integral part of our psyche and the way we relate to the world around us, so much so that sometimes, we may never know where they end and where we begin. Word by word and page by page, writers weave narratives that delve within and plumb our depths, allowing us to reflect on sentiments essential for our contentment; sentiments that may have been buried by the pressures of the daily normal. Film-makers inspire awe and wonderment at mere being and at the same time, force us to shudder and tremble at the prospect of existence in an incomprehensible and amoral universe. In other words, whatever may be their chosen craft and wherever and whenever they may be or may have been, artists are, to enlarge Percy Shelley's perspective, "the unacknowledged legislators of the world". They give civilization the raison d'etre and the most sublime ones convey to us, in a very deep and ethereal sense, what it is to be human and to be alive. But, as I write these words, the world laments the loss of one such artist, a force of nature whose performances on screen made audiences around the world roar with laughter as well as shed many a tear. A legislator of the turbulent currents of life, he ensured that the chaos and torment within gave birth to, as Friedrich Nietzsche would have it, many a "dancing star". Robin Williams, loved by children and adults alike, was found dead in his home in a suspected case of suicide by asphyxiation. The details do not matter much for they point to a devious demon lurking in the corners of the darkest alleyways within some of our minds.
Perhaps I must first admit that I am not an expert in mental illnesses. Given the diverse range of approaches and understandings about these topics, one simply does not know which framework best to employ while addressing a particular issue. Is it Freud's Psychoanalaysis or Jung's Analytical Psychology? Or is it some version of occultism addressing the spirit? There are too many perspectives to get around. Still, as a general rule of thumb and as someone who has faith in the philosophical and institutional edifice governing scientific enquiry, I am inclined to believe in the current consensus which suggests that mental illnesses are, for the most part, manifestations of complications within the physical body. It could be that there is something wrong with neurotransmitters and the standard of communication between synapses in the brain; it could be that some aspect of the environment caused a certain part of the genetic code to unfurl and unleash a series of chain reactions that resulted in some untoward episode, or it could be that the particular endocrine system is simply not optimized to function within the body in its entirety. Whatever the reasons may be, depression, schizophrenia and most other illnesses seem to have a physical component that needs to be treated and it would certainly help if some psychological counseling is also given for added support. Indeed, a combination of these would, in many cases, avert possible suicides and tragic deaths. But to this day, mental illness is such a taboo in many societies that large scale initiatives are necessary to enlighten people regarding its 'normality' and to treat it just like one would treat a physical illness. One can only imagine the number of lives improved or even saved in a given year if people were to take their mental health seriously and visit a certified professional when circumstances call for it. Moreover, if we are willing to encourage those who we think need psychological or psychiatric counseling, it would be equivalent to us prodding someone to visit a general physician in case they had a dreadful headache. Yet sometimes, when those around us are not equipped to recognize our need to be oriented to a safer path and when we ourselves are blinded by the darkness of our own mental episodes, life crashes against the jagged edges of the mind's abyss. Either it meets a tragic and pitiful end, or, there is a light and a spark of madness.
You would think that I am referring to the kind of insanity witnessed in the forlorn hallways of asylums and sanitariums, when patients are being shifted from wafer thin mattresses to shock therapy rooms, screaming and convulsing away the remnants of their senses. Certainly, they too are the tragic victims of the treacherous machinations of life but I do not wish to include them in my narrative, for I do not have first hand experience of that state of mind. The spark of madness that I speak of here encompasses the tempestuous birth of creative energy as well as the reservoir it engenders that helps fuel and sustain the artist. Indeed, this genesis becomes the first instance when the individual truly understands the redeeming role of art in life and how the continuous engagement in the creative process is essential for, if it is not too brash of me to suggest, survival at large. Of course, as I mentioned previously, were this to happen in some other circumstances to a person of a different constitution, it would probably result in tragedy. For the artist however, like a volcano that erupts once in a century, madness emerges somewhere along the course of life and depending on the individual's proclivities and sensibilities, he or she sees it either as a gift or a curse. But madness does not judge and it does not distinguish between those who adore it and those who detest it. Its sway over the artist is simply too strong for it to be regulated in any reasonable manner. One may attempt to walk away from it and fervently hope for a life prescribed in normality, and wish for the ashes and debris to settle down once and for all. Or, one can resign in patience to one's fate and choose to believe that the spark of madness is a new beginning to celebrated, a gift bestowed by the forces of the universe to engage in poesis, the act of creating something from nothing; a chance to be Godlike.
Life is of course mired in contradictions and one would be mistaken in thinking that the artist had it any other way. The very pursuit that sustains life also becomes a seething scimitar dangling over the neck, one whose workings appear to be beyond anyone's immediate reckoning. Indeed, the price for creating art is exacting and exceeding since it requires, consciously or unconsciously, that the artist remains on the edge - between sanity and lunacy, intimacy and aloofness, turmoil and violence, love and loneliness, life and death. Put differently, the artist must embrace chaos because without it, the desire to create art in its most exalted and redeeming state simply becomes a wish to be made on sand. If these musings appear dubious, a cursory glance at the list of the most influential painters in Europe will reveal a record of psychologically disturbed geniuses whose works could have never come about had they enjoyed warm and peaceful private lives. The most poignant and well known example is Vincent van Gogh, the troubled and vituperative Dutchman who committed suicide by aiming a shotgun at his chest. Beyond doubt, one can find the state of his mind clearly reflected in his paintings. Rather than capture the essence of the form in its truest sense, he transposed his inner-life on to the object and made it appear to us as it appeared to him, in his own unique and idiosyncratic sense. Thus, Van Gogh's Chair is not just a chair but his very own, one that embodied the vicissitudes of relationships as well as the overwhelming loneliness that plagued him throughout his life. More examples are abound of poets, writers, performers and musicians of all sorts who found recourse in their creative craft and was yet decimated by its source later. Indeed, it seems quite evident to me that many of them would have known reasonably well that the bittersweet golden nectar that they all drew inspiration and energy from could one day turn soot black and kill them from the inside. Nevertheless, as irrational as it may seem, it is not the dread of succumbing to the demons within nor is it the prospect of leaving behind a childless and barren home that instils the most disquiet in an artist's heart. Rather, it is losing touch with that genesis and reservoir of creativity, that spark of madness.
Death is tragic since it signifies the end of a certain combination of matter that may, for all we know, never resume the same configuration and yield the same persona for all of eternity. Life too assumes tragic proportions when we recognize that all of its hopes and rewards do not compensate for the pain and infamy of death. Yet, given this pessimistic view of the spirit of the universe, there is glory to be found in art and consequently, there are artists whom we can label as glorious - artists who have survived the primal explosion of madness; artists who have made a reservoir of vitality out of pain and suffering; artists who have attained transcendence by escaping their boundaries and limitations into worlds and characters they have created for themselves; artists who have touched the lives of others and help convey the many facets of humanity, and last but not the least, artists who have had demons lurking in their minds and succumbed to their deviousness, and in the while, have created beauty and majesty for all of the world to experience. Robin Williams, it appears to me, was all these and more. He once said, "You're only given one little spark of madness. You mustn't lose it". He may have lost his life in trying to channelize and retain that spark but for the rest of the world, he is and will always be, an artist who has attained glory.