It's very strange to me that four artists that I greatly admire have died this year, from two extremes: suicide, and natural causes. First, Philip Seymour Hoffman, Pete Seeger, Dr. Maya Angelou, and now Robin Williams. Why couldn't Philip and Robin have such long lives as Pete and Dr. Angelou? It's not like the latter coasted through life unscathed, so how did they survive? I watched a brilliant interview hosted by Conan O'Brien, who was talking with Jack White about dealing with fame, how people treat you differently. Conan said, "When you put an artist on a pedestal, you're killing them." Philip's a human being, Pete's a human being, Dr. Angelou is a human being, Robin's a human being. But do we kill them with our dehumanizing admiration?
My favorite movie ever--not just favorite Robin Williams movie-- is "Good Will Hunting." What's odd is that I first saw it at age 6 or 7 with my parents. I felt special because I knew there was a lot of cussing involved, so this meant my parents trusted me, and thought I could handle it, right? Most of the vocab went over my head anyway, and the Boston accents didn't help. I've watched it countless times since, and every time it hits me a different way, how powerful a story it is. Some girls cry at "The Notebook," I cry when Ben Affleck shows up at Matt Damon's door to discover that he's finally lit out of town to chase Minnie Driver, and when Ben smiles at the thought. And what's Robin's line? "It's not your fault."
The way we recognize depression and suicide has changed dramatically in the past decade. It's no longer suitable to say, man up, just try to be happy, just get your act together. We know now it's something more sinister.
It's not your fault, Robin. It's not your fault.
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