Art and the Hero

Of the news about Neil Gaiman, I must say that I am heartbroken.

For those who do not know, I must report that he has at best been accused of coercing young women in his employment to have sex with him, while, at worst, he is accused of rape. His disappearance from social media two weeks ago seems to verify the seriousness of the claims.

First, I feel deeply sorry for the hurt done to those young women, that I admire their their bravery in speaking out and hope this can be part of their moving forward. I also feel sorry for the more general damage done to the relationships between men and women, and between the powerful and the vulnerable.

Secondly, I will say that there are two philosophical positions on the matter: those who believe that the artist and their art are separate, and those who believe that they form together a whole. I believe both positions are valid, but I must necessarily take the latter for I find that my knowledge of the artist informs the art and makes it greater, and the separation of the two would be to the injury of my appreciation.

My own story relating to Neil Gaiman dates back to the 90s when I read Good Omens and continued in 2002 when I was 21 and got my first steady job. I used to take my £150 weekly pay cheque to Forbidden Planet on Buchanan Street in Glasgow and purchase one Sandman collection for £15. I was paying a tithe to DC Comics at that time, and it was worth it. My appreciation for Gaiman has been long, and my respect for him has been deep, even as I envied his success, freedom and influence.

I thought that in him I had found one successful living writer whose work I loved who lived up to the high ideals of his own art. Now I have lost this, and I am bereft.

Fortunately, I am not alone for the art still whispers its messages to me, and if I listen very carefully, I can still hear. But what now that I lack a worthy human model for my progress?

I must resist the temptation to let my envy turn to pleasure in how he has fallen. I must resist the temptation to turn inwards and, in a childish sense of hurt, declare that I will follow no more heroes.

And of the future, I hope that, should the world ever turn its eye on me and create such a large version of me that a smaller me can be hidden in its shadow and become wicked there, that I would have the wisdom to resist corruption. For, if not, then the best thing that can possibly happen to me is that I continue to labour honestly without the glare of the world upon me for the rest of my days.