The death of Robin Williams has left me in a state of suspended animation. I didn't know the man. But I knew the artist. And I was so often deeply moved and shaken to my core by elements of his creative output, that he was one artist I was not hesitant to call a genius.
But whenever a creative person dies of an apparerent suicide or overdose, I feel my body tense, as though in some important way, the deaths of these sensitive souls might be some kind of reflection of an ever expanding courseness in our society, one in which profit is valued over talent and little space is made to accomodate the big mushy egos that often come with bold achiements in a creative sphere.
What do Whitney Houston, Phillip Seymour Hoffman, Michael Jackson and Robin Williams all have in common?