People all over the world have been mourning the passing of David Bowie this week and, now, just in the past few hours, Alan Rickman as well.
I don’t recall ever not knowing David Bowie’s name – he was always there, even though I never saw Labyrinth as a child, so I can’t locate him in my memory at that stage when others do. Later, when I tried to listen to his music as a teenager, next to the main hits we can all reel off, I didn’t really understand his appeal. Only once I hit university and studied cultural studies (still one of the best decisions I ever made), as I read papers about artists detailing their wider significance and gravitas, did I come to a better appreciation.
On the other hand, Alan Rickman came charging into my life in a movie theatre. There he was wearing black, making snide remarks, dominating every scene he appeared in. To the younger generation, this must’ve been like what Harry Potter felt like. For my generation, or at least for me, that movie was Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves.
Cultural commentaries on the mass outpouring of grief following the death of celebrity artists often run between “It’s not only natural – but honourable” to “It’s overblown and stupidly demonstrative”. Much better words than mine have been written this week about the former camp – to which I belong – but I wanted to mention it here. Because we can be sad and celebrate their gifts at the same time. Emotions aren’t mutually exclusive; they don’t cancel each other out.
They were both same age. Both had cancer, too. The mole I had removed last week has also returned a positive result. Basal Cell Carcinoma. It’s all gone now and I don’t want to make a big deal about it. Kind people are asking if I’m okay. Of course I am. I’m still here, aren’t I?
