Robin Williams is an ego that belongs to the human race. His career and the range of the characters he played impacted many areas of our culture and spanned generations. The way he died is out of line with how we see him- let us use this as an opportunity to learn, to question. Can we separate the human in his role in our world and the role itself?
Imagine a person as quick, talented and impressive as he. The potential of that personality is basically unlimited, and indeed he challenged himself and rose to the occasion again and again- testing that personality, developing characters within it and doing those characters justice. Using his talents to make people happy, but in a world that is so broken.
When an artist is a painter he can hide his most intimate work, and paint over any canvas that no longer represents his direction. When an artist is a writer he can create different characters for different aspects of himself and experiment to his heart’s content, confirming or denying whatever fiction suits him at the time. But when an artist is an actor, he himself is the canvas, his work irreversible. Characters developed inside his own heart but born from another’s brain.
The way we cling to our characters is our own. The way we interpret any art form is our own- and completely true extending to the limits of the universe we rule on our own. Being a conduit for these stories and works of art is a sacrifice Robin Williams made for us. As far out as his influence reached, that’s how far in his own realm of reality reached as well. That uncharted territory no one but himself can wander in is subject to all the harsh realities that every human faces.
I guess what I’m saying is that we can hold Robin Williams to our highest expectations as his body of work allows for, and let the person who carried that ego be a human with mysterious weaknesses. Those weaknesses only make the work that much more remarkable.