Alan Rickman is dead.
And in his death, there isn’t light and joy. No one is muttering sentiments about a better place or “going home”. This isn’t magical. Snape has fought his last battle, and unexpected by everyone, he has lost.
It always seems to happen in clusters. This week we lost David Bowie, too. That loss felt huge and heavy; Bowie taught me that being weird is good enough and that I am good enough. And now he’s gone. London feels empty and beige without him. Alan Rickman, owner of one of the most unique voices in film, taught me to own my differences. These artists that we follow and watch and idolise are what taught me to be me. When I was small I just never expected that it would feel like this to lose them.
Whenever a celebrity dies and people speak about it in a public space I always say something similar; “Please don’t let Michael Caine or Dustin Hoffman die, and I’ll be okay” I used to include Robin Williams in that sentiment too, but then that day in August came where I fell to the floor and wept. Last week I finally had Robin Williams tattooed on my body and I feel lighter now. Perhaps I feel too much. Or perhaps, this art and music that we surround ourselves with, shapes us.
A walk through Camden is a reminder of the life of Amy Winehouse. Murals and shop windows dedicated to her legacy and posters on the walls. She made people feel and in turn, they felt for her. Artists never truly know the influence that they’ve have and the lives that they’ve shaped.
Another one of my heroes is dead and, “Always” will forever be our battle cry.
Always.
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