Drawing Richard Harrow

Jack Huston as Richard Harrow (photo via DeviceFX: www.DeviceFX.com)

 

 

 

When viewers of Boardwalk Empire are introduced to Richard Harrow, the first thing we notice about him is that he looks lonely and sad. He’s sitting alone, in front of a window in a veterans’ hospital, and when he turns toward us, we see that half his face has been burned off (and permanently, irreparably damaged).

Ah, here’s my person on this show, I thought.

Many popular current TV dramas (Mad Men, Game of Thrones, Sons of Anarchy, and yes, Boardwalk Empire) feel Middlemarch-y (these four, especially, could be released in a special edition box set called “AMC, FX, and HBO proudly present....Daddy Issues”--it’d have to be a large box). These shows recreate a historical context and conflict, onto which they project personal stories and power struggles.

Boardwalk Empire is the Middlemarchiest of the bunch, with overlapping narratives about law, crime, love, and family. Until I find my person in these shows (Tyrion Lannister and Arya Stark, I'm looking at you), I’m not fully emotionally invested. Favorite characters provide an anchor in these heavy, often-bloody, multi-volume shows.

Enter Richard Harrow (superbly played by Jack Huston).


Though we initially see his damaged face, throughout the rest of the episodes, we usually see Richard in his tin mask. It’s a Phantom of the Opera-style mask (painted and sculpted, in almost perfect detail, to match the other side of his face). A half mannequin mask, unblinking.

I watched episodes for him, for others’ reactions to him. Usually, horror, which would give way to tolerance and pity. From children, fear.

It’s hard to look at the broken one. The one who returns from war distorted, whose pain flows from not being known or understood. The elephant man. The phantom.

photo via http://boardwalkempire.wikia.com

Why is it that we, as artists, are often most drawn to these outcasts? Even in the world of Boardwalk Empire, an artist befriends Richard. Angela, the wife of Richard’s partner in crime, is a painter. In one scene, she sketches him while tells her about his beloved twin sister, who now feels like a stranger to him after the war. He takes his mask off while she draws.

I keep waiting for someone to tell Richard Harrow that he is ok, even though his face is not the same as it used to be. When people are kind to him in the show, they apologize for judging his appearance, and praise him for his sacrifice. What I want someone to say to him is, “A horrible thing happened to you, but you are not ruined. You will never heal, but you can still grow.” (As I type this, I realize that this line, almost verbatim, is at the heart of that movie about making movies, Super 8.)

In an interview with Drunken Boat, the poet Kay Ryan once said, “What we have to take care of, really protect, is something very unshaped, that we hardly even know. A lot of the job that one has to do as a writer is to protect the thing that doesn’t match the world.” Here, she was referencing the creative impulse within ourselves, recommending that we shelter and shield our urge to create.

I can’t help but also read Ryan’s words as a call for artists to protect and practice empathy. As artists (or just as humans?), we have all felt outcast, broken, disfigured. I feel that part of our responsibility, as artists, is to care for those who are in pain. This is not always (or even mostly) literal. It’s easy to forget this, but anytime we are driven to make something, we are creating for someone else. Regardless of what we are making, we are putting new words and ideas into the world, where they can be found by someone who needs them.

A common trait I’ve noticed in artists is the longing for connection, and the desire to hold onto that connection. It’s not that art is therapy for the artist (though it can be therapeutic to create). We’re acknowledging what hurts and what feels good. We aren’t making masks. We’re making hospitals. We’re making windows.