I’m not going to write a long, personal account of what Gene Colan’s work means to me. I could, but that’s so clichéd. Rather, his passing has made me think about mortality. Even when we don’t acknowledge it, mortality is the white elephant in the room. And, if we live a long life, we get to see all our heroes precede us into that unknown country. I’m not trying to be morose, because I was simply born old.
As far as I know, there are no true immortals, men or women who simply don’t die but persist for ages. Be this the Wandering Jew, the Fisher King, Casca Longinus, or Prestor John, there are no ancient humans walking this earth as they have for centuries. (It would be fascinating to be proven wrong, mind you.)
Barring physical immortality, the only way for a man to live on is through his progeny, or through his works. More than a thousand years have passed, and still we know the deeds of Charlemagne, Paul the Apostle, Alexander the Great, or Ramesses the Great. So, in their way, they live on. In a way, they have made the transition into imagination, and they have become meme’s.
How about great artists? Frank Lloyd Wright, Jack Kirby, Sir Walter Scott, Shakespeare, Frank Frazetta, Johnny Cash, Norman Rockwell, etc. etc. Their work endures, and by extension so do they.
So, there you have it: Do great things, and become history’s beloved child; or, create great things, and live on as long as those works last.
For me, Gene Colan’s work lives on, and his work was indistinguishable from him, so he lives on through his work. Wrap your mind around this, because, as the great Steve Goodman put it, ‘the cradle to the grave is a mighty short trip, so you better get it while you can.’