Calliope and Abuse

One of the traps an artist can fall into is utilizing someone else’s misery. It’s true that many people with power and influence abuse people regularly, but an artist? Art communicates thoughts and ideas, so we’re more disappointed when they’re the perpetrators. Such is one of the stories in The Sandman, a Netflix series adapted from the Neil Gaiman classic. Despite being unfamiliar with the graphic novel, I think Season 1’s bookend contains a profound example of this for our times. It’s titled “Calliope”, and it’s about artists abusing others to create art.

By the way, there’ll be spoilers. And since I’ll be discussing heavy themes, I suggest turning away now if abuse is triggering.

The episode opens with author and university professor, Richard Madoc, reading from his first book. He’s asked by a student if writing a book is easy, to which he answers no. This is the dilemma that we authors face: I took a course and wrote a 20-chapter manuscript, only to realize that my writing needed lots of work. Even now, 2 years later, I struggle with polishing my content. And I’ve grown as a writer!

Richard meets up that night with Erasmus Fry, a childhood icon, for inspiration. Fry shows him his trinkets, ending his tour with the source of his inspiration: a Muse name Calliope. Calliope has been Fry’s slave for decades, and he’s been abusing her to get story ideas. Realizing the Sun’s setting on his career, Fry gifts Calliope to Richard. This is setting up the episode’s conflict: is human trafficking worth it if it brings inspiration?

Initially, Richard’s conflicted. He knows that harbouring a slave is wrong, but he’s stuck. His agent’s contemplating cutting off Richard’s book advance if he doesn’t provide. As Richard struggles with his responsibilities as a writer and a slave who refuses to cooperate, we see him feel desperation. Realizing time’s running out, he succumbs and follows in Fry’s footsteps.

We never actually see what Richard does to Calliope. But the gash on his cheek suggests that it was brutal, and that she fought back. Regardless, Richard finishes his book, becomes a household name and abbreviates his name to Ric. He even regains his self-confidence, being interviewed for his “feminism”. But is he? Is it true progressivism if you’re secretly a monster? This issue has come to light on various occasions and with several artists, each time casting their work in a new and disturbing light.

The best example of this conflict of interest is when Richard’s interviewed by a journalist. Richard cites figures like Margaret Atwood for inspiration, but the journalist notices similarities with Erasmus Fry. She mentions that their styles are uncanny, despite Richard pretending otherwise. She also infers that Fry took his life shortly after gifting Calliope, a grim reminder of what abusers often experience when their control is relinquished. It’s also foreshadowing.

Of course, Richard keeps abusing Calliope. He breaks his promise to free her, stating that she’s more useful to him as a prisoner. He also won’t let her pray for help. Remember, Richard might be outwardly-progressive, demanding equity in the film adaptation of his book, but he’s anything but. Truthfully, he’s the exact same monster Fry was, except with a kinder edge.

This episode, while disturbing, reinforces the dangers that artists can easily fall prey to if not careful. Whether it’s abusing marginalized people online or on a movie set, plenty of well-respected individuals have been reminders of how authority can be misused. As an artist myself, it’s easy to hold a metaphorical leash over my readers, for example, and demand they read my work. I was tempted when I took a break from Blogging following my Zaidy’s passing. I didn’t do it, but my metrics still haven’t recovered fully.

The situation reaches its peak when Calliope secretly prays to the Muses. They’re unable to free her, but they hint at Morpheus, her ex-husband, coming to rescue her. This is near the end of Morpheus, or Dream, being in prison for 100 years, and she gets her wish when she reads of the sole survivor of Encephalitis-Lethargica, a sleeping disorder that plagued millions of people globally, awaking from her slumber. So she writes to Morpheus asking for his help. Despite Richard catching and scolding her, her letter makes its way to Morpheus anyway.

Richard eventually comes home one night to find Morpheus waiting for him. The lighting keeps Morpheus in a shadowy veil while he threatens Richard, stating that if it’s ideas he wants, he’ll get those in abundance. The next day, while giving a lecture to his students, Richard starts spouting story premises ad nauseam. It doesn’t take long until a student discovers him at a of nearby stairwell painting ideas on a wall in his blood. It’s creepy, but Richard finally realizes what’ll happen if he doesn’t release Calliope.

The episode ends positively for Calliope, who leaves Richard’s house to freedom, but also on a downer for Richard. Upon freeing Calliope, his affliction disappears. But so does his talent, making him into another washed-up author. It’s cathartic, but sad. And it’s a wake-up call to viewers. Because it’s never worth abusing people for your art.

This hits home because, like I said, so many artists I looked up to have let me down. Even outside of that, abusing people for your talent is a Faustian bargain. We’ve seen the consequences with Me Too. It begs the question of whether or not it’s worth it. Because is it? How do you reconcile art that you love being created by awful people, even those claiming to be progressive?

If “Calliope” is indication, it’s not possible to get away with that long-term. You might think you can, and it might look it short-term, but what goes around comes around. Remember, when you make a deal with The Devil, sooner or later he’ll come to collect. If it can happen to Erasmus Fry and Richard Madoc, it can happen to you! Don’t pretend otherwise!

I’ll end with that Harper’s Magazine piece I wrote. I have issues with some of it in hindsight, but the general sentiment remains the same. Regardless of “intent”, many signatories had enough baggage that it wasn’t genuine. It read as a cover to continue their abuse under the guise of open discourse, something a response piece pointed out. And it especially felt that way with how some of them behaved since. Words without actions are empty.

Ultimately, “Calliope” is a cautionary tale. She might not be real, but we all know a Calliope. And we all know an Erasmus Fry or Richard Madoc. If their fates mimic this episode, then we should take heed.