On absence, ambition, and the collateral damage of great art
The distance between the fictional worlds of Hamnet and Sentimental Value is five centuries. And yet both works arrive at the same image of the artist as parent: male, absent from his family, consumed by his work, and unable to communicate outside of it.
Their conclusion feels just as familiar. Great art absorbs the damage around it. Male parental neglect becomes understandable, even necessary, in the service of something larger.
What these stories preserve is a cultural agreement that’s not questioned enough: if the work matters, the private cost fades into the background.
The Artist
I don’t need to tell you how often he is missing from his family. And you know perfectly well that it’s a he. In history and on screen, only a male artist is granted the luxury of leaving his family behind. A woman who makes the same choice doesn’t get called an artist. She gets called a bad mother.
But back to him, because that’s exactly the point. He needs more. Family life is not enough for his ambition, and it doesn’t have to be. No one expects him to be satisfied with a small life. In fact, we would be disappointed if he were. After all, he has to forge his own path into this world. He has to create to find meaning and leave his mark. As Gustav points out:
You’ll never write Ulysses driving to soccer practice and comparing car insurance. What happened to artistic freedom? Artists need liberty.
Family restricts his freedom and distracts him from his work. Human connection requires presence, attention, and openness. It requires time. Time that could be spent crafting stories for his audience or perfecting his skills. The audience waits. The child can wait longer. Life is shockingly short and our time is increasingly limited. If Shakespeare had to choose between his family and his work, a contemporary artist like Gustav Borg must also surrender hours to press releases, interviews, negotiations, relevance.
In all fairness, when the artist parent decides to be present, his children become the center of the world. They can have fun together, as long as it’s on his terms. The only moments of a happy father-child relationship in both Hamnet and Sentimental Value are those where the children partake in their parent’s vocation. It’s only natural to inherit the interests of your parents. For artists like Gustav Borg, there is no other love language but art. The child has to figure that out alone and decide whether to accept being loved only when she can participate in it.
Grief is a powerful driver in the world of an artist. Since his communication is limited to his artistic expression, the only way to process his trauma is through his work. It’s a win-win situation. He gets to heal, and his audience gets to touch a piece of his puzzle. In turn, his work can provide an outlet for someone else going through these feelings, centuries apart. That’s the beauty of art. It doesn’t matter whether Shakespeare wrote Hamlet for his son. What matters is that his work remains important and relatable to this day. That’s what the artist is after. His partner and children are left to absorb what cannot be transformed into art.
The Mother
Sentimental Value largely excludes the mother from its narrative, but Hamnet doesn’t shy away from giving her the spotlight. As long as she stays within the boundaries history allows.
Agnes doesn’t need an audience. She is at peace with her small life, in harmony with nature. Her artistry is not measured in applause but in care. The life she brings into the world becomes her most enduring creation. She embraces the sacrifice expected of her — to nurture and protect her offspring no matter what. And while she is the image of resilience, she never agreed to face life’s blows on her own. That is where the rage begins.
The real danger in marrying an artist isn’t a life in poverty. It’s a life of loneliness. Even when the woman understands the artist’s need for freedom and helps him find his path, she often gets little in return, save for a sonnet or two. Being a muse isn’t enough for life after love. Zelda Fitzgerald wanted to write. Scott needed her to be his material. The line between muse and source isn’t always one the woman gets to draw. It’s romantic in theory and isolating in practice. And while a strong woman can trudge on without a man, some misfortunes are powerful enough to tip her scales.
The Hamnet scene that stayed with me more than anything was the moment he died in her arms. No mother should outlast her child. It is a profound grief that rips a part of her away forever. Her gift to the world, her living art, lies lifeless in her arms.
The artist’s grief became Hamlet. Agnes’s became silence. One of them got a legacy. The other got memories and the pain of knowing that giving her all was not enough.
The Child
All children carry wounds caused by their parents. Whether the injury comes from absence or overbearing care, she will eventually ask them to answer for their “crimes.” Whether they apologise or not changes little. An apology cannot compensate for years of pain, rage, or therapy. Still, both Sentimental Value and Hamnet claim that art makes forgiveness possible. On screen, it feels convincing. Outside of it, the math rarely works.
In real life, forgiveness is less cinematic. You either live with the rupture, or you learn to accommodate it.
Remorse often arrives when the artist feels the end creeping in.When his friends start dying, and his loneliness is ever present, he is ready to turn the page and make amends. He realizes that he needs someone to care for him until death takes his hand. Preferably someone who knows him already. Someone who still carries his name. Even better, someone like Nora, who can carry his torch. This can be true remorse but, for a narcissistic artist, it can easily fall down to awareness and a desire for self-preservation.
How does the artist’s child answer?
She accepts. She forgives. Time is short and no one can change the past. Five centuries apart, the child’s answer is the same. Hamnet never gets to give his. But if Nora’s choice is any indication, the artist’s child learns early that the story outlasts the wound. The only way forward is to stand by the artist’s side for the limited time he has left. They’ll never catch up, but she’ll breathe somewhat easier knowing that she didn’t abandon him in his time of need.
The past is filled with darkness that no apology can retroactively light. But carrying it forward costs the child more than it costs the parent. When Nora agrees to participate in her father’s film, she isn’t absolving him. She’s choosing what to do with what he left her.
She is the child of an artist, after all. She has learned to measure her pain against the magnitude of the story. Whether that’s wisdom or survival, the films don’t say.
The Price of a Story
Powerful stories are born out of intense emotions — love, pain, anger. Retold well they can transcend time and touch and teach people centuries apart. So, does the life of their artist matter? Would we read Hamlet differently if it were explicitly dedicated to Shakespeare’s dead son?
Except for a few dedicated scholars, it is unlikely anyone would care. Tidbits about the author and his work are curious and entertaining, but unless we were to uncover something morally unforgivable, his work would remain well read and widely admired. By extension, the author’s family matters even less to the public.
Only the stories endure. The people around them become footnotes.
Does this mean that great art justifies neglectful parenting?
In the eye of the public, often yes. We have only to gain from the suffering of those children. We consume the work and call it transcendent. We celebrate the artist and forget the cost. Every standing ovation is also a verdict on what we are willing to reward.
In the eyes of the artist, almost always. The work justifies the means.
The ones left to pay the price might disagree. They might argue that greatness should not require collateral damage. And they are almost always women. The ones who stayed, who raised the children, who absorbed the silences. History doesn’t name them in the programme notes.
The cost fades. The work survives.
Whose life are we willing to spend for a story?