Stars

We all have been enamored of someone at some point in our lives.  For some of us, that someone is a movie star.  Or, a writer.  Or, an artist.

Josh is an artist.  He died as one and lived somewhere in-between.

He was born in Canada, but his family moved to the United States where he met another young man who also loved “scientifiction.”

He devoured, with his friend, science fiction and fantasy from magazines like Amazing Stories and Weird Tales.

He co-created the most famous popular culture icon in the world.

I have been collecting his creation, on and off, for decades.

I never knew how he "really" looked.  Until the advent of the Internet; that wonderful technology that enables us to connect from any part of the world within seconds.  I had seen photos before then but he looked sad and burned out in those.

The Net churned out better photos.  His body looked good (sexy actually), even while dressed, in his youth with eyes widely open and a shy smile.  “Surprisingly handsome” is what a noted writer and blogger called him when a book about him and other artists came out.

I like looking at his photos now and then, imagining talking to a handsome guy, alone somewhere in the fields, looking at the blue skies and faraway stars, with my head resting on his chest.  This scene goes well with the Irving Berlin song "What'll I Do" (I especially like the rendition of Beatrice Arthur in an episode of the TV series The Golden Girls): "What'll I do with just a photograph to tell my troubles to...."

That’s as far as my fantasy goes.  He has been an icon all my life.  There seems to be a sanctuary within my moral system that protects my affection from my libido.

We moved places a number of times in my youth, in my life.  I made sure that not one of my collected books and magazines got lost in transit.  Some still got lost, stolen.  Theft, however, can not take away my affection for writers, artists, and Josh.

I learned that in the 1950s and the 1960s, he lived a difficult life.  When his creation was shown on Broadway, he went to the theater on nearly each performance.  He never saw the musical.  He just watched the people come and go.  He could not afford a ticket.

At one point, he had to prove his identity because he was mistaken for a vagrant.

He got married once.

He took care of his mother while his brother worked.

Years ago, a collection of his works called “fetish art” was published.  He drew these art works when he was at a low point in his life.  But then again, as an artist who does what he loves doing, he could be having the time of his life (having his "revenge" against his former employers).

In the 1970s, with the help of good people, credit for his famous creation was returned to him and his co-creator.

Josh looked different in old age.  His “old” photos remind me of Peter Pettigrew, ably played by Timothy Spall.  Peter Pettigrew is also known as Wormtail in the book and the film series Harry Potter.

In comparison with his co-creator, not much is said about Josh.  Everyone around him would say he was a quiet and gentle guy.

His photos enchant me, not only because of his great looks in his youth, but because I am reminded of his lifelong struggle for recognition and his quiet acceptance of his fate.  Light is something he always found in the darkness.  Through all his pain, nothing in the extant reveals that he ever maligned anyone.

I can say with confidence that he did not endorse the thrill-seeking crimes that a twisted psychiatrist pinned on his art.

He gave birth to the form, the first appearance, of Superman.  Sometimes, when I look up in the sky, I imagine the stars, Krypton, and Josh.

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To Joe Shuster, co-creator of Superman, with affection