Considering how much of a film snob I can be, it’s no wonder that when I first saw the lights come up on Steven Spielberg’s "Lincoln" in the winter of my freshman year of high school, I was enthralled. Don’t get me wrong, I’m nearly as big of a history and political junkie as I am a cinephile, and those aspects of my being definitely aided my appreciation of the film. But I think I knew, even then, that there was something else at play. The set was so aesthetically haunting, the grays of the last days of the Civil War blending so perfectly into the story, it was almost as if someone had painted it that way. The dialog was phenomenal in its poignancy.

And yet, in addition to all of that, I can distinctly recall the admiration I had for the film’s lead and title character, Abraham Lincoln, played by the renowned Daniel Day-Lewis. To this day I can recall so vividly the scene in which Day-Lewis’ Lincoln stands before a group of his political peers and passionately cries for the end of slavery “Now! Now! Now!”.

Such a scene would remain etched in my memory for years, where, upon seeing other Day-Lewis films such as "There Will Be Blood" and "Gangs of New York" I came to the conclusion that what that man did onscreen was nothing short of miraculous. And perhaps that’s trite to say, especially considering that virtually every publication across the globe has claimed Day-Lewis as the greatest actor living (some even going so far as to claim the greatest ever). Yet, in watching any film in which Day-Lewis plays, one gets an intense sensation of intimacy that, while not wholly unseen elsewhere, is certainly unparalleled.

So, imagine my surprise, shock, and dismay when, but a few weeks ago, I first caught word that Daniel Day-Lewis was, in fact, giving up acting, apparently for good.

A part of me is still very much in denial about the thing. Upon further investigating his reasoning, in that he’s dealing with a sense of depression following his immersion into his latest role as Reynolds Woodcock in Paul Thomas Anderson’s upcoming Phantom Thread, I immediately felt an immense sense of conflict.

My heart goes out to Day-Lewis. It truly does. Whether a truly diagnosed ailment or not, depression in any form is not something to take lightly, nor is it an easy thing to tackle. And surely, I find sympathy for the terrible exhaustion that must accompany him in the aftermath of his roles, where he’s known to commit himself to a character to the point that others would call him crazy, including spending extended periods of time with cerebral palsy patients to better understand the plight of Christy Brown in "My Left Foot" (his first Oscar win) and practicing how to throw real, cumbersome butcher knives in "Gangs of New York."

Yet, at the same time, I am torn.

I am torn because as an artist I’ve made a somewhat unofficial vow to myself to never stop working. I’ve told friends and family that I don’t believe I will ever want to retire; that I will want to be dragged out of my study cold, stiff, dead, and with a pen still in my hand. It’s with that kind of intensity, that kind of vigor, that I believe in my commitment to my art. And though it’s silly to expect similarly slavish devotion from my counterparts, I find it difficult to hear that the same kind of gusto might not be in the belly of a man that I, admittedly, have come to idolize.

To be fair, Daniel Day-Lewis is an incredibly talented and multi-faceted individual. Acting isn’t the only interest he has in his pocket. According to his most recent interview with W, Day-Lewis studied woodworking as a teenager. Today, he paints, makes furniture, and avidly follows MotoGP, or competitive motorcycling. He has even been an avid motorcyclist himself. Certainly, Daniel Day-Lewis is not a man without passion. And yet, it is difficult to wrap my mind around the man walking away from what, at least up until this point, has been his primary passion, and the thing that we have come to know and love him for.

A part of me wonders if this isn’t how Detroit felt following Barry Sanders unexpected retirement following the 1998 NFL season. By all reasoning, Sanders was in the prime of his career, being only 31 years old and never having rushed for less than 1,100 yards in any given season. Daniel Day-Lewis, likewise, is in his prime, having turned 60 this past April. He also holds the record for most Best Actor Academy Awards at three, and is one of only three male actors to ever win three Academy Awards.

If, perhaps, his career had laid dormant for some time, or it was clear that he had lost his edge, this news would not be so unwelcome. But his last award win came for "Lincoln" which was only released five years ago. And five years before that he had won for "There Will Be Blood."

Perhaps what I think this news has helped me to realize is the lack of urgency in my own work, and the inevitable ticking clock that works against all of us. Even for the best and the brightest, there is no magic wand or easy fix that can escape time. Or, even beyond time, there is nothing that can escape the intricacies of the mind. The mind, like the heart, can be as fickle as it can be stubborn at times. And while I do not believe I ever want to give up my art, there is no telling if there is a moment in my future like that which gripped Sanders or Day-Lewis. Perhaps there will come a time when it all truly is too much, and I will desire to turn to simpler things, like friends, family, and the ease of sharing life with them.

In the interim, however, this news has imbued in me a sense of haste. A need, a wanton desire to create. If the world really has been made minus one of its greatest artists, then we the people will be in need of art to fill that gap.