Perhaps against my better judgment, I attended arts programs for my university degrees, and I often came across the debate concerning whether or not you can divorce the immoral behavior of an artist from the art they create. Can one appreciate the genius of Chinatown knowing that director Roman Polanski raped a 13-year-old girl? Or, since film is such a collaborative medium, how about a more solitary art such as writing. Can you separate 2001: A Space Odysee from the fact that author Arthur C. Clarke lived in Ceylon with a harem of pubescent boys? Or the brilliant work of William S. Burroughs from the heroin addiction that led him to constantly hurt his friends and family to the point where he accidentally shot and killed his own wife in a game of William Tell?
The truth is that of course you cannot split art from the artist. Inspiration or even divine energy may be delivered from the outer, but the art ultimately comes from the inner, and the inside of a person will invariable imprint itself on the material they create. And so it is fine to be skeptical of art made by terrible people. The skill on display in their works may be masterful, since the mastery of skill is an amoral enterprise. But a harder look into the spirit of the work often does reveal the poison baked into the creation. Polanski was made world famous by Rosemary’s Baby, a well-made but corrosive film about the victory of Satan over Earth. Arthur C. Clarke was an atheistic materialist, and his work revolved around the triumph of man and technology over God — as in 2001, we become the Star Child, become as gods. The man’s writing was a fountain of hubris at best and malevolent, possibly demonic obfuscation at worst.
Or perhaps there is a cyclical aspect? Artists — the great ones anyway — are capable of opening portals between realms, whether they intend to or not. Portals, being links between realms, work both ways. Perhaps at some point in their lifelong creative quests they opened a door that let in something wicked. And so Polanski makes a film about the triumph of Satan in an upper class home, and his own palatial mansion is visited by the Manson family, who slaughter his friends and his pregnant wife and smear the house with their blood.
This is not a matter of “just desserts,” more a matter of connection. Between materialism and immoral behavior, portals and art — between homages to Satan and visitation by demons.
If you believe in such things, of course.
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