Alice Munro and Art Monsters

Is Art Ever the Place for Cans of Worms and Slippery Slopes?

i.

I've written very little about the (fill in the blank: necessity, responsibility, irresponsibility, etc.) of separating a work of art from the artist who created it, in part because it's complicated, but mostly because it's guaranteed to provoke everything except deliberation, the topic itself is an invitation for readers, critics, fans to do the one thing they love most: talk about themselves.

Also, and I say this sincerely: as a straight male, and considering so much (certainly not all or even most?) of what we talk about when we talk about art monsters deals with men behaving horribly toward women (their wives, their lovers, their children), I appreciate the infuriating catalog of cretins and the historical, systemic, seemingly ceaseless passes given men, particularly men with wealth or influence, and especially men of wealth and influence who, because they have produced masterpieces, are not only immune from legitimate criticism, but immune in ways that minimize those who would level it. I can only imagine the fury it provokes for anyone whose attempts to expose or even discuss such behavior gets dismissed, either cavalierly or worse, with venom (the defenders of art monsters going on the offensive in ways we usually see only in the political arena, where such zero game nihilism is considered par for the course if not altogether de rigueur). 

Still. My "take" (and I'll insist I don't and never had a specific take, each situation needing to be addressed and assessed on a case-by-case basis) has mostly been: the moment we begin judging the art (on the page, on the screen, on the record) by the actions of the artist, it becomes the rare instance where the odious invocation of slippery slopes applies. Who gets to determine which art should or must be discarded? Which offenses qualify? Where do we draw historical and cultural lines? In other words, if certain behaviors, understandably intolerable to contemporary sensibilities, were culturally and societally accepted decades or centuries ago, is it fair or even responsible to retroactively apply such standards? Do we at least recognize that we're in collective denial by targeting the artists whose biographies we know and tacitly giving a pass to those who biographies we don't? Do we reserve the right, as individuals or groups, to litigate a legacy once disgusting acts come to light? Where to begin? Where does it end? This is what I mean when I say, sincerely, that this is complicated.

Let’s consider that catalog.

It has, for me at least, never been very complicated to loathe Wagner, the man, and not only endorse, but savor his compositions. And not in a cooly detached, critical way (this is meaningful or worthwhile work) but in a fervent, this-is-life-altering-stuff way. For a piece commemorating his 200th birthday, here, I wrote: Of course, Wagner has more than occasionally been a lightning rod for conflict, some of it serious, some of it frivolous (much of it opportunistic on the part of the offended). The laundry list is detailed here. At best (worst?) the same type of criteria applies to Wagner as it does to any creative person: no matter how insufferable or puny the person may happen to be, we seldom celebrate the creator so much as what they created. Or, we can choose to focus on the very good that sprang, however improbably, from a person who chose not to overcome the issues/prejudices/vices of their life/time.

And?

If writers ranging from Melville to Hemingway to Raymond Carver were inadequate, negligent, or at times absent husbands and fathers, does it lessen the humanity, pathos, and insights some of their work provides? Does the fact that someone reading "Bartleby the Scrivener" or "A Clean, Well-Lighted Place" or "Cathedral" might conceivably pay heed, be in some way transformed, and possibly become a better human being than they might otherwise be offset the collateral damage they did during the times they wrote their masterpieces? What is the human calculus to measure the direct impact of bad behavior vs. redemption (itself impossible to quantify or graph on a universal human scale), and who dares to assume they are in position (intellectually, morally) to adjudicate?

It’s complicated. And it should be complicated, and messy, and disconcerting to grapple with in a mature, measured way.

This, of course, is all ground that has been covered, for centuries, and I personally believe the plain fact that it's a perennial topic of discussion (discussion that ranges from being necessarily heated, myopic, revealing, subject to constant revision, and so on) is itself a statement and speaks to our humanity in all its good, bad, ugly ways. It’s complicated because human beings are complicated.

ii.

Which brings us, circa July 2024, to Alice Munro.

Granted, this one has sent atypical shock waves and can be neither understood nor dismissed as a run of the mill “generally respected artist turns out to be an asshole” situation. Munro has occupied the exceedingly uncommon space of inviting unanimity: celebrated as one of the exceptional writers of short fiction during the last century (in any language), and a master revered for her reticence, her disdain of the spotlight and any form of showboating. She was signaled out, in sum, as not only the archetype, but one who refreshingly resisted the hollow, if obligatory trappings of the contemporary hustler/artist. She was the reluctant rock star in an industry filled with inarticulate introverts and, circa 2024, ubiquitous and insufferable strivers.

But it’s also been disheartening to see comments from all across the world, including remarks from fellow writers I know personally and respect, spanning the predictable and understandable (I’ll never read her the same way again) to the hysterical and self-defeating (I’ll never read her again). This begins to open up that most unappetizing can of contemporary worms wherein we inevitably discuss what “cancel culture” means, whether it matters, to whom it applies, and what it accomplishes, particularly when we’re talking about posthumous “cancellations.”

Is it the fact that, as a society, we did so little to understand and assist people who were once treated so badly (often women, by men, and the more powerful the man the more he got away with, same as it always was) that we now might be over-correcting and doing too much, going too far? Even if it was possible for us to remove an artist’s oeuvre from the figurative (or literal) marketplace, would we really want to do that? Do we, as eminently fallible human beings, ever have the right to effectively erase not only a person’s creative output, but the person’s identity?

iii.

The line from informed to cynical becomes very thin, very quickly, and the more we know, the less we may want to know. Is this denial or the workings of a calibrated heart and mind that can at once understand and accept that the worst people sometimes leave the most sublime gifts.

Just to riff off a handful of easily recognizable names who happen to be amongst my all-time favorite musicians:

Miles Davis, generally by all accounts, treated women (and more or less everyone) horribly, but I seldom think about that when I listen to his albums, which changed music and the world, for the better, over the course of many decades.

Arguably the best living guitar player, Jimmy Page, made indelible albums with Led Zeppelin despite amply documented dalliances with teenaged girls during the ‘70s (and his track record, on a human level, during that decade, ranges from unsavory to atrocious).

Is there a better “feel good” band than The Beatles? What then of John Lennon, self-admitted beater of woman, brawler, and cad who abandoned his first son when he ran off with Yoko Ono?

(On the other hand, it’s difficult to read an unkind word about Paul McCartney, as artist and man, and while yes, this does make me appreciate and adore him more than I already do, it doesn’t make me love his music more; indeed, he seems to get even cooler as he grows older, but little of the music he’s made since the ‘70s does anything for me. Still, I use Lennon/McCartney as opposite sides of the Apple (SWIDT?): Macca proves you can be blessed with indescribable talent and still be a genuine, humble person; this is something I can emulate and imitate, whereas I try to act unlike Lennon, so in addition to his recorded legacy, he also becomes both cautionary tale and anti-inspiration).

What does all of this have to do with the art? Little to nothing. But I find it says a great deal about the individual if they’re able—much less willing—to discard the work of an artist they’ve worshiped. (Does it change anything? Does it make anyone feel better? Is endorsing the art of a deceased artist in any way endorsing their behavior in a tangible or meaningful way? Or is there something more complicated, and uncomfortable happening here?) There’s something childish about the need to have one’s creative heroes be well-rounded and admirable people. More, it’s a ludicrous burden. Most of us come to accept the flaws of friends and family and appreciate that they do the same for us; does this grace not extend to famous people we’ll never meet or who have been dead for centuries? If not, it seems absurd. Pointless. Depressing.

My final thought (for now, this being not only an evergreen subject, but one that should be revisited): the music, movies, books, and art I love not only give my life an abundance of joy, at times they have provided it with otherwise unobtainable meaning and resonance. At especially crucial times, so many of these works have saved my life. They add context and color, a constant reminder that despite our myriad flaws and frailties, humans are capable of overcoming, even transcending our egos, our appetites, our ambition, our cowardice, our culpability.