In 2017, the essayist and critic Claire Dederer wrestled at length, in the pages of the Paris Review, with the question, “What do we do with the art of monstrous men?” How should we engage with the work of Roman Polanski, Woody Allen, Michael Jackson, Miles Davis, and other disgraced geniuses? What are the rules? Are there any?
Dederer’s exploration of her relationship with her favorite artists helpfully illustrates the distinction between appreciation and fandom. She values the unsettling oeuvre of Polanski, the child rapist who gave us Knife in the Water, Rosemary’s Baby, and Chinatown. Of Allen, however, she is a card-carrying fan who feels that Allen stands in for her own aesthetic and temperament.
Do you vote? Watch sports? Drive a Volkswagen? Use products or medications tested on animals? Spend all day on a phone assembled by Chinese slaves in a factory festooned with suicide netting? Maybe worrying about your favorite artists isn’t a noble act of self-criticism. Maybe, just maybe, it’s a bit of misdirection or scapegoating, a means of pretending that you aren’t compromised down to the soles of your sweatshop sneakers.
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