“Consuming a piece of art is two biographies meeting: the biography of the artist that might disrupt the viewing of the art; the biography of the audience member that might shape the viewing of the art. This occurs in every case.”

― Claire Dederer, Monsters: A Fan’s Dilemma

The soundtrack to my teenagers is devastatingly dominated by alleged rapists. Horrible people who make great art is something that bothers all of us, I think, or at least hope. I could cite all the usual suspects: Roman Polanski, Woody Allen, Hemingway, Picasso, JK Rowling…. Yes, most of us are not lying when we cringe at the trailer for the new series that seems doomed with the lighting and colour grading of a murder mystery B series. We are evidently, collectively bothered by having to face the proclaimed end of our childhood. But we also wouldn’t want to support Rowling as a powerful person in the media with truly dreadful morals and opinions. With all that said, we must also acknowledge that even if she were to retire tomorrow and never again touch her royalties, she’d still be having a very pleasant and financially comfortable rest of her days. 

“(…) you will solve nothing by means of your consumption; the idea that you can is a dead end. The way you consume art doesn’t make you a bad person, or a good one. You’ll have to find some other way to accomplish that.”

― Claire Dederer, Monsters: A Fan’s Dilemma

The question of how to judge the art created by bad people is one many have tried to answer. I think a more interesting one to ask is how do we ignore the signs? I will assume the theoretical posture that an artist’s oeuvre, no matter the  nature of it, contains some essence of who they are as a person. Going back to Rowling, the Harry Potter world was an integral part not only of my childhood but also of what got me simultaneously into reading and writing. But if I look at the only female asian character, one who I should logically relate to, it’s a jarring wake up call. Cho Chang (who might as well have been called “Ching Chong” for how much thought seemed to have gone into naming her) is a useless girl. She is disposable and entirely unworthy to the plot in the books. She blatantly follows the most basic clichés you could assign to her, she is sorted in Ravenclaw (the house for “smart people”, following the model minority myth) and only exists as a love interest for two of the story’s protagonists (exotic flower for the white male gaze!). In the movies, that impression is lessened thanks to Katie Leung, the Scottish actress who played her. Rowling explicitly said in interviews that much of the character’s substance was added after Leung’s casting; which could almost be endearing if it wasn’t excusing lazy and frankly racist writing.

How many of us have partied to horrible lyrics?

Excusing them as an ego trip style favoured in music styles like rap. This phenomenon is only accentuated by our increased access to artist’s lives. An infinity of old established names, whose works exist as classics might very well have been terrible people. If an individual’s morals were only dictated by the mores of society at the time…it’s not looking too promising. Pretty hard to hear the argument of anachronism then, judging with modern values should be the norm if it’s only synonymous to judging with basic human decency as a reference point; because well, slavery was once a “norm” to some too. 

What’s important is having the ability to form a conscious choice.

 The spiritual stain on someone’s work is their own fault. The comfortable and easy answer of removing the money part of the question places the dilemma of ethics on the consumer and not on the monsters themselves. The last link of the chain should not be held accountable before everyone else. A film has to be pitched, it has to gather financing; similarly the editorial process that has to happen in order to get a book published involves people. They are the first line of defence when it comes to either enabling problematic artists and/or content to emerge or upholding better values over profit guaranteed by a name established thanks to harmful mechanics. After all of that happens, realistically not everything can be filtered through; we have to reconcile with our own selfishness as well. Or at least be confronted with it. Are we ready to sacrifice comfort? In something as private as what we read, watch and listen to for leisure? 

“Art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable”

is a popular maxim often attributed to poet César A. Cruz. It defines art’s dual purpose: to provide solace for the suffering and to challenge the complacency of the privileged. It highlights art’s power to expose injustice and evoke empathy. It is a variation of Finley Peter Dunne’s 1890s quote regarding journalism: “Comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable”. Art offers a voice to the voiceless, validates the experiences of those dealing with trauma or oppression, and acts as a safe space for reflection. It also forces those in comfortable, compliant positions to confront unsettling realities such as war, social inequality, and systemic injustice. I think it risks becoming a blanket statement that would seek to justify anything if it allows creation. But how disturbed do we want these people we are comforting through art? Artists of all kinds are often pushed out of society through mythicisation. Potentially, by consuming their art you can understand a person who society has deemed an outcast. Maybe for just reasons, but nonetheless you understand, and even more horrible you might find similarities.

How good can someone be for this sort of aesthetic alibi to guarantee forgiveness? 

When some people say “separate the art from the artist” it’s mostly about people who stand already legally convicted. Let us take a much less problematic and extreme example: Timothée Chalamet and his ego problems. By now it’s impossible from any recurring online lurker to not have heard his statement. No one cares about ballet or opera apparently. His grandmother, mother and sister must not have gotten the memo since his early exposure to art was through them, and thus New York City Ballet. Also why are we dismissing one of the rare artistic spaces that’s female dominated? Oh you don’t want to be a part of it? Bold of you to assume it wants you in the first place. The revolving Hollywood roster of white male leads, and I am willing to bet on this, have never worked as hard as even an unknown and undignified professional ballerina. He’d actually said similar things in the past, but it was at a time when people were less fed up with him. 

Not only did he deny himself any chance at an Oscar. I would not be seen in public if I was talking about things people don’t care about after doing an entire movie about table tennis. Yes, Timmy, people do love a journey and great performances…but Marty Supreme (and yes, I have unfortunately watched it) is a movie for big babies. Scratch that, it’s for Crybabies. Marty Mauser is nothing if not a Manchild. He acts so entitled and yet we are expected to empathise and continuously forgive throughout the movie. Yes, he wants to play ping-pong. (Dare I say, I don’t care?) and supposedly nothing gets in his way. At least certainly not any of his pressing responsibilities, the most obvious one being his unborn child, since no one bothered to hold him accountable. There’s nothing new about what he’s trying to be: an anti hero. It works for angsty teens and coming of age for some time, but here’s the thing: it’s getting old, and Chalamet’s grown out of convincingly playing a child. As a character he can’t even change from boy to father when his child comes into the picture. This masturbatory complaisance with allowing men (both fictional and real) to escape guilt, authority and the lot under the pretense of allowing them to pursue something (anything) is not only boring, but deeply insulting to the audience. Inevitably, the women are left to pick up after them, to raise the child…like them the audience supposedly has to censor itself without asking why we still have access to this surplus of repeated and repeating mistakes. 

Chalamet is not a monster. But the indulgence extended to him reveals the same machinery: the willingness to excuse, to mythologise, to prioritise charisma over accountability. It is also just bad PR to alienate yourself so quickly when you owe much of your career to female audiences enjoying and promoting your work. Yes, Matthew McConaughey did action packed “manly” roles, but he also has How to lose a guy in ten days as one of his most popular films. 

The moral burden of “bad art” is misplaced: audiences are asked to resolve ethical dilemmas that institutions enabled and that the art itself often foreshadowed.

The misunderstanding lies in believing our choices place us on the same level as the authors themselves. The encounter is not just between artist and audience but between entire systems of power.

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