I
originally wrote this in response to Claire Dederer’s November 2017 piece.
Yesterday, though, Caitlin Flanagan of The Atlantic offered a timely essay on
Michael Jackson called “The Art of the Monster.” Here’s my earlier piece.
So many monsters . . .
Forget my name. Don’t forget
my name.
I’m haunted by “What Do We Do With the Art of Monstrous Men?” by Claire Dederer (The Paris Review, November 20, 2017). It isn’t that I agree with
every little thing she says. (I know some moms especially who are upset, though
I am not among them.) It’s that I think she asks the question well. What do we do?
Really. What Do We Do?
Can you watch the latest
Woody Allen film? Will you let your children watch “The Cosby Show”? Are you
done with “House of Cards”? What about “lesser monsters”? Lesser monsters”?!? At
least Sherman Alexie wasn’t going for children, right? I’m obviously going to get
myself into trouble on this one. This is the beauty of my writing, maybe: I’ll
say anything?
And what does this have to
do with my novel, And So We
Die, Having First Slept? I made
the protagonist, Brett, into a pretty distraught woman who happens to be a film
critic specializing in Woody Allen. It’s a minor thing, but it’s there
nonetheless. I could’ve edited it out, but I didn’t. Though the action of the
novel takes place in pre-#me-too days, I feel as if I should reckon with my own
narrative choices. I chose Woody
Allen, and I did so because I like Woody Allen films. I must deal
with that. And I’m not sure how.
So I join Dederer in asking,
“What do we do with the art of monstrous men?”
Let’s do this in three
parts: First, the Bug/Monster Problem which asks, Who Is A Monster? Second, the Shaun Cassidy Debacle, which
suggests that Art is Monstrous. Third, the Monster Spectrum, which makes value
judgments.
The Bug/Monster Problem
I know I’ve told this story
before because it’s a Love Slave
story. That’s my first novel. A friend of mine, upon whom I ended up basing
Madeline Blue, said, “All people can be categorized as one of two things: bugs
or monsters.” I sat with this for a minute or two, and then she asked, “Are you
a bug or a monster?”
Another minute or two
passed.
I said, “Monster.”
Which invariably became a
value judgment (I was twenty-five, okay?). All cool people were monsters. All
fun people. All smart people. All interesting people. Monsters had texture.
Monsters had panache. Monsters were eccentric, witty, and unpredictable. You wanted to be a monster.
Bugs were boring. Bugs were
incessant, routinized, unquestioning, pests. You know how an ant colony is. You
know about busy bees. You’ve seen those pain-in-the-ass mosquitoes.
It’s silly and childish.
However, it might beg a question. Who is
actually a monster?
I’m going to suggest that we
are all monsters. (We are all bugs too. We are multifaceted in our makeup.
There is no bug/monster dichotomy.)
I guess that this is a
matter of philosophical presumption. Do you believe—you!—that humans are
basically good? Or do you think that humans are essentially not-so-hot? Call me
a cynic. Call me Old Fashioned. I see bad stuff. (That isn’t to say that I do
not believe in transformation or reformation or that I’m hopeless.) I think
we’re all monsters, and it behooves the honest artist to deal with our
monstrosity.
I’m a monster; you’re a
monster.
I hope you don’t think I’m a
cynic, too.
The Shaun Cassidy Debacle
Having admitted that I’m a
monster, I suppose it’s fair to re-frame Dederer’s question: What do we do with the art of monsters?
Which really might be this question: What
do we do with Art? Which might be this question: What should we do with MY Art?
For this, we might need to
go back even further than my roaring twenties, prior to the Love Slave-imbued Days.
It’s probably fair to say
that Shaun Cassidy was my first celebrity crush. I cannot even imagine the
emotional makeup of my affections for him, but I can assure you that it was
asexual and mostly involved singing along to the 1976 hit, “Da Doo Ron Ron,” to which
you should now listen because it’s hilarious.
I was six or seven.
Somehow or other, I found
out that Shaun Cassidy—my Shaun
Cassidy—smoked (the bloody paparazzi!) cigarettes. He was a smoker!
I was heartbroken. I sat on
my bed, the bewitching debut album cover propped on my skinny knees, innocence
over, and I stared deep into his sweet addict-eyes.
Guess what I did next.
I prayed. I prayed that
Shawn Cassidy would stop his dissipated behavior, and I promised to love him
forever, no matter what. Thereby officially launching my life as a woman
forever bewitched by Moral Degenerates . . .
All I can tell you is that
things got worse after Shawn.
That could be a subtitle to
my novel: After Shawn.
Or: Things Got Worse.
Or Best: Things Got Worse After Shawn.
And then, without further
adieu, I went on listening to “Da Doo Ron Ron” until I switched over to Andy
Gibb in 1978. (Watching Dear Andy now, I can see my own
evolving criminality.)
This, of course, leads
directly to my novel about Moral Degenerates, And So We
Die, Having First Slept.
(Notice, also, early traces of religiosity that continue to show up in my
narratives.)
Perhaps we might say that
Art is for monsters. Maybe there really is something to the idea that the
monstrous compels us to go in the direction of the artistic, that we implicitly
and unconsciously turn to the Arts both to deal with our own inherent
monstrosity. Through Art, we can certainly express our beastliness; however, we
can also strive for Truth and Beauty and Goodness. This is all murky, but I
think it’s true! Though one might question the artistry of Shawn, one might
think broadly upon Led Zeppelin or punk rock or Hemingway or even The Witch of Blackbird Pond. Are we not perpetually turning to artistic
expression in order to come to terms with the Heart of Darkness? Don’t we both
love and loathe the ugliness? Was not my early Shawn devotion just a reflection
of my affiliation with that aesthetic/intellectual/emotional/spiritual
wrestling?
The artist—the art—the patron:
are we not all in this monstrous business together?
Remember that creative
writing edict by Janet Burroway (it proves true every time): “In literature,
only trouble is interesting.”
In art, only trouble is
interesting.
What, then, do we do with
the Artist?
I’m in love with Elena
Ferrante’s philosophizing on the insignificance of her true identity with
regard to her work, but still: there might be something to this communion, this
unholy alliance, this Priory of Sion/Knights of The Round Table or Templar,
triumvirate of Art and Artist and Patron.
My Shawn prayer was none
other than an early inkling of that communion of non-saints.
I am still stung by the
grad-school-words-I-read of John Gardner: “All Art begins in a wound.” Pain,
gore, mess. Decay, needing balm, bandages. The human condition.
With Shawn, we might
recognize that we are in cahoots with monsters because Art is so terribly
human—so revelatory of all that we are. A human endeavor, made up of human
monsters.
Let’s move on.
The Monster Spectrum
But, really, this doesn’t
accomplish anything. Or does it?
I’d offer a few comments.
1. Monsters are ubiquitous. We can’t shake them. I am a
monster. You are a monster. Monsters are flawed humans. There are, of course,
degrees of criminality, legal issues involved, and contexts to consider. This
isn’t to excuse culpability; rather, it’s to humanize people. I think this
solves some things, not all things. Recognizing our inherent monstrosity may
allow one to see the value in the work of fellow-monsters. Some of them, anyway.
I’m listening to Anthony
Bourdain’s Kitchen Confidential right
now (not my usual fare—is that a pun?). He was a pretty rough-talking guy with
serious issues (though rather ethical!). As I’m listening, I’m hit hard by both
his humanity and his artistry, despite the fact that we might’ve clashed over
values. It isn’t that I now approve of his behaviors; instead, his humanity is
made real to me. I get things I
wouldn’t have gotten, had I not bent towards him with compassion. Am I calling
him a monster? I’m calling him a human.
2. Artists are definitely intrinsic to any work of art,
but we should separate them—à la Elena Ferrante. I’m immersed right now in Frantumaglia, Ferrante’s nonfiction
collection of letters and interviews. She is so insistent on the separation of
Art from Artist that, I admit, I’m sold. She writes, “I believe that books,
once they are written, have no need of their authors. If they have something to
say, they will sooner or later find readers; if not they won’t. There are
plenty of examples. I very much love those mysterious volumes, both ancient and
modern, that have no definite author but have had and continue to have an
intense life of their own.”
This romances me, seduces
me, touches me. First, it seems true.
I don’t really love Beowulf, but Beowulf. Second, I know I’ve messed this
up. I have, I think, a pretty large personality (in print—I’m a bore in
person). And I believe I’ve confused, at times, promoting my work with
promoting myself. It gets ugly. And I don’t want to hold myself up to the
“taste test” of public scrutiny.
Let me give a few examples of
the effect of the artist upon one’s perception of Art. How does it affect your
perception of my work if you know that I’m decidedly not a fan of Trump’s? You
might be fine with this. Or you might dismiss my fiction. How does it affect
your perception of my work if you know I declaw my cats? You might think I’m a
barbarian. How does it affect your perception of my work if you know I’ll eat a
gay wedding cake and Chick-Fil-A on the same day if I get the chance? How does
it affect your perception of my work if you know I still don’t get the stock
market or I love “The Walking Dead” or I’ve never seen “Game of Thrones” or I
cuss too much AND go to church? You see my point. (In truth, I feel the danger even in writing those questions.) My
work stands over there. I am here.
So, monster that I am, I give you these books . . .
What if you knew nothing
about me?
3. But, really, there must be a spectrum. I mean, yeah,
everyone talks bad about his or her mom, but not everyone has secret buttons
behind his desk to lock interns behind office doors (Matt Lauer?) and not
everyone asks a young girl to do something with his feet (Dustin Hoffman?) So,
do we regard all monsters as the same? Probably not.
A spectrum? And, admittedly,
this gets weird. On one end, the “forgivable end,” would we put Morgan Freeman,
the seemingly-baffled-by-the-accusations, because—maybe, just maybe—he’s
(just?!?) an Old School Dirty Old Man? Near him, might we stick Aziz Ansari,
since he’s all gross and pervy but maybe not criminal? Edging towards the “bad”
end, should we stick in Junot Diaz, because he’s possibly an
ego-fueled/hyper-sexual bully but no rapist? Wait. Does Sherman Alexie come in
now, or before Diaz? Alexie sounds like a philanderer and adulterer, though
let’s keep in mind that there were no children involved—so where should he go?
Charlie Rose? Garrison Keillor? Louie C.K.? I’ll tell you this: I’m putting Harvey
Weinstein and Bill Cosby on this other end, the Stop-Talking End. I have no
clue what to do with Woody Allen, in all honesty, because they’re only
allegations but I tend to advocate listening to children but I just don’t know
about Mia’s mom role and I’m pretty sure Woody is a miserable S.O.B.—so What Do We Do With Woody? I FULLY
ACKNOWLEDGE THAT I, TOO, AM CONFUSED.
On Woody, a friend, Deirdre
O’Malley Keating, wrote, “His best art aligns with his own issues and
eventually makes me feel complicit in the lives he damaged.” I so agree about
his best art, but complicity . . . ? (She said that I could quote her, as long
as it was clear that she finds him repugnant now.) In other words, our money
supports his monstrosity. How responsible are we for the Art of monsters? How
responsible are we for anyone’s Art? Isn’t money our way of talking? We put our
money where our mouths are . . .
Are we complicit monsters?
As I wrote my spectrum bit,
I realized it’s probably a lousy idea. I can speak of my own thoughts. I was
heartbroken over Alexie. Devastated, really. I was saddened over Diaz. Allen,
to me, is a brilliant and ugly statement on the human condition, and I’m not
sure what the correct stance is. I publicly confess that I just read Blasphemy by Alexie and I re-read The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Diaz; both were amazing.
I also saw four recent Woody Allen films. His Wonder Wheel was emotionally hard-hitting. I’m not sure I can watch
Manhattan ever again. “The Cosby
Show” is ruined for me. I wanted to see I
Love You, Daddy, but I doubt I ever will.
I think, at the end of the
day, it’s Elena. Go with Elena.
I have mixed feelings, and I
think, ultimately, there is no black-and-white answer. Which is hard. But
creating that Elena-endorsed Distance between Art and Artist seems best.
I conclude by not offering a
conclusion, just some reflections.
I’m a social media hog, but
I love the idea of anonymity, of Art on a pedestal—distinct and unburdened by
the corruption of its creator. What do we do with the art of monstrous men (or
women)? Do away with celebrity?
I love, also, the irony
involved in the fact that I’m in the midst of Book Promo Season.
Forget my name. Don’t forget
my name.
Feel free to comment here on
Michael Jackson.
*The title of this refers to
a great graphic novel by Emil Ferris.
