The tragedy of art is that it must be made by artists.
No, this is not the beginning of a treatise in defence of artificial intelligence (AI) and the rise of art made by algorithms and computer systems; it’s a reflection on the reality that incredible art is often made by less-than-incredible people. Towering creative figures who rise to fame, fortune, and adoration, only to have their legacy tarnished by deplorable, unethical, or illegal acts, occur with alarming frequency.
Between Picasso, Disney, Hemingway and Flannery O’Connor, the 20th century had its fair share of “complicated” artists, but the last 25 five years have been notable for a large number of artists, writers, musicians and actors who have become associated with deeply disturbing acts.
“Can you separate the art from the artist?” is no longer an abstract dilemma for philosophy students to debate; it’s a real question that becomes more pertinent day by day.
British commentators telling off Irish artists such as Sally Rooney or Kneecap is galling
Gardaí in Dublin investigate disappearance of boy feared dead
Twice as many Leaving Cert students have results withheld over cheating
Central Bank of Ireland confirms it will no longer approve sale of Israeli ‘war bonds’
What do you do when something you love was created by someone you detest?
Cormac McCarthy’s The Road is the most important book I have ever read. It was introduced to me during an American literature class in my third year of university. Reading it changed my life.
McCarthy’s dystopian novel was a revelation: I loved it, I hated it, I wept and I dreamt about it for weeks after I finished it. Reading the novel shaped the following two years of my life: The Road was the basis of my undergraduate dissertation, and the joy I felt when writing that dissertation inspired me to pursue a Master’s degree.
I spent months reading and rereading everything that the American had ever written. He became something of an inspiration, a writer who embodied a transcendent approach to authorship that spoke to me. He did his best to abandon his post as author, renouncing fame to allow his words to speak for themselves.
Then, in June of 2023, McCarthy died. As tributes to one of the great American novelists poured in, his status as a literary great seemed assured. Unfortunately, the announcement of McCarthy’s death was not the final instance of the Tennessee native making international headlines. In late 2024, the literary world was stunned by a bombshell Vanity Fair article which claimed that McCarthy engaged in the grooming, trafficking and sexual exploitation of a minor.
The lengthy (and bizarre) article recounted the details of a decades-long relationship between McCarthy and Augusta Britt, the “secret muse” who inspired much of his creative output. McCarthy met Britt when she was 16 years old. He was 42.
To me, the question of separating the art from the artist is simple: art inescapably flows from the artist. The two cannot be unpacked. In the past, I admired McCarthy’s attempts to abdicate his role as author, but I now realise that that is a futile task.
There is no point in trying to remove author from art or art from author: they are essential to one another. Ulysses could only ever have been written by James Joyce; Joyce would not be Joyce unless he had written Ulysses. Understanding one without the other is impossible.
This is why the tragedy of art is that artists - who are human and have views and do things we may not agree with - must make it. There is no easy way to disconnect JK Rowling from your love of Harry Potter, even if you disagree with her views on transgender people. There is no clear answer as to whether or not you should watch Woody Allen’s Annie Hall. It’s impossible for me to tell you whether or not you should feel bad for singing along to Michael Jackson’s Thriller.
There are no systemic, universal answers to the questions that arise when the art we love is tainted by the actions of the people who made it. There is blanket absolution on offer, which says that the films of Kevin Spacey or Harvey Weinstein are now freely available to watch without any guilt, shame or discomfort.
Only you know how you feel when you open up McCarthy’s No Country for Old Men and read about the 33-year-old protagonist’s 16-year-old lover. There is no right answer.
For some readers, the effect of the McCarthy story may have already passed. Others may never be able to enjoy Blood Meridian quite the same way again. For me, the words I once loved remain completely inaccessible. McCarthy, the man rather than the author, casts too long and too dark a shadow.
As this story slowly fades from public consciousness, destined to be little more than a caveat that professors and critics must make as they introduce Blood Meridian to the group, a lesson remains. Art may be universal, transcendent, timeless and perfect, but people are flawed, messy, disappointing and imperfect.
To love one requires us to accept the other. That’s the hard part.
- Alex Connolly is a graduate of Trinity College Dublin with an interest in the intersection of literature, theology and philosophy
