The Artist As Public Monster

Phil Spector, during his murder trial

Music legend Phil Spector’s death, this weekend, has reinvigorated the now-common question: how do we remember great but awful people? Is Spector the gifted music producer whose “Wall of Sound” technique changed pop music in the 1960s, molding legendary songs for the Beatles, Ike & Tina Turner, and Connie Francis? Or is Spector primarily the murderer who lured actress Lana Clarkson to his house on false pretenses, and shot her?

I’ve contemplated this question before. When considering art, must we also consider the artist’s moral résumé? This goes double when art remains under copyright, and artists continue drawing residuals. If an artist also commits atrocities, as Spector certainly did—even before murdering Clarkson, Spector’s first wife Veronica “Ronnie” Bennett credibly accused him of physical and psychological torture—does that disqualify his art?

Prior generations seemed willing to accept their artists’ moral failures, which were often egregious. From the hyper-machismo of Ernest Hemingway and Norman Mailer, to the wild sexual escapades of John Lennon and Elvis, to the self-destructive tendencies of Kurt Cobain and John Belushi, the artists whose work defined their times, frequently left trails of destruction behind them. This was just considered the price of being an artist.

It doesn’t escape me that such “tortured artists” are overwhelmingly men. While much attention accrues in online circles to J.K. Rowling’s belligerent TERF opinions, and Carrie Fisher’s violent swings of addiction and mental illness are legendary, they remain outliers. We can debate whether women artists are socialized to be more compliant, or whether we’re more tolerant of men’s abusive behaviors. But historically, we’ve let male artists be abusive.

Today, apparently uniquely, we have the expectation that Great Artists must also be Good People. The haste with which American audiences, and the entertainment conglomerates which need them, have abandoned, say, Woody Allen, attests that we demand artists represent our values. The Internet has made the public more aware than ever of artists’ personal lives; and we’ve responded by passing moral judgement on their work, measured by our billfolds.

But good people don’t make great art. They never have. Art emerges from some form of tension, whether it’s the narrative tension of a Scottish king usurping the throne, the cultural tension of teenaged musicians rebelling against postwar conformity, or the personal tension of comedians turning their private trauma into public art. Nice people getting along peacefully don’t have raw material for art, much less the motivation to pursue their public.

Roman Polanski, Bill Cosby, and David Bowie:
three great artists who left a trail of destruction behind them

This became clear for me, surrounding two famous addicts. James Frey, whose memoir Oprah endorsed before it became clear he’d fabricated nearly everything, made his reputation spilling the beans about his toxic personality. Stephen King, whose career-making books from the 1970s were mostly written in an alcoholic haze, scolded people for getting upset about this. Addicts, King reminded us, lie about anything. Frey’s fevered imaginings arose from his damaged personality.

One can make laundry lists of famous artists, again mostly men, whose great art emerged from their damaged personalities. I absolutely love Hank Williams, but it’s impossible to separate his melancholy, autobiographical songs from his drunken, philandering life. Sylvia Plath and John Keats, two of my favorite poets, made their undying reputations by exposing their inner torment, before both dying young. One need only mention Vincent van Gogh’s name.

Please don’t misunderstand me: Phil Spector killed a woman in cold blood, apparently off his medications for bipolar disorder. He committed a violent crime, and deserved every moment of his punishment. And his art certainly wasn’t interrupted, as he’d been living in semi-retirement since 1974. Nothing I say here should serve to excuse any criminal for harming others. If anything, we need to more stringently punish criminals with high public profiles.

Phil Spector had bipolar disorder; so did Patty Duke. Both turned their inner suffering outward, transforming their pain into generation-defining art. But both, in indulging their damage, also allowed their inner torment to fester. Both mostly disappeared from public around the same time, making occasional, insignificant returns. Patty Duke handled her pain through addiction, self-harm, and sex. Spector chose to harm others; that’s the only real difference.

Let’s just accept that healthy, well-adjusted people don’t make great art. We couldn’t have Phil Spector, the innovative, pioneering record producer, without Phil Spector, the bipolar patient who resisted treatment, and hurt others to muffle his own pain. We’ll have to accept this balance. And we’ll have to decide, collectively, how much suffering artists can inflict, before it becomes more harmful than the benefits of their art.