With respect to Socrates, my unexamined life is not worth living. The front room is the face we show everyone but we hide our true self in the back room.
Allow an indulgence or two as I lay a thought out in the midst of a near crash of sleep.
I was listening to Ella Fitzgerald sing the songs of George and Ira Gershwin and I thought about art. If the Gershwins were convicted of killing a small child, what does that do to the beautiful art they created?
I believe that art cannot be denied.
This belief carries me through my appreciation of the films of Woody Allen and Roman Polanski. For I do not have to consider the humanity in the creation but rather the creation itself and the feelings they evoke.
Once the art has been created it longer belongs to the artist. It has been flung out into the public for heavy scrutiny. The art belongs to no one and everyone. Art will take on any interpretation and make no definitive statement on what the art is but rather what the art can be.
I no longer want to know what an artist says their work is about. Such a definitive answer offers no freedom to explore the interpretative boundless landscape.
But I digress.
For to look at art and the monster of the artist, are there levels of acceptance between artists? Celebrities versus non-celebrities? Does it matter the heinous crime found out before the celebrity status reached?
Celebrity extends to the athlete. Does their sports ability surpass the heinous crime?
I cannot keep my eyes open. However, the idea of an imperfect art intrigues me. Imperfect because it is inspected and picked apart by critics, subject to reshaping, and never fully complete.