Good and Bad: Yes and No

Is the art of a ‘bad’ person, an immoral person any less acceptable than others? Should that artist’s punishment be that the art is hidden away, destroyed or vetoed? Should our disgust do this? How is our response coloured?

These questions are currently being asked at Ditchling Museum of Art and Craft with their exhibition, Eric Gill: The Body where my friend works and that I'm hoping to get to soon. Gill was a renowned sculptor and may well have created the typeface this is written in. He also abused his daughters. The person and the product, the artist and the art; where does the former stop and the latter start? With the gift of a glyph, a poem or a picture, thrown from the creator, cut free to go into the world. Other art forms are harder. Who listens to Gary Glitter anymore? And I felt personally betrayed by Rolf Harris, who I’d always seen as an avuncular uncle figure.

With a performer it’s tougher to separate. Their person is part of their art, we don’t want sexual predators whispering into our ears through our headphones. Digging deeper, who knows their ear piercer or their tattooist? I could be walking around with a murderer’s art on my arm, etched into flesh for my life span. I didn’t think to ask for a character reference.

Morals and ethics vary but some things feel inherently wrong and bad. They repulse, are reprehensible. This too is a line. I might be unkind, I might be a bully, I might have done unforgiveable things. OR I could have a different moral philosophy or ideology than you. To misquote The Big Bang Theory, ‘Some of my best friends are Tories. Well, not my best friends, but I know them.’

Are you not going to read Jeeves and Wooster? Can we disassociate? When work is out of the artist’s hands they no longer own it. J K Rowling may now regret that she married Hermione and Ron but she can’t undo it. That romance is owned by millions of other people. I buy an abstract painting, that painting is mine. I look at this abstract and see flamingos but the artist was inspired by the abattoir. However, I’m interpreting this story, and there’s no irritating little explanation card by my painting.

The only thing that remains is the name; the end credit. What is on Wikipedia for this font? Whose signature is in the corner of the painting? Even the face, the body, the voice; that is the work. And if you believe the work captures some of that cruel soul it is just another story spinning from humanity which is and always has been wonderful and terrible in more equal measures than we care to confess to.

Purrsistent

Mustard yellow eyes stare into mine. A challenge? A “Hello”?

‘I am not a cat person,’ I explain to the creature that is trapping me with its gaze.

But still, I suffer the scrutiny. It furls around me, pushing its cheeks into my legs, marking me, no doubt, with some subtle cat stench. I move my legs away and bump along the sofa. Will my host notice if I change seats while they are making coffee? The thing pursues me, am I its prey? Oh God, not its scratch post! It climbs its front paws up me.

‘Nothing personal,’ I tell the beast, ‘I'm just not that into you.’ I tentatively take its paws and lower them to the floor. It slinks away.

Phewing to myself I grab a newspaper from the coffee table and leaf through for the horoscopes. Aquarius: Expect the unexpected.

Obviously I don’t follow this advice, because I nearly wet myself when the cat leaps through the paper and onto my lap.  

Refined and Defined by Food

Refined by Food    

When I was little I didn’t do food. Fat on meat was “brains” and pieces of onion were “monkey peas”*. I sat at the dinner table for hours, trying to magic away what was in front of me. I may have stunted my own growth. I was an otherwise compliant child, and ours was a strict household, but this was one place I exerted control. At school I was on the slow eaters table, where we were more interested in telling each other stories than eating our seventies stodge-fest meat-and-two-veg meals. Leaving home revolutionised my relationship with food. I finally realised what was involved in cooking and became tremendously grateful to anybody that gave me anything to eat. I was cured of fussiness overnight, I even began to like food. I have been apologising to my mother ever since. Through my twenties and thirties I could eat whatever I wanted, mainly peanut butter. Restraint is a tough lesson for a mature learner. My discipline is born of not wanting to replace my wardrobe. Peanut butter has become a banned substance in our house. Two weeks ago my “fat” skirt, usually slipping around my hips was tight on my tummy. Therefore I’m on one of my control freak diet regimes, usually doing the trick but completely unsustainable. Breakfast and lunch are painfully austere but evening meals are always the decadent domain of my personal chef. Mr K is a terrible feeder, but that really is passing the buck, especially as it was on my list of requirements for a man that he must be an excellent cook. I eat very well.  

* Monkey peas are wood lice

Defined by Food

Food is everything to me. I am always hungry. If someone is eating in front of me, my mouth waters so much I drool. I like all food, any food, well maybe not lettuce or rocket, I don’t see the point of eating leaves. My favourite is chicken. I like banana, blueberries and apple too, I’ll eat an apple, core and all. I love carrots. Bread, chips, I’ll eat off the ground. You can find a lot of bread and chips on the ground around here. And kebabs. I enjoy eating so much sometimes I’ll eat things that are not meant to eaten. Like wrapping paper and puke and an occasional fox poo. Always reprimanded for these morsels but there’s a lot of nutrition to be had in them, that’s the way I see it. I’m fortunate to be a fast eater, I can wolf down a meal in less than a minute. Put your food on the floor and it’s gone in a gulp. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a thief. Much as it pains me, I obey the sanctity of the plate on a table. I am patient. I can watch and wait forever. I love people, I love my people, after all they are my food providers, but food is my first love. And the bastards keep me half starved.