Monsters: A Fan's Dilemma

This is not a straightforward treatise. Dederer entertains the book’s central question–what to do with the art of monstrous men?--intermittently. I sometimes thought, “But what about….?” as she delved into what we consider monstrous in women writers and peered deeply into her own life. She does look closely at the life and art of monstrous men–especially Woody Allen, Pablo Picasso and Ernest Hemingway–but also examines the struggles of Doris Lessing and Joni Mitchell. Like a good novel, questions build over the course of the book–mine was, “What about the monsters who aren’t artists?”--but everything comes together perfectly in the end. Questions are not resolved but instead are reflected back directly on the reader in ways I totally did not expect. I especially appreciated Dederer’s deep love of art–written, visual and musical–and how this plays into her narrative. I sometimes stopped reading to look up bands’ music and the controversy surrounding it. I finished the book quickly and was disappointed when I hit 80% and realized I’d gotten to the notes. This isn’t to say the book didn’t feel complete–it does–but I found Dededer’s writing so compelling that I wanted more of it. A wonderful book.

What do to about art made by people who have done horrible things. That's the question. The author does not have the answer but her discussion on the subject certainly makes one think about one's own answer to that question as a fan of art. If you are looking for the author to answer the question for you then the book may not be for you. Also there is quite a bit of discussion on the horrible acts of Roman Polanski, Woody Allen, Miles Davis, Picasso and others that have caused them to be labeled Monsters. Unless you've been living under a rock that information is widely known so I don't think it advanced the discussion in any way to have all of that information take up portions of the book. Overall it reads more like a long essay than a book but still a worthwhile read.

This book on "artistic" monsters is written the way Picasso painted Dora Maar. There's an eye here, a hand there, perhaps a foot some other place. A real person lurks, but the beholder must do the reconstruction.The opening of the book leads the reader to believe that the author will explore the problem of how to deal with artistic works of genius created by people (mostly men) who have done monstrous things. That opening discussion does a good job at laying out the problem and the options.From there the author leads readers on what the Australians call a walk-about. The alert that there is likely to be other problems comes when the author asks the question: "Are all ambitious authors monsters?" It's that word, all. No author could live long enough to examine the lives of all ambitious authors, living and dead. Among others, this author also throws the artists (Picasso, Gauguin), film directors (Polanski, Woody Allen) and musicians (Miles Davis, Joni Davis) into the mix.In exploring what makes a monster, the author emphasizes the treatment of children. Rape by a man and abandonment by a mother are both tickets to that title. Doris Lessing gets it for taking only one of her three children with her when she moves from Africa to England. Joni Mitchell gets it for giving up a child for adoption. Polanski gets it for raping a thirteen year old girl.Eventually it becomes clear that one of the author's main interests is deciding if she deserves the monster title. A great deal of the book is taken up with that question. It is not very surprising when she decides that the answer is yes. Perhaps putting herself and Doris Lessing in the same category is unintentional.Somewhere, buried in all the sidebars, is the statement that deciding whether or not to admire a work of art by a monster is a personal decision. There are no universally accepted standards. It took a long time to get there.

I have been looking forward to Dederer's book-length inquiry into the problem of "art monsters" ever since I read her essay in the Paris Review on the topic. I expected her to dig onward past her opening quandary about how to reconcile her love of Polanski's movies with her revulsion in the face of his crime. What I did not expect, and was awestruck by, was that she would turn over the same question again, and again, and again, each time revealing new facets, new ways of looking at the relationship between an artist and their life. Truly a remarkable, deeply thoughtful study of a very important question!

I enjoyed this book. It becomes much more as the pages turn. Art, feminism, philosophy, alcoholism, and a little (or a lot depending on your paradigm) relativism to finish out. Certainly more than a shallow exposition of "bad" men; it is not grocery checkout accounts of questionable ethics. TBH I never grappled with loving my fellow fallible human artists, but I still enjoyed this book.

Navigating what are clearly troubled and topical matters is asking for trouble. We are all, ultimately, sinners. By the end, after all is revealed are we better for the journey? I am.

Quick read about the people we admire and their monstrous deeds -- and whether this should disqualify us from consuming their work. Examples - Polanski, Wagner, Picasso, Rowling, Hemingway, Allen, and others.Dederer examines the works, and the artist's misdeeds. She recognizes their failings, and poses whether we should ignore the genius, and why some are more forgiven than others. She addresses all of this in the era of Me Too and Trumpism.Interesting book.

We all have art we love that is tied to monstrous people. From music to film,these artists have created things that make us feel. But the stain of their sins has spilled into the art, making it a constant moral battle of "do I enjoy this art as it is? Or do I refuse to consume it because of the Creator's crimes?" I found myself flowing with Claire as she grappled monsters, such as Miles Davis and Picasso, their sins, and ultimately the consumption of their art.

This book is a combination of memoir and literary criticism, with very insightful probing of the relationship between the artist and his or her work. A very worthwhile read.

this book seemed to loom large over every conversation i had after i read it. perhaps because it so mirrors my own outlook on art and artists. in fact it took my point of view a step further and i am very grateful to the author for her work in digging deeper than i would ever dare. the last four or five pages she seems to steal from my heart. what a fine book

Darf man Picassos Bilder noch lieben? Den Jazz von Miles Davies? Die Filme von Polanski? Große Kunst von ziemlich miesen Typen?Die Frage ist natürlich überhaupt nicht zu beantworten und schnell wird deutlich, dass es Dederer nicht um einen Algorithmus geht, der die Schwere der Vergehen mit der Größe des Werkes verrechnet und auf diese Weise zu einem eindeutigen Ergebnis findet, ob das Ding noch akzeptabel sei oder ab damit in die Tonne. Vielmehr geht sie psychologisch vor und beschreibt das Dilemma des Fans (oder des Kunstliebhabers – nicht dasselbe) als einen Sonderfall der Liebe als solcher: unser Umgang mit befleckter (von einem „Monster“ geschaffener) Kunst hängt weitestgehend ab von der Beziehung zum Monströsen in uns selbst.Auf der Suche danach geht sie auf vielleicht ziemlich amerikanische Art sehr weit in ihrer Selbstbefragung; man kann ihre Gewissensprüfung (bin ich noch eine gute Mutter, wenn ich mich zum Schreiben mal für ein paar Stunden von meinen Kindern zurückziehe und was wenn Tage und was wenn Wochen) ein bisschen überspannt finden – ich tue das – und dennoch ihren Ansatz sehr erhellend.Wunderbar, wenn auch eher am Rande des Themas gelegen, gefällt mir die Ehrenrettung Nabokovs (Dederer nennt ihn das „Anti-Monster“): "Lolita" ist natürlich das Gegenteil einer Pädophilie-Verherrlichung, nämlich die beklemmende Darstellung der Zerstörung einer jungen Frau (was dem schwerst gestörten Täter beim Aufschreiben gleichsam wider Willen allmählich aufgeht – Lolita war eben doch mehr als nur sein Objekt – wodurch er einen Rest von Menschlichkeit zurückgewinnt). Dass Lolita in dem ganzen Roman merkwürdig blass bleibt und ungreifbar, ist vollkommen stimmig und literarisch maximal richtig: Humbert Humbert hat sie nie wirklich gesehen und deshalb kann er sie auch nicht wirklich beschreiben. Ihr Leid schimmert durch, in Nebensätzen (ihr Schluchzen in der Nacht) und Metaphern. Dederer hat recht: man könnte Lolita heute nicht einmal mehr veröffentlichen in einer Welt der literarisch Herausgeforderten, die das (schon durch den pfauenhaften Stil sich entlarvende) kunstvoll widerwärtige Erzähl-Ich nicht sauber von der Person des Autors würden trennen können.Wer die eigenen Abgründe kennt und akzeptiert– darauf läuft es wohl hinaus – wird sie auch bei anderen eher ertragen: Menschen aus dem eigenen Umfeld, die man TROTZDEM liebt und Künstlern, deren Werke (und damit auch ein bisschen ihren Schöpfer) man TROTZDEM liebt. Anders vielleicht als vorher und manchmal auch gar nicht mehr, häufig aber eben doch. Trotzdem. Keine bahnbrechende Erkenntnis, könnte man sagen, doch auf dem Weg dahin lernt der Leser so manches: über Künstler, über Kritiker, über Beziehungen. Und über sich selbst.

The author seems more busy in recounting her own story of alcohol addiction, ( with uninteresting anecdotes) than really explaining why we should love some artists who were/are evils in their own lives.

Mi è piaciuto il tema, la questione posta e le riflessioni intorno all’amare le opere di persone che hanno fatto cose terribili.Mi è piaciuto meno il fatto che l’ho trovato un po’ ripetitivo e a volte complesso