In the past here, I've mentioned an auld acquaintance of mine named Gerard Jones. Gerry now resides in a Correctional Training Facility — that's a nicer term for "prison" — in Soledad, California. He's around a third of the way through a six-year sentence for possession of child pornography…which I'm sure we all agree is a pretty horrible thing to be involved with in any way. It's a crime and a pretty bad one, not of the "victimless" variety. As I wrote here a while back, I have had a lot of emotional responses to the news that he did this. They include anger, outrage, frustration, disgust, sadness…and I probably should have mentioned a hefty dose of shock.
He didn't seem like the kind of guy to be messing in something like that. But then I think of all the times someone goes ballistic with ballistics and starts randomly shooting masses of people (another pretty awful thing to do) and the reporters always find some neighbor or relative who'll say, "I can't believe it of him. He seemed like such a nice, quiet fellow." Maybe there's an important lesson right there: You can't always tell.
So now Gerry, being a writer, is doing what writers do: He's writing. There's a website that posts his little essays about his life and how it went horribly, horribly wrong. In his latest piece, he tackles the question, "Can you separate creative work from its author?," meaning could someone put aside the fact that he committed a despicable deed and enjoy his writing as a standalone matter?" He comes to the conclusion that we shouldn't; that it's all a part of who he is.
I'd already come to the conclusion that I can't separate the art from the artist. Not in this case and probably not in any other. I think that's also my answer when anyone asks me that about Bill Cosby or anyone who's been tossed behind bars for a crime of sex and/or violence.