Yes yes yes separate the art from the artist and all that jazz but unfortunately my brain didn’t come with an organization system that allows me to conjure up thing-I-loved without also dragging out monster-who-made-it. They are sturdily strung together, by the same string I have woven the whole structure of my mind from. I would have to frog all the way back, circling around and into my trunk all the way in to reach the point when my 11-year-old self jumped on board the exciting new series my best friend showed me when we were hiding in the tube slide (we weren’t supposed to bring books to recess). And then what? Rip the book from my small hands and sharpie over the author’s name? Lie to my younger self and say it was actually written by Jinx Monsoon? Time travel back to the 90s, steal the manuscript, and publish it under my name instead?
So no, I cannot separate the art from the artist. Nor do I attempt to anymore. I do not see it as a worthy use of my time. I see it as counterproductive and unrealistic, only possible in a fantasy land where books grow on trees. If a work couldn’t exist without an artist, then it can’t exist without an artist. And if the artist is a vile and disgusting excuse for a human being, I do not want to think of them, and therefore I do not want to think of their work. So I shall continue to separate both art and artist from myself. End of story.
