A biography of Norman Rockwell had just been published, one I do not plan to read.

I love Norman Rockwell’s paintings. I have seen them in various special exhibitions, and I have been to Stockbridge to the museum devoted entirely to his work. A superb realist painter, he had been delegated to the second-rate with the derogatory term “illustrator” attached to him; yet there had been those devotees, myself among them, who had always considered him a master not only of craft, which goes without saying, but of producing a body of work over a lifetime that put a stamp on the era he lived and worked in. Mention his paintings and an entire world springs to mind. That he had chosen to paint people in heartwarming moments had been held against him. He chose to paint not out of anger but out of a deliberately cultivated sunny view of life. He certainly must have known, as we all know, that the scenes of Americana he chose as his subject matter were mere moments depicted on canvas, that the couple depicted in a warm embrace might in the future divorce each other, the family around the dinner table might break up, the innocent children might grow up to often harsh lives, the cop protecting one child could turn mean in a different situation. All this exists as a subtle background behind the scenes, yet he chose to catch people at their better moments. And he chose to live a quiet life, devoted to his work.

The biography just published, of which, admittedly, I only read reviews, follows the now well-trodden path of posthumously psycho-analyzing not only every move in the life of the subject, but every image on the canvas that might reveal inner turmoil, unhappiness, or, in this instance, homoeroticism. Without a shred of evidence that Norman Rockwell was a closeted homosexual, Deborah Solomon, the author of the biography, seems to find “visual clues” in the paintings. One only wonders what the thrice-married Rockwell would have thought of the interpretations given to his innocent seeming images: a doll on the floor, the leaning of a cop and a boy toward each other engaged in conversation. Rockwell, however, is not in a position to object or argue. But what of the rest of us? Do we have to re-think all those genre paintings as having potential subtexts that alter them beyond recognition?

When I was quite young and fell in love with books -- with the very process of reading -- one of my favorite authors was Somerset Maugham. Eventually I have read Thomas Mann and Proust as well, and do appreciate the difference, but that does not detract from my love of Maugham who, in my young years, represented for me amused detachment, wise observation, and non-judgmental description of the human comedy. Though I had since encountered many weightier tomes, I had not changed my mind about Maugham, and would go back periodically for a dip in the masterful short stories or re-read, once more, “Theater”.

That is, until a number of years ago a vast biography of Maugham appeared on the literary scene, receiving enthusiastic reviews in several publications. I should have known, reading those reviews, that I should stay away from the biography that depicted a small-minded, cantankerous man, mean and selfish in his personal relationships, hurtful to many and unhappy in himself. The temptation proved too much though; I did read that biography, and then many subsequent references to Maugham the man as opposed to Maugham the writer. I wish I hadn’t. Not only did the two bear no resemblance to each other, the awareness of his personal foibles interfered – at least for a while – with my reading his books. Where was the worldly, sophisticated observer now that I knew, willy-nilly, of the pettiness, the ugliness of much of his life: the cruelties inflicted upon him as a child that presumably made him in turn petty and often cruel to others. I should never have read any of this; I should have saved my mental picture of the writer based on his writing. It took an act of will to expunge, to some extent, my unwillingly found information to save the pleasure of the work. I am still working on it.

This is a universal phenomenon nowadays that characterizes our “information age”. We must know as much of everyone and everything as it is possible to know. We re-interpret. We de-construct. Not only are we losing – have lost? – all semblances of privacy, we must invade the privacy of those who we might have thought were safely dead. Perhaps there is value in journalists digging into the private lives of politicians, for their private behavior might bear on the public good. Outing someone who makes homophobic statements as gay serves a purpose. Reckless womanizing while hiding behind public rectitude should be made known to an electorate. But must we know of Mozart’s occasionally infantile pranks, of his scatological language or of Schubert’s syphilis? Does knowing these facts enhance the experience of listening to their music? Knowing of Beethoven’s deafness matters for it has to do with his composing, with what it was that he heard in his inner ear – but his personal habits, cleanliness or lack of it are not relevant to “Fidelio”. It matters not at all to know of Wagner’s colossal ego, his anti-semitism, his anti-foreigner sentiments while you listen to “Tristan”. It is not necessary to know that Caravaggio was a dissolute brawler and possibly a killer to marvel at his paintings. Actors who choose to play heterosexual roles while privately gay have had a lifetime of work altered in the public perception by being “outed”. What if Rembrandt beat his wife? To the best of my knowledge he did not; but if some busybody came up with credible reference to such a fact, would we see something entirely different in the late self-portraits that exude such resignation, such wisdom acquired over a lifetime? Or would we suddenly see a dissolute old man?

Perhaps less information leads to purer enjoyment of the work. And therefore I will avoid reading about Norman Rockwell and will stick to the love of his paintings.