I’ve been watching some recent debates on Twitter and elsewhere, concerning various artists and their reported actions. And that started me thinking about the nature of art, and of artists, and the increasing difficulty we have in separating the two.

In the days before the internet, artists were generally unknown outside of their inner circle. Nowadays, the nature of modern media is such that we can watch our favourite artists at work; we can read about them in gossip magazines; interact with them on Twitter; follow them when they tweet drunk - all of which gives us a convincing illusion of intimacy with people we have never met, (except perhaps, in a signing queue at a festival, or by chance in the street, or at a party, where we stood for half an hour trying to work up the courage to say hello).

This isn’t to say it’s not possible for artists and their admirers to get to know one another. I’ve met a lot of readers online. Some of them have become friends (and by this I mean real friends, rather than something dictated by Facebook).

But that potent illusion of intimacy remains. The recognition centre of the brain is naturally set up to release endorphins when we look at familiar faces - and in a world in which we often see images of celebrities rather more often than the faces of own own families, the sight of an admired actor, musician, writer or comedian can be a source of pleasurable stimulus.

Basically, we tend to love the people whose work we admire, partly because of our love of their work, and partly because seeing their face tricks our brain into thinking we’re friends.

Of course, there’s nothing wrong with this. It’s normal. Everybody experiences this feeling at one time or another, and it feels completely real, even though it can’t be real, because we’ve never actually met the object of our affection. And most of the time, it’s a good thing (although, when taken to extremes, it can lead to stalking and other kinds of unpleasantness). But it still isn’t a relationship, any more than a hatred based on someone’s public image, or the role they play on TV, or their art, is a response to anything real.

There’s a reason the celebrities we love are referred to as idols.

Idols are worshipped uncritically - at least, until they do something wrong, at which point their worshippers are apt to tear their statues down and break them into pieces.

The modern version of this is not so very different. Recently I’ve seen a lot of blogposts from people saying things like this:

"After …………’s behaviour, I don’t think I can ever listen to her music any more."

"I won’t read …………..’s books any more after I found out what he thought about ……….."

"I felt personally betrayed by …………..’s cheating on his wife."

"The characters in ………..’s book disappointed me so much that I can never trust her again."

I’m not denying the feelings and the passion of fans. But these are personal reactions to choices made by someone who doesn’t owe them an explanation - who may not even know they exist. Artists are human, subject to human errors and failings. They are people, and as such, they don’t belong to anyone.

Art, however, is different. Some of it lasts; some disappears. But, unlike its creator, art belongs to everyone, for as long as it endures. That’s why those people who equate the art with the artist are doing art itself a disservice.

I love the paintings of Richard Dadd, even though he killed his father.

I enjoy the stories of Edgar Allan Poe, even though he married his 14-year-old cousin.

My feelings on spousal abuse have not tempered my enjoyment of the novels of Dickens.

Enjoying the poems of Ted Hughes does not entitle me to comment on the details of his relationship with Sylvia Plath.

In the same way, I sometimes agree with Richard Dawkins, even though I often disagree with the way in which he expresses those things.

I like much of Amanda Palmer’s music without always understanding her choices.

I don’t feel “let down” by the fact that these people have failings: I don’t feel that liking their work means that I condone bad behaviour; I don’t think about their lives when I am enjoying their art. That’s because I don’t know them, although I know something about them. We don’t have a relationship. I don’t have to think about their lives when I am enjoying their art.

People, by definition, are limited and imperfect. All people - even those we admire and worship. But art - good art - can transcend these things, just as the ancient temples of the Inca and Maya continue to inspire awe and fascination, even though their worshippers are long gone.

The artist is not his art. Art is far more than the artist. Artists die; fuck up; have bad days; talk bullshit; cut their toenails in bed.

But art lasts forever. It belongs to us all. Love or hate, we are free to experience art in whatever way we choose. And art may speak to us or not, but isn’t finding out half the fun? So:

Enjoy art.

Any art.

Whatever art you want to enjoy.

And don’t let anyone tell you what you should, or shouldn’t like. If it’s out there, it’s yours now. Do with it what you will.