I can remember reading about a celebrity - I forget which one but it might have been Phil Collins - who was in a hotel having breakfast when an autograph hunter came up to him. He happily obliged before the 'fan' ripped it up in front of his laughing mates and told him he was a tosser. Such a naked display of contempt doesn't make much sense but it does illustrate the strange, irrational relationship that some people have with art.

Artists are, of course, heroes - even if you don't like their work. Without them I'd have to spend my free time trying to develop an interest in Aussie Rules or cars or something. And although I can't say the majority of Phil Collins' output does a lot for me I would never entertain the idea of trying to publicly humiliate him or giving him the cold shoulder if we happened to end up in the same lift. In fact, I'll go further: there's a ten-minute track on a 1984 Genesis album called Home by the Sea about a haunted house that's an absoulte pearl. Every time I hear it Phil Collins enriches my life. Christ, I never thought I'd write that.

So why is Mr Collins capable of attracting such bucketloads of derision? After all, he's not a criminal. Neither has he personally wronged his listeners. He might be a really likeable bloke. Whatever the case, having preconceptions about a stranger based on their art is patently misguided and pathetic, especially if it's agenda-based. People with agendas are always the clumsiest and easiest to spot.

But here's the truth: people often can't distinguish between art and artist. They believe that if a piece of art is bad then the person behind it must be a contemptible idiot, the sort of scumball who deserves to be spat upon in the street. (The anthesis is also true where favoured artists are seen as God-like). This is not a rational reaction, especially when the critics of someone such as Phil Collins can't actually prove that the artists they prefer are better in any way at all. Art, you see, is paradoxical.

Even so, art is still perfectly capable of short-circuiting the more rational side of my brain. A few years ago I reviewed the Brisbane premiere of Wolf Creek for a magazine, an event which was attended by the film's killer John Jarrat. Now Wolf Creek is one mother of a horror film and seeing Mr Jarrat at the post-movie soiree cordially sipping his white wine was oddly unnerving. After all, a few moments before he'd been indulging in the not altogether dishonourable pastime of drugging, raping and slaughtering backpackers. In fact, the woman I was with wouldn't go near him, as if he were going to whip out a knife, plunge it into the base of her spine and turn her into a head on a stick. It was a classic case of failing to distinguish between character and actor, art and artist.

And then the other side of the coin is that it's always fun to rubbish artists. My mum likes to say that if you've got nothing nice to say about someone then you shouldn't say anything. But if you don't have negative opinions about artists you run the risk of being a very bland conversationalist. A case in point is the American stand-up Bill Hicks. Boy, do I love listening to his rants about Vanilla Ice and MC Hammer sucking on Satan's cock, even if I know such bile for a couple of fellow artists - two people expressing themselves and trying to build something just like Hicks - is absurd in the extreme.

Hell, I've lost the thread of this post now. Perhaps I'm trying to say if you find one thing by an artist that you like - maybe a single song in a 30-year career - then celebrate that artist's existence. Forget about all their other misfires for in that one moment when they get it right and connect with you they've given to you in a way that no critic ever can.

*Obviously none of the above applies to James Blunt. If you ever meet him, please kick his face in.