In his recent post, James Hadley argues eloquently that the artwork should be separated from the artist. This is in the context of those artists in the field of painting, sculpture, music and literature whose personal lives have been found wanting, sometimes scandalously so. It is an argument that has been made many times before, though not perhaps in the depth that Hadley provides.
The argument that a work takes on a life of its own — an “afterlife”, whereby its meaning and effect can be judged separately from the personal morality of its creator — is a powerful one; but it is not the only dimension to that discussion about the “ontological reality” of a work of art.
Similarly, the theological argument that a piece of liturgical art can be viewed dispassionately as an object, a “sacramental”, is also open to question.
The question of “who owns the art” once it is out there is not quite as simple as some would suppose.
In his conclusion, Hadley advocates against the erasure or destruction of liturgical artworks, preferring instead that they be “sanctified and rededicated” and used as a means of reconciliation and healing. He suggests that a large part of the furore is down to Church politics.
He also seems to suggest that there are limits to our care for the survivors of sexual abuse. While Hadley himself does not say this, other commentators have said that victims of rape, groping and other forms of sexual assault should simply grow up and move on. Anyone who has spoken in depth, as I have, to a number of survivors, would have a deeper understanding of the mental trauma and scarring that survivors have to live with, and the effect triggered when they encounter work by their abuser or someone similar.
From where I stand, Hadley is unfortunately wrong because he has overlooked one vital consideration.
The question to be asked is: What makes the works of Marko Rupnik, David Haas, Cesareo Gabarain, and others, different from those of Eric Gill, or Mozart, or Caravaggio? — to give just a few examples.
The answer. crucially not taken into account by Hadley, is that Rupnik, Haas and Gabarain and others all used their art as a tool for abuse, cynically and serially. In the case of Haas, it is well documented that he used his music as a grooming tool over a period of more than 40 years with hundreds if not thousands of women, often young and vulnerable with self-image issues, across three continents. Rupnik’s victims were religious sisters and others who worked for him and with him, while Gabarain took advantage of the many young people who passed through his hands as a kind of liturgical music guru and teacher.
In these cases, it is quite impossible to attribute a separate “ontological identity” to their art, untainted by their abusive acts, because their art was an integral part of that abuse.
These are clearly different cases from someone like Caravaggio who “incidentally” murdered but not in connection with his work, or the many classical composers whose sexual lives “on the side” were far from beyond reproach. One might also quote the example of Jean Vanier, whose sexual conquests apparently derived from his immense personality and the almost-godlike esteem in which he was held, and not from his charitable work as such, nor his writings.
Every week, online, you will find people questioning the banning of music by David Haas. “Oh, but it’s so beautiful!” (not everyone agrees, by the way), “Our people love it”, or “It was requested for a funeral, and pastorally it’s difficult to say No to a grieving family.”
I find that it helps people to have a different and better theological understanding of what they are asking for if one reminds them that every time you use, or allow to be used, or request a piece of music by David Haas, you collude in his abuse. You allow his abuse to continue. In effect, you become an abuser yourself. The music itself is tainted. This remains true whether or not there are survivors of abuse present who might be triggered by hearing the music.
Where, then, does that leave the multiple works of Marko Rupnik, whether in the private chapel of the Jesuit Curia in Rome or most publicly on the front of the Basilica at Lourdes? It may be that Rupnik himself did not carry out the installation, or that this or that installation was not directly used to facilitate his abuse; but a care for all victims of abuse (who are certainly capable of recognizing the Centro Aletti’s distinctive style) would strongly suggest that we cannot be too careful. The entire genre of his work is tainted. As above with Haas, every time we allow it to be seen, we collaborate in his abuse.
To recap, it’s often not as simple as separating the artist from his or her work (yes, there are female abusers too), and it’s certainly not always true that a work of liturgical art has a sacramental dimension. And, while the art may no longer belong to the artist but to the People of God, the underlying question of what it was used for will never go away.