Black Desire

When I was in my early 20s I obsessed over the idea that creativity – more specifically writing poetry – was synonymous with moral probity. I was convinced that the act of creativity promoted higher self-awareness & sensitivity & so therefore built character. Then I found out the truth: a whole lot of poets were assholes, selfish, narcissistic, often callous louts like Lord Byron. Most troubling of all was my hero, Arthur Rimbaud, who – after his enfant terrible years with Verlaine in Paris – wound up in east Africa as a money-obsessed exporter of ivory & coffee where he was often accused of being hard on his men, hard on his camels, & a poisoner of dogs. This latter accusation still troubles me. I got over this conundrum in due time, but then, quite recently, I discovered a song called “Le vent nous portera” (The Wind Will Carry Us), which I listen to obsessively, particularly by a Quebecois group called Méa Culpa Jazz. It’s a beautiful, highly moving song, ethereal & wistful. But here’s the deal: one of its composers was none other than Bertrand Cantat, the man who beat his girlfriend Marie Trintignant so severely that she went into a coma & died a few days later. How much he contributed to the song, I don’t know. Maybe a lot, maybe very little. It’s deeply troublesome to me that this is weirdly attached to such a beautiful song. How is this possible? I continue to listen to the song with great enjoyment & many other singers & groups continue to cover it. And despite having this sordid & awful history aligned with it, however tangentially, I’m still in love with this song. And more confused than ever by the incongruities of violence, beauty, & murder. Does one inform the other? Are all artists tortured by inner conflict? Are they all callous, murderous louts ruining lives while producing spectacular art? Is the connection between virtue & art completely arbitrary, or does it help in some macabre way to acknowledge such dark impulses as part of creativity & try to accept & come into harmony with it before it explodes unpredictably & becomes even more destructive after being pushed into the dark for so long? Are we all werewolves at heart? If you enjoy writing songs and poetry, here’s my advice: if the moon is full, chain yourself to the wall.