CARNAL NATION

As a freelancer who writes almost exclusively for online film publications I often find myself wearing more than one mismatched hat. Sometimes I'm a critic picking apart larger than life images, and sometimes I'm a reporter picking the brain of a real live filmmaker or random porn star. Interviewing the delightful Sasha Grey for SpoutBlog one week while trouncing the atrocious film that marks her mainstream debut, Steven Soderbergh's "The Girlfriend Experience," at The House Next Door the next, is just par for the modern day journo's course. As the walls have tumbled down in cyberspace, so have the boundaries that used to separate critic from subject. Or at least what were once sturdy facades.

Interestingly, my serving simultaneously as "objective" reporter and "subjective" critic is part of a much bigger ball of wax, one that includes those cozy relationships we critics develop with artists (not to mention the publicists) as the boundaries between creator and reviewer break down. But let's be honest. Those cozy relationships go way back, and the Internet is simply expanding and exposing so-called conflicts of interest that were part of the intellectual fabric from day one! The nonexistent separation of church and state, of critic and subject, exemplified by such art critics as Harold Rosenberg to his friend Jackson Pollock or Clement Greenberg to de Kooning – or film critic Roger Ebert to director Werner Herzog – is part and parcel of the creative life. Critics fall in love with the work, champion it, and the artist in turn expresses gratitude. And a relationship begins.

But what if that relationship takes a turn for the sexual? Would a taboo line really be crossed? I confess. Awhile back I fell hard for an artist's work, gushing like a schoolgirl in print about my newfound discovery, then quickly moved on to the next review without a second thought. The reality is that criticism is really a series of hot, one-night-stands. We non-monogamous critics aren't forced to make the long-term commitments required of those monogamously dedicated artists whose work we critique. I briefly met then kept in touch with the artist because, fatefully, we shared a mutual friend and creative colleague who I thought could help this person out. I was more than happy to respond to emails seeking career advice.

But then the strangest thing happened when this individual turned the tables on me, making me the subject by buying and reading my memoir, flattering my ego by asking questions about my own artistic life. And pretty soon a conversation had begun, a connection formed. Did I immediately want to fuck this artist's brains out? No. I was more curiously indifferent than turned either on or off. All I knew was that my desire for a creative relationship with this individual was as strong as any sex drive, and that this feeling, much deeper than the physical, wasn't going to go away. However, this artist for whatever reason was sexually attracted to me. And since sex, like romance, is just a way into a relationship, a start and not an end to a conversation (though, of course, it can sometimes be both) I simply couldn't figure out a way not to have sex! It just seemed silly to ignore the elephant in the room. By sidestepping the issue I'd be sidestepping the creative relationship itself. Sex became inevitable.

And I'm sure a version of this tale of impropriety has and will repeat itself time and again for as long as creative people come in contact with one another. But since it's the critic's job to look at the bigger picture, then really, what is the ethical difference between Henry Miller championing Anais Nin as one of the greatest writers of the age even while screwing her and Rosenberg and Pollock exchanging giddy mash note letters to one another? Or how about Werner Herzog, dedicating his latest film to his dear buddy Roger Ebert? Doesn't each of these cases imply a greater intimacy than any mere physical act? After all, Miller would have sung Nin's praises even if he'd never laid a finger on her, and Rosenberg still would have fallen for Pollock's brushstrokes regardless of their friendship. Not to mention Ebert would still be giving Herzog a passionate thumbs-up had the two never met.