H. P. Lovecraft - In Defence of Art.

‘It is said that in Ulthar, which lies beyond the river Skai, no man may kill a cat’.

… And with that iconic line began my obsession with the father of cosmic horror, Howard Phillips Lovecraft, a writer both loved and hated in equal measure.

For those of you who have never heard of Lovecraft before, allow me to offer a quick explanation. Almost like a song that everyone has heard but nobody knows the name of, all of us have probably come across one of his twisted creations at some point, or at the very least, the works of someone inspired by him, though we might not necessarily know it. He is best known for creating the monster/Great Old One ‘Cthulhu’, the fictional New England town of Arkham (from which DC took inspiration), and for starting the whole tentacle craze in horror, although these hardly scratch the surface of his brilliance as a writer. While penniless and unrecognised during his lifetime, his work has subsequently become massively influential and successful, single-handedly creating the modern subgenre of Cosmic Horror, and inspiring everyone from Stephen King and Neil Gaiman, to Black Sabbath and Metallica.

Now, I must make it clear that this is not an introduction to his works or an analysis of them. Nor am I here to sing his praises or to condemn and denounce him. There have been many before me who have done all of that to the point of tediousness and there is no point in me beating a dead horse. No. As far as this post is concerned, Lovecraft is merely an example, almost like a case study of sorts, to help me give my thoughts on a question that has plagued me for a very long time:

What do we remember an artist for?

For all his posthumous greatness, Lovecraft’s personal life was far from exemplary. To say that his personal views were appalling would be an understatement. He was an outspoken anti-Semite, xenophobe, and racist who once said of Hitler, ‘I know he’s a clown, but by God, I like the boy!’ Indeed, the theme of ‘mongrels’ (his term for people of mixed races), and of humans breeding with unfathomable monstrosities is common in most of his works, indicating an underlying preoccupation with what he considered ‘racial purity’. And while people did indeed think very differently back then (late 19th and early 20th centuries), his views were extreme even for his time. But what else could you possibly expect from someone who named their damned cat ‘Nigger-man’? To put it bluntly, I am sure that if we had ever met in person, I would have spat at his feet and walked away. And he would likely have done the same to me. And yet, to echo his own words, ‘by God, I like the boy!’, and his works will always have a special place in my library.

Now, before you come at me bearing a pitchfork, allow me to explain why I feel the way I do and indeed why I decided to write this whole thing in the first place. There has been an unfortunate trend in recent years, originating in the west and spreading rapidly as all trashy western ideas do, of ‘cancelling’ artists and writers for some fault of theirs, either real or imagined, claiming the likes of Dr. Seuss (oh the horror!), J. K. Rowling, Richard Dawkins, and more recently, the great Dave Chappelle (good luck with that one). To me, this entire notion of ‘cancelling’ an artist seems rather absurd and comical, and without a doubt, most of you will likely agree with me. However, this trend hasn’t shown any signs of stopping and it seems only a matter of time before they come for Lovecraft, especially considering the relatively benign nature of the others who have fallen prey to what I can only characterise as a pernicious attack on art itself. And so, I suppose this is my attempt to kill two birds with one stone, to simultaneously defend a writer I love and at the same time point out the boorish, vulgar, and unartistic minds that these people must possess if they cannot separate art from artist.

Now, one thing that we must keep in mind is that virtually everything that was once commonplace, acceptable, and indeed decent, would now be considered, to borrow a favourite term of the woke left, ‘problematic’. And that’s perfectly alright. They were not writing in the 21st century and so should not be treated as such. Context does matter. And Lovecraft, for all his timeless appeal, was a product of his time.

Of course, Lovecraft is probably a bad example of this particular point, given that I just said that his views were extreme even by the standards of his time. But then again, this is not about Lovecraft. Not really. This is not a monument to his many sins, but rather to the sins of all artists. History was a very different place to the present, and if one were to discard all the parts of it that offend modern sensibilities, whole museums would have to burn. When writers of the past called people like me ‘savages’, it was the accepted view in their society at the time. When writers of the past took it upon themselves to tell women of their inferior place in the world, it was the accepted view in their society at the time. While these are obviously inaccurate and bigoted by modern standards, it is certainly not worth burning a book or indeed discarding a great work of art. Instead such views are to be understood within their contexts and tolerated for the sake of the artwork, for what little discomfort you may avoid by discarding it is nothing compared to the magnificence of the piece of art that you would be entirely missing out on. With Lovecraft, as with many other ‘problematic’ artists, while the bad was exceedingly bad, the good was also exceedingly good and this deserves to be recognised and perhaps even celebrated. His work and influence simply cannot be understated.

Moreover, and this is likely the poet in me talking, I believe that art, once created, exists in a manner that is separate from the artist. It belongs to the world and no man, not even the artist, may lay claim to it. Yes, it is indeed true that any work of art will be tainted by its creator, with the artist’s soul trapped within, waiting only for a critical eye to notice it. This is why the serious study of any artistic creation begins with some background information on the artist. That cannot be helped. Nobody who observes a work of art can entirely separate the art from the artist. But art does take on a life of its own after creation, like a child of the artist, a product of their being, a part of them, and yet something entirely separate. And so, I believe that we owe it to art itself, if to nothing else, to give a creation its proper place, irrespective of who created it or why.

The buildings in Adolf Hitler’s paintings are no less beautiful because their creator was an order obsessed fascist who committed some of the vilest acts known to man. The poetry of Byron is no less breathtaking because of the cruelty he showed his ‘loved ones’ in his personal life. The same could be said of a hundred other artists who led less than perfect lives. Indeed it is this that unites us. The knowledge that all human souls, no matter how twisted, perverted, and vicious, are capable of the artistic impulse, of seeing the world through the eyes of the poet at least once in their life. Art should never be ‘cancelled’, and indeed it never can be. It is a poor mind that shuns treasure merely because a dragon guards it. This of course does not mean that one ought to walk blindly into a dragon’s lair, that is to say, to see only the good and be blind to all the faults of an artist. But I do think that we ought to do a better job of not being turned off by politics and indecency in art, especially considering the long history of great artists who were at some point considered too ‘scandalous’ for ‘respectable society’.

Ultimately, I suppose this is nothing but an appeal, an appeal to keep in mind what we celebrate and remember artists for. As writer Elizabeth Bear puts it: ‘Authors are read, beloved, and remembered, not for what they do wrong, but for what they do right’. Yes, as with many other artists, Lovecraft’s personal values were no better than that of pond-scum. But his works are the result of pure literary genius, the sort only found in dreamers, visionaries, madmen, and poets. This is what we remember artists for. And it is to this that we pay tribute. It is for this that we love the products of their twisted imaginations. It is with this that he became a titan of terror, forever changing the course of modern horror. And it is through this that he can reach out from beyond the grave and proudly proclaim to the world with no contest: ‘I am Providence’.