Reading the various contributions, I'm becoming aware of a number of patterns that are gradually emerging. First, in a debate in which there are "no absolutes" as Tom puts it, decisions concerning levels of contact with artists - and also where the boundaries of integrity actually lie - are ultimately a matter of individual judgment and responsibility. Secondly, the nature of those decisions is invariably dictated, in part, by the world that surrounds the art form you're writing about.
I cut my critical teeth writing for Literary Review, and the process of reviewing a book sharply contrasts with writing about a concert or an opera. A book is essentially the raw material from which you draw your own interpretation. When you write about music, the dialogue that goes on in your head is between your interpretation and understanding of the work in question and that of the performers. Art, like literature, admits, however, of no such mediation as far as I can tell, and its critics and practitioners are seemingly brought into closer proximity than in any other form. Such closeness, of necessity, brings with it the starkest of choices. It does not surprise me, consequently, that the initial statement in this debate stems from art criticism, nor that the two most sharply contrasted positions so far derive from the art world, with Jonathan's refusal to entertain the idea of friendships with an artist, and Adrian's statement that his insights as a critic derive precisely from his personal engagement with the artistic community and his work as a teacher and curator within it.
The history of my own exposure to the classical music world has points in common with Adrian's experiences. Besotted from teenage years onwards with something I nebulously called "the arts", I decided on a career in arts administration, winding up in the finance department at the Royal Opera House. During my years at Covent Garden, I did encounter some of the singers, directors and conductors I now write about.
When I left, deals were struck: I would not write about opera anywhere for six months after I left and not review at Covent Garden itself until a full year had elapsed. I met many of my closest friends at Covent Garden. There is only one musician among their number; I won't write about him.
Personal contact with individual artists, most of whom I have met through interviews, inevitably colours a critic's response to their work. Interviews allow you insights into how they understand the music they perform, and what they say forms part of the knowledge that you bring to bear on their work when you review it. Most interviewees in the classical world are basically friendly - it is in their own interest to be so - and despite the claims of many not to read reviews, most, I soon discover, are familiar with what I have already written about them. Some, not liking my work, have turned my requests for interviews down, which is their prerogative. I would immediately suspect some underhand motive, however, should an artist declare that I was the only critic he, or she, was prepared to talk to.
Friendliness in an interview does not, however, constitute friendship. Nor, in fact, does having an occasional drink after a performance with an artist involved in it. As many have already pointed out, any sense of personal loyalty tends to slip from your mind when you're writing a review.
Jonathan initiated this debate by citing Michelangelo and Giorgio Vasari as an example of a friendship in which the critic effectively compromises his or her integrity in order to become the artist's voice in print, and such a situation is invariably a danger when boundaries are crossed. Other examples of critic-artist friendships, however, tell a very different story. Reading the Journal kept by the Goncourt brothers, Edmond and Jules, co-authors of novels, plays and huge tomes on French history, I was recently struck by their account of their friendship with Sainte-Beuve, the hugely influential literary critic, who disparaged the Goncourts' novel Madame Gervaisais to their faces, but produced something altogether more positive in print.
The friendship collapsed, precisely because the Goncourts felt that Sainte-Beuve had compromised his own sense of honesty and had become "a critic who has never delivered an independent, personal judgment on a single book". Artists and critics don't have to like each other, and they may, or may not become close friends - but they are capable of friendly co-existence in a terrain dominated by mutual honesty and respect.
