"The romantic image of a genius who is at best self-absorbed and at worst plainly monstrous in private life is familiar from countless biographies of painters (writers, composers, directors)."

"The annals of art are littered with abandoned women, neglected offspring, heartbreaks and betrayals. Yet Gauguin, after deserting his family, went on to paint his celebrated landscapes of Tahiti, and Picasso — who fathered four children by three women, juggled mistresses and wives, and helped drive two of them to suicide — forever changed the face of modern art. Morality and immortality, it must be acknowledged, do not necessarily go hand in hand. In fact, the opposite often seems to be true: To achieve real mastery, the artist must be obsessed with work, fiercely protective of his time, ruthlessly selfish in his dealings with those who would impose upon him — all the small, needy people who ask for crumbs of his soul yet ask in vain — for all of it, undivided, is laid on the altar of Art."

That's the first paragraph of a NYT review of a novel about a "great artist" character. I've enjoyed a lot of art about artists over the years, but somehow this seems like such an obsolete topic. Who today is interested in spending time with a character who's a big genius (so we're told) and is rotten to women and children? Well, I have my problems with fiction, so I won't try to answer my own question. For nonfiction dealing with this topic, I like Paul Johnson's "Intellectuals."