Among the many questions  we are infinitely fascinated by at a2ethics.org, and would like to discuss and learn about from others  who have thought about the issue too: after committing a really appalling action, what kinds of remorse and your ways of showing it diminish the feelings of anger and betrayal? And more importantly for this discussion at least, should a musical composition of haunting beauty, an expression of unique talent or the writing of  a treatise on a new way to see the world by that very same  transgressive bad one, be enough to forgive the immoral act?

We are offering our friends and guests an opportunity to consider these questions through our upcoming event: "Murder Music:The Life and Work of Carlo Gesualdo." (Go to a2ethics.org home page under Upcoming A2ethics.org events.) 

Why the choice of Gesualdo? According to co-directors of the event, composer and music teacher Ben Cohen and a2ethics.org web director, playwright and actor Barton Bund, the showcasing of Gesualdo's life and music are perfect for looking at the questions of the artist's ethics as a judgment for ethics in art.

Without giving too much away, because we would very much like you to come to the combined music and radio drama performance on Thursday, April 30th, there is little doubt that unless you are a madrigal singer, a lover of the late Italian Renaissance or a specialist in in flagrante delicto murders through the centuries, I don't think you would know much about the composer Carlo Gesualdo. I had never heard of him (no surprise there) until Ben mentioned his music and ventured the offhand but intriguing comment, "if you listen to his work, it gives you an overwhelming sense of his remorse."  Afterwards, I went home and located a few of the recordings of his work. His songs are quite affecting. I immediately liked him. And then Bart told me what he had done.  And so now I am having great difficulties even liking the music. Is this right? Why am I unable to separate the art from the artist?

This uneasiness does not just apply to great composers that I have recently learned about, such as Gesualdo. It also extends to great philosophers and some of their amazing bad actions. Consider Jean-Jacques Rousseau. He is among my favorite philosophers. Who wouldn't love a working class guy who began his rise to fame by entering a contest? (for all you "Slumdog Millionaire" movie fans out there check out the First Treatise that Rousseau wrote for a competition offered by the Academy of Dijon.) And who began one of his most revolutionary works with the salvo: "Man is born free, but everywhere he is in chains." (See The Social Contract.) And who wrote, Emile,  one of the most influential education treatises in Western history, which also served to change some of our notions about raising children that are still relevant today.

This is the same man, who also gave his five children away to a Parisian foundling home, immediately after they were born. It is unclear whether Rousseau fathered more than one child. Nevertheless, we can document  the fact that against the wishes of Therese Levasseur, Rousseau's life partner and the mother of all of his children, Rousseau determined to place his first child in the hands of a midwife with connections to the well-known foundling home, the Hopital de Enfants-Troves, run by the nuns of St. Vincent de Paul. 

Did Rousseau feel any remorse? Like Gesualdo, did Rousseau write off his guilt about abandoning his children by creating a work that most consider part of the philosophical canon in education? Or were these musings and his attempts at expiation moral excuses to get him back into the graces of his subsequent followers? 

In both cases, it is easy to give moral excuses. Gesualdo's excuse? Finding his wife in bed with another man, which caused him to kill them. A common crime of passion, some might claim.

Rousseau's excuse? The abandonment of children, especially those who were illegitimate or couldn't be provided for, was a common practice as late as the mid-19th century in France. (See The Discovery of France by Graham Robb.) Some hospitals, for example, built into their walls mangers of rotating barrels equipped with straw, where babies were left.

The fact, however, that abandoning children was common does not hold sway, at least in Rousseau's case. While Rousseau was never well-off and faced financial difficulties throughout his life, he was not destitute at the time of his first child's birth. And not too long afterward, Rousseau began his rise to fame. 

Like Gesualdo, it appears that Rousseau was deeply ashamed and remorseful about what he done for the rest of his life. And some believe it was a principal reason for feeling compelled to write the work that sealed his fame and settled any arguments over his profound influence in philosophy, education and the letters.  He revealingly wrote in Emile, "Anyone who fails to bring up his own children will weep long and bitterly for his error and will never be consoled. " (Jean-Jacques Rousseau: Restless Genius by Leo Damrosch.)

Does this shame and remorse for what they had done, make me feel as if I can forgive Gesualdo and Rousseau?

Or does it make me feel shame and guilt for enjoying their incredible work?       

I would like to think that I only have to deal with answering for my guilty pleasure and happiness in listening to the music of  a wife murderer and reading the profound philosophical insights of a father who abandons his children.

But over the last several months, we have been learning about the business world's exemplar of the most immoral of the immoral: Bernie Madoff, the Ponzi schemer who defrauded his clients, friends and others of more than $50B over a twenty year period. 

So, what about Bernie Madoff? In prison, will he show an up-until-now unknown talent? The question is this:  will Bernie Madoff create and compose the most amazing investment guide the world has ever known? And will I think such a guide a reason for forgiveness? I don't think so. From as far as I can tell, Bernie Madoff's one bout with remorse wasn't even artful.

Let's talk about all this on Thursday, April 30th beginning at 8PM at the Blackbird Theatre in Ann Arbor. Tickets at the door: $20/15/10. An evening of song and of radio drama:  "Murder Music: The Life and Work of Carlo Gesualdo," directed by Ben Cohen and Barton Bund. Ben Cohen is the music director of the Vocal Arts Ensemble (VAE) of  Ann Arbor. The VAE is a chamber ensemble dedicated to performing the best of choral music as well as new compositions, specializing in a cappella singing. For information about VAE, check out their website at: www.vaeannbor.org/.