My favorite painting is "Saturn Devouring His Son" by Francisco Goya. It depicts the myth of the titan Kronos who, after being told that he would be overthrown as king of the gods by one of his children, began swallowing them whole as soon as they were born. There's more to it, but the painting is focused exclusively on the act of consumption. The look on Kronos's face is one of abject fury and desperation. His eyes are fixed on the viewer as if preparing to gorge on them next. He grips the limp body in his hands with such strength it leads you to believe his fingers have pierced straight through. The blood is stark against the bleach white skin of the corpse- Goya highlighting the brutality of the act with incredible skill. It's the kind of painting that when you see it for the first time makes you recoil with just how visceral the scene is but somehow draws you back to digest every detail. He doesn't shy away from the horror of the subject, nor does he obscure it with bright colors and soft lines the way Peter Paul Ruben's did in his depiction of the same myth. The pain, the shock, the disgust is the point. It's one of Goya's best known works and the story of how it came to be is just as devastating as the myth itself.

Suffice it to say, after battling an illness which left him deaf, witnessing the horrors of both war and the Spanish Inquisition, Goya in his later years was experiencing what some assume to be a mental health crisis. In the early 1810's he secluded himself in his home and began decorating the walls with his art. At first, the images were more aligned with his traditional works, but in time he covered these with what has come to be known as his "Black Paintings", a series of 14 pieces that showcased his fear of what he saw as his growing insanity, as well as a generally dim view of humankind. Most scholars believe that he never intended for these images to be exhibited and yet, in 1874, the paintings were removed, placed on canvas support, and are currently on permanent exhibit at the Museo del Prado in Madrid[1].

As someone who relishes context and conversation with the creator of a work, it's hard for me not to consider this display a sort of voyeuristic look into the psyche of a man who, in his final years, just wanted to be left in peace. Who was determined to make manifest his own demons in the privacy of his own home; perhaps to exorcise them, or simply so he would have something tangible to prove to himself that there was indeed a threat ever looming. He didn't get a say in whether his pain would become available for the public to gawk at. Nor did plenty of the other artists out there whose grief and trauma became fodder for museum blurbs and internet lists. Their only goal was to create but in doing so they themselves became the product. We as an audience aren't content with just a well-done painting, we need a story. And there's something validating in staring blatantly at the suffering of others. It's cathartic to see someone stripped bare and vulnerable the way so many of us wish we could be. We gaze intently because we want to be gazed upon, we want attention and validation at out weakest moments and so we think it a kindness to offer it to others in turn.

The question is- how far do we take it?
When does a sympathetic appreciation for someone's pain become a sick demand that they continue to bleed for our entertainment?

When do we stop consuming the art and start consuming the artist?

[1] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Francisco_Goya