Learning can impact what we like

Sometimes what you learn can get in the way of what you like.

That’s especially true in this era when we’re reassessing the behavior of writers, artists, politicians and others after being faced with revelations about their misconduct.

A couple of weeks ago, Connie and I made our way down to New Harmony for a getaway of a couple of nights. We’d never been there, though we’d heard about it for years. These days, with Interstate 69 completed south of Bloomington, it’s a remarkably easy trip. Before, travel there involved going all the way to Terre Haute then taking a U.S. highway south. It was easily an hour longer that way.

New Harmony’s great claim to fame is its place in Indiana history as the site of a couple of 19th century experiments in utopian societies. The first was the Rappite Community, the second was led by a guy named David Owen.

Neither one succeeded. That’s the case with utopian experiments. But they left behind some charming, historic architecture. And that, in turn, has led to a nice mix of antique stores, galleries and restaurants. In short, just the kind of attraction that could entice you for a getaway weekend.

New Harmony is also home to something called The Roofless Church.

It’s a piece of mid-20th century modern architecture that’s been described as a peaceful spot for personal meditation. It looks a little like a giant mushroom that’s been hollowed out so you can go inside and find some peace in our often-stressful world. The sides are open, so it’s not claustrophobic. The ceiling is high and curved and there’s a circular hole at the top letting light in. A sculpture intended to prompt peaceful thoughts is at its center.

I thought it sounded pretty cool until I learned it was designed by a guy named Philip Johnson.

Never heard of him? That’s not surprising, though he was a big, big name in modern architecture from the end of World War II into the 21st century.

He was also a fascist. And an antisemite. And a racist.

He was a fan of Hitler and preferred him to FDR. He toured Poland after the Nazi invasion and gave it a thumbs-up.

So now, what I had learned about the architect had come between me and my ability to appreciate The Roofless Church. I tried to like it, but the creator’s biography kept getting in the way.

It’s not just Philip Johnson, of course.

The list can be a long one:

•Hemmingway was a jerk and a bully, but I still love some of his short stories.

•Robert Frost was a failure as a husband and a father, but I do my best to put that aside when I re-read his poems.

•Picasso was, by all accounts, a womanizer and a misogynist. But his best works still knock me out.

•Thomas Jefferson, George Washington and a bunch of the other founding fathers were slave owners. Does it diminish my opinion of them? Sure, but I believe it’s important to weigh that in my assessment of their accomplishments in establishing the foundations of this country.

Some are easy. I’ve never cared for the poems of Ezra Pound, so learning he was a nutty, fascist stooge during World War II gave me another excuse for not reading them.

Some are hard. When I learn that a figure from the past reflected attitudes and used derogatory terms that were then acceptable — to those at the top of the ladder at the time — I’m inclined to give him or her a break.

Then again, there are still cringe-inducing moments. Fred Astaire in blackface comes to mind.

We live in challenging times, an era of reassessment and reappraisal and facing up to uncomfortable truths.

I’m OK with that, even if there are times that the things I learn get in the way of enjoying what I like.