The Harmful Side-Effects of Genius

Early in the summer of 2000, Kathleen Battle took a dozen bottles of wine from the Grant Park Music Festival. I helped her. Before you notify the authorities, or John Walsh makes Kathy and me two of America's most wanted, let me give you some background: Battle is a supremely talented lyric soprano, but was asked to leave the Metropolitan Opera because she couldn't get along with pretty much everybody. Over the years, she has developed a reputation akin to a raving lunatic. She is reported to have two distinct personalities. One is a meek, shy, reticent seven-year-old girl. The other is "diva" in the worst sense of the word, thundering at anyone if her the tiniest part of her will is crossed or ignored.

Our paths crossed while I was a concert production intern at Grant Park. Battle was paid an exorbitant amount of money to sing at the season-opening gala. Two rehearsals. One concert. Nice work if you can get it. I was in charge of setting her dressing room, and followed her contract to the letter. Upon her arrival, the entire staff fell deathly silent. What will she do? How can we keep her happy? Who will feel her wrath? She made it to her dressing room without incident, but was displeased when the honey for her tea was unopened. She made my boss remove it from the room and open it. He came out white as a sheet. Later, I was charged with a peculiar duty while she rehearsed. It seemed that she could not rehearse if there were people in the audience. At an indoor venue, this wouldn't have presented a problem. That day, though, I had the pleasure of walking around Grant Park and asking people to please enjoy their lunch outside of Ms. Battle's line of sight. I wasn't a popular kid.

Finally, the gala night arrived, and Battle sang as beautifully as expected. After the performance, as she was getting ready to take her limo back to the Four Seasons (other artists stayed at the Sheridan), the director of the festival asked if she would like a bottle of wine left over from the gala. She thanked him, and asked for a bottle of red and a bottle of white. I hustled to the basement to fulfill her request. When I ascended, she said, "Well, maybe another bottle of white." Back down to the basement, then back up again. "Maybe a bottle of red to go with it." Back down to the basement, then back up again. This continued until the trunk contained 12 bottles of wine. It wasn't stealing, but it was all kinds of rude, and it capped off an unpleasant experience for everybody on the staff.

Why would one of the most talented and successful opera singers in the world act this way? If it's any consolation to Kathy and the lives she's touched, she's far from alone. In fact, social dysfunction intersects with immense talent and genius often enough to create a genuine phenomenon. Why was Ernest Hemingway a raging alcoholic? Why did Beethoven's temper make Bobby Knight seem like a post-lobotomy R.P. McMurphy? What drove Vincent van Gogh to the point where he thought his own earlobe made for an acceptable token of his affection?

I believe (and belief is all I have here, due to my steadfast refusal to do any actual research) that there are two major, interlocking factors that contribute to this phenomenon. First, even people of exceptional intelligence and talent generally rise to prominence through an intense focus on their gifts. This single-mindedness, while ultimately to the beneifit of their professional endeavours, often consumes an inordinate amount of their energy and attention during their formative years. Parents encourage this, in the best case because they want their children to be happy and fulfilled by making the most of their talent, and in the worst case because Mom and Dad look at junior as a way to achieve vicarious success after a lifetime of disappointment. More often than anything else, this focus takes away from what Mrs. Boucher would call "the social skills." Centering all of their attention on enhancing their abilities leads quite naturally to full-on self-centeredness.

Of course, it's nothing even approaching uncommon for children and adolescents to be self-focused when they start to come of age. As they start to encounter the harsh realities of life outside the home, though, they learn that a large part of maturity is realizing that life is not centered around them. Compromise is necessary. Gratification must occasionally be deferred.

The second factor precludes this developmental stage in the prodigy. Just as the parents "encouraged" the talent in its youth to the exclusion of other lessons, now the budding talent/genius is in great demand from a public that is more than willing suffer in pursuit of either diversion or enlightenment. So long as they are willing to share with us what we are unable to create ourselves, we are willing to let them get away with murder (in the case of Ty Cobb's transcendent athletic greatness, the last sentence is tragically literal). Miscreant behavior among the great minds and voices of humanity has been tolerated for so long, we have begun to expect it. A friendly, well-adjusted prodigy is practically an oxymoron.

Let me make one thing clear before I move on. I do not begrudge for an instant the compensation these people receive for their work, both financially and through the accolades of the masses. They are often entertainers, and they are paid what the market will bear. The fact that they can supply in rarity what is in great demand fully justifies their great reward. In no way does that rarity justify any person holding others hostage through abhorrent behavior.

A closing question: is this tradeoff worth it? These geniuses make artistic and intellectual contributions than unquestionably further the progress of all mankind. The cost is paid in their own lives and in the lives of those around them. For the most part, they are internally tormented, some to the point of suicide.

The pragmatist in me shouts that the answer is obvious. Since the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, we should always be willing to sacrifice the happiness, and even the sanity, of a handful of prodigies since it is only through that sacrifice that humanity can be improved by their accomplishments. Even the strain they put on their immediate surroundings is overshadowed by their place in posterity.

I'm not entirely convinced, though. When I become a father, would I choose to make such a sacrifice of one of my offspring? Hardly. I would rather see great potential never achieved than doom a son or daughter to a lifetime of misery.

Ultimately, of course, our answer to this question is irrelevant. The vicious circle will continue to go around long after we leave this life. Genius will continue to spring up as an accident of nature (or, as I believe, through the hand of God) and be nurtured into the paradox of high-minded success and social failure. And the malevolent, Beethoven-esque beat goes on.