Catherine Pepinster: Polanski may be bad, but does that make him a bad artist?

Should Radio 3 ban Vivaldi because of his relationships with orphan girls?

What does Roman Polanski mean to you? Genius film-maker? The creator of Chinatown, Rosemary's Baby, and now, The Pianist? Maybe the devoted husband whose pregnant wife was slaughtered by Charles Manson? Or the predatory movie man who abused his position to sexually assault a 13-year-old, and then fled rather than take the rap? In a few days' time Hollywood could take the opportunity to salute his film-making with an Oscar for The Pianist, his masterly evocation of Nazi-occupied Warsaw. But it's unlikely. Nominations for best film and best director have revived interest in the assault, which took place 26 years ago, and Polanski's decision to flee. Last week lurid details of the rape appeared on a website. The transcript of his victim's testimony to a grand jury makes for very unpleasant reading, and it's thought that the details were deliberately posted on the internet to finally sink his chances of winning two academy awards.

Polanski himself has admitted he had unlawful sex; his victim was just 13 years old, and the details of what he did are not for the squeamish. His decision to run away to Paris and never go back to face the music are the actions of, at best, a scared man, and at worst a gutless coward. But should his work as an artist be damned? Should the members of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences cast the first stone?

There is an increasing belief today that in celebrating the artistic merits of people's work, we are condoning the way in which they live their lives. This became apparent five years ago when a campaign began to remove the stations of the cross from Westminster Cathedral because their creator, Eric Gill, had sexually abused his daughters. A pressure group, Christian Survivors of Sexual Abuse, said that it made it impossible for victims to perceive the church as a place of prayer.

Nobody would deny that the abusive actions of both Polanski and Gill were anything less than reprehensible. But to condemn the value of a work because of the behaviour of the artist blurs the distinction between creation and creator. Where should it end? Should Radio 3 ban Vivaldi because of his too familiar relationships with orphan girls in Venice? Must we strip the galleries of Caravaggios, because their homoerotic figures too readily remind us of the artist's wildly murderous homosexual activities?

It is no wonder that we confuse art and the artist when we have become so obsessed with biography. Rather than merely appreciate a movie, novel or painting, we are encouraged to slaver over the details of a life, be it titbits about childhood, or love affairs, or a too keen appetite for drugs. Then the titillation turns to disapproval, and we want the artists vilified and rejected.

Much of our rage is borne of disappointment. The genius of great work is that it takes us into the world of the artist in a way that defies explanation. I cannot conceive of what another thinks or feels, but the most alluring art persuades me that I can enter the mind of its creator. If they do not live up to my gilded idea of who they are, I feel betrayed.

Some years ago, I met the novelist Margaret Atwood. A huge fan, I had read all her books and expected to find someone just as entrancing. Except she wasn't. And I came away feeling let down. Yet why should I have liked her? Atwood created her works, yet she was distinct from them. So is Polanski. And the Academy should vote onThe Pianist as a movie, not as a means of punishing a heinous crime.