The relationship between journalists and the people they cover is a constant, though scarcely discussed balancing act. Stay too distant from your sources and you'll never get the really juicy scoops. Get too close to them and you lose the sense of perspective and objectivity that are the coin of the realm.

This is a precarious situation in arts journalism, especially so if you're a critic who has both the luxury and the responsibility of delivering your unvarnished opinion.

Professional shoulder rubbing is almost unavoidable. Oh, sure - you can shy away from the opening-night parties and sneak out right after the show's over to avoid unnecessary personal entanglements. But you still have a beat to cover and those 10 minutes before the curtain to linger in the lobby.

And, contrary to what those who've gotten bad reviews might assert, critics are human beings. In my own case, I simply wouldn't do what I do if I didn't have a deep and abiding love for the theater and a huge sense of respect for the people who create and inhabit it. I find artists, on the whole, to be smart, interesting, provocative and funny people - the sort of people I'd choose as friends.

But there's more to it than that: I don't delude myself into thinking that theater people are gracious to me because of my rapier wit and charming personality. Of course, I possess both in spades, but people schmooze me because they want something - coverage or kind words, usually. And I want something from them - a lively quote or an exclusive scoop or at least the chance to comment on their exploits in print.

So, friendship with artists? Well, sometimes. But those few brave artistic souls with whom I have cultivated friendships acknowledge it's a weird relationship. It requires incredibly thick skin and unusually good humor.

For instance, in my Duluth days, I had a running banter with the executive director of the local community theater. After one review that was either particularly constructive or particularly nasty - depending on how you look at it -- she suggested I run to the veterinarian's for a distemper shot. That particular administrator is no longer working in theater. She is now, however, my wife.

A playwright with whom I periodically had coffee and conversation once asked me if his plays got harsher reviews than they would have if he had been a complete stranger to me.

Tough question, but… yes, I am probably a little harder on an artist if I know the names of his kids, or if I've had lunch with her a couple times, or if we've shared beer and ideas about the world. This is, of course, just as bad as erring on the side of generosity, but it lets me sleep better at night.

It's not a perfect solution, but it's the only one I've got. The creation and consumption of art is highly personal, highly subjective and sometimes highly emotional. Maybe we critics can't build an impenetrable wall of objectivity between ourselves and those we write about. But we should at least try to see where the chinks are in the walls we do build and work very hard to fill them in.