The writer is the Director of the Bangkok Art and Culture Centre and a curator-historian.
A common dilemma in the arts is realising that an admired artist was, by many standards, a terrible person. This isn’t unusual; it’s often a harsh reality: they may have abused power, exploited others, or been violent, manipulative, cruel, predatory, or indifferent to harm.
This leads to difficult questions: should we continue to see the work? Teach it? Showcase it? Attend screenings? Is it possible to admire art made by someone we can’t respect?
These questions are more than just about art; they actually involve complex moral dilemmas, each with high costs. Supporting certain works might minimise harm done by their creators, while removing them can erase uncomfortable histories and contextualising them risks diluting education or allowing institutions to ignore problematic issues. There’s no innocence here. The phrase “separate the art from the artist” attempts to draw a boundary, but art is deeply connected to the lives behind it. So, what if victims are depicted within the art?
What if exploitation funded its creation? When does a biography shift from background to an integral part of the work?
What really troubles me is how time itself passes. Cultural support grows over the years through exhibitions, acquisitions, reviews, and teaching, with each act boosting an artist’s importance. Over time, recognition turns into reputation, then into history. Supporting a harmful artist isn’t neutral; with every exhibit, purchase, or mention, it adds legitimacy. Collectively, these actions eventually shape what endures and what gets erased. As time goes on, the moral issues can fade. An artist’s biography might become just a footnote, controversies are dismissed, and violence is reinterpreted as “personal life." Abuse can even morph into mythology. What once seemed morally disturbing often blends into art history, leaving future audiences reassured of the artist’s significance. The focus shifts from whether they deserve attention to the fact that they already have it. This long-term effect is rarely discussed, but it’s incredibly important. Cultural support not only preserves works of art but also has the power to restore reputations. Museums do indeed play a key role here; they integrate artworks into institutional narratives, shape perceptions, and create cultural value itself.
This does not imply that artists who have caused harm should simply be erased from history. Erasure raises its own ethical concerns; it is necessary to understand harmful figures, especially those who have influenced culture. However, understanding does not equate to celebration, preservation does not imply admiration, and critical examination should not lead to continuous elevation. These distinctions are important because the work may still be extraordinary. The complexity of this moral dilemma stems from the fact that when the work is moving or powerful, we often struggle because aesthetic appeal and moral values do not always align. Talent is not necessarily a moral qualifier, but admiration certainly has consequences. Therefore, our choices about what endures are never entirely passive. Every ticket purchased, exhibition organised, acquisition made, article written, or image shared participates, however incrementally, in determining whose work remains visible and whose reputation continues to grow.
In a culture increasingly conscious of how silence, continued access, and institutional protection can enable abuse, we should ask not only whether we can separate the art from the artist, but what our continued support makes possible. Who continues to accumulate cultural authority because we decide the work is too important to lose? Whose misconduct becomes easier to overlook once their contribution is considered indispensable? Whose suffering is gradually reduced to a footnote beneath an increasingly celebrated legacy? And at what point does preserving the work begin to preserve the structures of prestige, protection, and exceptionalism that allowed the harm to continue in the first place? There are no easy answers, nor should there be. We may still stand before the work, knowing what we know, and find ourselves moved by it. But being moved does not absolve us of responsibility. What we choose to support, once we know, is also a cultural act: over time, our attention does not simply determine what history remembers but what it permits itself to forget.
