Eviscerating 5 Inane Arguments for Separating the Art from the Artist: Starring John Muir, Yvon Chouinard, and Alex Honnold

My post-graduate journey centered on unlearning much of what I had absorbed during my undergraduate years. Taking up the mantle of "autodidact," I turned to educational YouTube content by cultural critics like Kat Blaque and Franchesca Ramsey. By the grace of Goddess, I came across Ericka Hart and Ebony Donnley's Instagram and podcast, which offer academic insight and critique without the collegiate price tag.

At the University of Missouri-Columbia, where I graduated with my English degree in 2011, one of my most influential professors glorified self-absorbed, sexist, and racist writers like Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, and Charles Bukowski. In a Southwest Literature class, we studied Edward Abbey's "Desert Solitaire" without any acknowledgment of his blatant misogyny and anti-Indigenous views.

It was during this time that I was introduced to the inane concept of separating the art from the artist—a notion presented as a perplexing and wholly complex undertaking. The discourse, still alive and well today in classrooms, bars, and family gatherings, is rife with never-ending caveats and roundabout reasoning that shields these harmful figures from accountability while erasing the contributions of more radical, anti-oppressive, marginalized voices.

It's time to officially take the so-called “greats” off the shelf and throw them in the trash.

Let's examine some common arguments for separating the art from the artist and why these rationalizations make me want to poke my eyeballs out:

• Time Period Justification: Defenders of problematic artists, writers, thinkers, and politicians often argue that "they were a product of their time," suggesting we shouldn't judge historical figures by today's moral standards. This reasoning implies that societal norms of their era excuse racism, misogyny, or other forms of oppression. However, this argument ignores the fact that these figures had anti-racist, radical contemporaries. For every racist statement made by individuals like John Muir or Edward Abbey, there were Black and Indigenous activists, speakers, writers, and thinkers pushing back against the oppressive structures of the day.

  For example, Jolie Varela, founder of Indigenous Women Hike, has been instrumental in bringing criticism of John Muir’s racist and colonialist legacy to the forefront of public discourse. Through her advocacy, Varela started conversations about Muir’s harmful views and the colonial underpinnings of mainstream environmental movements. Her work catalyzed a broader reckoning within the Sierra Club, an organization that had long glorified Muir, leading them to publicly acknowledge his problematic history. Varela's efforts demonstrate how Indigenous leaders are reclaiming space in the environmental movement and challenging the erasure of Indigenous perspectives, which have historically been sidelined in favor of figures like Muir.

  Varela’s critique is crucial in addressing how environmental issues are deeply connected to racial and social justice. Her work shows that we cannot separate nature from the political realities of Indigenous dispossession and ongoing colonial violence. This is particularly relevant as we continue to see (mostly white) people romanticize figures like Muir and eras like the frontier period, as seen in the nostalgic imagery of Muir with figures like Teddy Roosevelt. The glorification of these historical periods ignores the brutal realities of slavery, Indian boarding schools, and the forced assimilation of Indigenous peoples. Varela's voice cuts through this nostalgia, reminding us that the wilderness Muir so admired was never untouched, but was—and still is—Indigenous land.

  Similarly, Zitkála-Šá, a Yankton Dakota writer and activist, was a powerful voice speaking out against the forced assimilation of Indigenous peoples during the same era. Her short story "The Soft-Hearted Sioux" vividly illustrates how Indigenous youth were coerced into abandoning their culture and adopting Christianity, often to the detriment of their communities. Zitkála-Šá's writings confront the violent erasure of Indigenous identity, serving as a radical counterpoint to figures like Muir who romanticized the frontier without acknowledging the harm being done to Native peoples.

  This reckoning with Muir’s legacy fits into a larger conversation about how we romanticize historical figures and eras, even in pop culture today. Taylor Swift’s lyric about wanting to live in the 1830s, for example, reflects the same kind of white nostalgia that erases the brutal realities of the time period. Just as Muir’s era is romanticized as a golden age of “wilderness” exploration, Swift’s nostalgic longing ignores the violence, slavery, and oppression faced by marginalized communities during that time. By glossing over these historical atrocities, both Muir’s legacy and Swift’s lyrics perpetuate a mythologized version of history that centers whiteness and erases the suffering of others. Just as we must critique Muir’s legacy, we must also challenge modern figures who perpetuate similar erasures in their work.

  In the same way, during the same time Edward Abbey’s work was being celebrated, Angela Davis was writing and speaking out against systemic racism and advocating for Black liberation. Davis, a prominent scholar and activist, was addressing the intersections of race, class, and gender while challenging the very structures that writers like Abbey romanticized. Her work illustrates that there were always those resisting oppression, even in the same eras that defenders claim were marked by "different norms." By highlighting these contemporaneous voices of resistance, such as Varela, Zitkála-Šá, and Davis, we can see how the "product of their time" argument conveniently ignores the presence of radical thinkers who fought against the oppressive ideologies now excused by this justification.

• Intent vs. Impact: Another argument often hinges on intent—claiming that the artist didn't intend to be offensive or oppressive in their work, so the focus should only be on the art itself, dismissing any harmful impact it may have had on marginalized groups. However, we know that intent doesn't matter—impact does. As many anti-racist educators point out: if you accidentally step on someone's foot, your lack of intention doesn't negate the pain you've caused. You still stepped on their foot and caused harm and now accountability must be taken.

• Personal Enjoyment as Defense: Many argue, "I like their work, and it's just personal enjoyment," implying that one's subjective experience of the art outweighs the larger harm caused by endorsing or celebrating the artist. However, what we invest our time, energy, and mental space in significantly impacts how we navigate our lives. You might think Edward Abbey's work is poetic and unparalleled, but I assure you that for every Edward Abbey—past or present—there are a hundred Black women writers who can wield a pen and write circles around these racist white authors.

  This argument reinforces the idea that art doesn't exist in isolation. The media we consume inevitably shapes our worldview, often in subtle ways. By supporting problematic artists without addressing the harm they cause, we risk normalizing harmful ideologies.

  For instance, many people defend Alex Honnold, the climber featured in Free Solo, for his physical feats while ignoring the egregious way he treats his partner. The thrill of watching someone push physical limits doesn't excuse his cold, dismissive behavior toward others, but fans often overlook this because they are captivated by his athletic achievements.

• Artist as Flawed Human: People frequently invoke the idea that "everyone is flawed," and therefore we shouldn't divest from artists for their "human" mistakes. But repeated racist, sexist language is not just a “human” mistake—it's verbal violence. This straw-man argument aligns with “Himpathy,” a concept coined by Kate Manne. It describes how cisgender men, especially white ones, receive undue sympathy and the benefit of the doubt, while those harmed by their actions are left to heal without support.

  This argument fails to acknowledge the power dynamics at play and the systemic nature of oppression. By excusing harmful behavior as mere "flaws," we perpetuate a culture that prioritizes the comfort and reputation of privileged individuals over the well-being and safety of marginalized communities. It's crucial to recognize that accountability is not about perfection, but about centering the victims/survivors and addressing and rectifying harmful patterns of behavior.

  For example, fans of Alex Honnold in Free Solo often excuse his toxic masculine behavior toward his partner, chalking it up to his intense focus as a climber (his “goddamn warrior spirit” as he called it—cue eyeroll) or his socially awkward personality. But these excuses diminish the emotional toll his actions take on those around him, reinforcing the idea that exceptional talent gives someone a free pass for harmful behavior.

• Contribution to the Canon: Just as personal flaws are often excused, many argue that artistic or intellectual contributions outweigh any ethical misconduct. A common academic excuse is that problematic artists have made "significant contributions" to a particular field, such as literature, music, or art, and these contributions shouldn't be diminished by their personal failings. However, this argument is akin to praising billionaires like Yvon Chouinard and Bill Gates for their philanthropy while overlooking the fact that they amassed their wealth through environmental exploitation and low-wage labor.

  This argument fails to acknowledge how an artist's problematic views might influence their work, even subtly. Just as we might question praising billionaires for charitable acts while ignoring the exploitative practices that built their wealth, we should critically examine our celebration of artists whose "contributions" may have come at the expense of marginalized groups. These so-called contributions often exclude or diminish the creative genius of those from marginalized communities.

So, What Can We Do?

While these arguments attempt to create distance between art and its creator, the reality is that the two are deeply intertwined. These caveats often dodge the real harm that these artists perpetuate and dismiss the lived experiences of marginalized communities impacted by their work and personal behavior. Every piece of art is inherently influenced by the artist's experiences, worldview, and societal context. The artist's background, biases, and beliefs inevitably seep into their work, whether consciously or unconsciously.

By consuming and celebrating their work, we may inadvertently endorse or normalize harmful ideologies. Recognizing the inseparable link between art and artist allows for a more nuanced, responsible approach to engaging with cultural writings and work.

So how can we, as critical thinkers/consumers, engage with these works responsibly? Consider integrating these strategies:

• Speak out: It's important to explicitly name the harm caused by the artist when their work comes up in conversation, whether in academic spaces or casual settings.

• Amplify marginalized voices: Instead of giving more attention to harmful figures, use your platform and resources to highlight and celebrate artists/writers/speakers/activists/leaders from marginalized communities who have been historically excluded from the canon and larger cultural conversation.

  One practical way to amplify marginalized voices is to intentionally curate reading lists, playlists, or art collections that center Black, Indigenous, and other marginalized creators. This not only diversifies your consumption but also actively challenges the dominance of problematic figures in cultural spaces.

• Contextualize problematic works: In academic settings or public discussions, make sure that any engagement with problematic works includes a critical discussion of the artist’s harmful views and how those views may impact the work itself. For example, many academic institutions have begun framing their study of works by Hemingway or Picasso with contextual analysis of their misogyny or racism.

• Toss them in the trash: Better yet! Consider a more thorough approach: Remove these problematic artists and writers from curricula! Divest from their work! Throw their art and books away in the trash where they belong. I speak from experience—after years of idolizing Edward Abbey, even moving to so-called Moab, Utah to teach outdoor education because of him, I eventually recognized his racist and misogynistic views. Despite having read and re-read Desert Solitaire, highlighting passages and toting the book everywhere, I ended up throwing away all of his books that I owned once I understood the harm they created and perpetuate.

• Expect better: When you start consuming and reading the work of Indigenous and Black thinkers, leaders, artists, and writers, you're going to wonder why you ever spent a milisecond of your time consuming and absorbing the work of mediocre cis, white dudes. There's no reason to lower our standards to celebrate mediocrity when marginalized creators offer brilliance. As the #MeToo movement has shown us accountability is a must.

As critical consumers and thinkers, we have the power to demand better and we need to be willing to hold artists accountable and make space for those who have been historically erased and silenced.