Eviscerating 5 Inane Arguments for Separating the Art from the Artist: Starring John Muir, Edward Abbey, 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 knotty 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 five common arguments for separating the art from the artist and why these rationalizations make me want to poke my eyeballs out:
“They were a product of their time”: 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 excused 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 in 2020. Varela's efforts demonstrate how Indigenous leaders have always been at the forefront of the environmental movement and are reclaiming their space—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—a direct parallel for how we can’t separate the art from the artist. This is particularly relevant as we continue to see (mostly white) people romanticize figures like Muir and eras like the frontier period. Many die-hard Muir fans often circulate the nostalgic, black and white photo of Muir with Theodore Roosevelt in which the two stand atop Glacier Point on their infamous trip to Ahwahnee, so-called Yosemite, the original territories of the Miwok peoples. In a Reddit thread discussing the photo one Reddit user comments, “Back when the old America wasn't dead yet. Is it possible to be nostalgic for a place you've never been to and a time you're never lived in?!” This aggrandizement ignores the brutal realities of enslavement, 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.
As a contemporary of John Muir, 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”—published in 1901, two years before Muir and Roosevelt had their camping trip in 1903 because "of course, of all the people in the world, [Muir] was the one with whom it was best worthwhile thus to see the Yosemite”—vividly illustrates how Indigenous youth were coerced into abandoning their culture and adopting Christianity, 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 racist historical figures and eras, even in pop culture today. Recently, Taylor Swift’s lyric in her song, “I Hate It Here,” caused justifiable controversy when she sang about wanting to live in the 1830s. This reflects the same kind of white nostalgia that Muir-lovers express, actively erasing the brutal realities of the time period. Swift sings:
“My friends used to play a game where
We would pick a decade
We wished we could live in instead of this
I’d say the 1830s but without all the racists and getting married off for the highest bid”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, and very much present, 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 and hold them accountable.
Edward Abbey is another celebrated environmentalist writer who’s books can be found behind literal glass doors that are locked in Back of Beyond Bookstore in so-called Moab, Utah. His cult-classic, Desert Solitaire, was published in 1968, just two years before Angela Davis became the third woman ever placed on the FBI's Top 10 Most Wanted Fugitives list. His racist, anti-Indigenous, and misogynistic ramblings aren’t subtle, particularly in Confessions of a Barbarian in which he wrote about his stomach-turning beliefs on population control and borders, a standard racist “solution” to the climate crisis:
“Am I a racist? I guess I am. I certainly do not wish to live in a society dominated by blacks, or Mexicans, or Orientals. Look at Africa, at Mexico, at Asia. Garrett Hardin [the author of Tragedy of the Commons] compares our situation to an overcrowded lifeboat in a sea of drowning bodies. If we take more aboard, the boat will be swamped and we’ll all go under. Militarize our borders. The lifeboat is listing.”
Time and time again people justify his beliefs as “a product of his time.” However, Angela Davis was writing and speaking out against systemic racism and advocating for Black liberation at the same time Abbey was writing about how he feels, “…a ridiculous greed and possessiveness…” about nature likening his rapacity to how “…a man desires a beautiful woman…”
Davis, an iconic Black feminist, scholar, speaker, and activist, was addressing the intersections of race, class, and gender while challenging the very structures that writers like Abbey romanticized. Davis’ work proves that there have always been people exposing and resisting oppression no matter the decade, invalidating the argument that these time periods were marked by "different norms." These contemporaneous voices of resistance, such as Varela, Zitkála-Šá, and Davis, expose how the "product of their time" argument is simply a convenient cover to avoid holding these famous figures and writers accountable. Like Andrea Ross writes for Ploughshares, “If we sing Abbey’s praises, we must equally highlight what he gets wrong: wilderness is not gendered, and it is detrimental to us all to anthropomorphize nature as a feminine and racialized object to rescue or conquer.”
“They didn’t intend to be racist, sexist, etc.”: 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.
“It’s just for personal enjoyment”: 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, figure, or writer. However, where, what, and who 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.
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 end up normalizing harmful ideologies. A modern example of this has been the response to my critique of Alex Honnold, the climber featured in Free Solo. Many celebrate him for his physical feat of climbing El Cap without ropes while ignoring the egregious way he treated his partner throughout the film. There’s no excuse for his cold, dismissive, behavior, but Honnold super fans often overlook his toxic masculinity with the justification that it’s “just a film.” If you have ever called attention to the way someone’s behavior, actions, or language is harmful you’ve probably heard some version of this (“it’s just a book,” “it’s just a joke,” “it’s just a…”). Personally, I have heard this a thousand times over throughout my life from family members, to ex-boyfriends, to strangers on the internet. When I hear “you’re too sensitive,” “lighten up,” “it’s just a joke,” or “you don’t have a sense of humor,” it only means that the person speaking is refusing to acknowledge their complicity in a toxic, oppressive act.
It’s never just a joke, just a film, and it’s never no big deal when it comes to these various manifestations of toxic masculinity.
Imagining a world that extends beyond normalizing and affirming structures of oppression and injustice means that we are going to need to hold people accountable for not just their actions, but their words.
“Nobody’s perfect”: People frequently invoke the idea that "everyone is flawed," and therefore we shouldn't divest from artists, writers, and figures for their "human" mistakes. But repeated racist, sexist language and behavior isn’t simply a “human” mistake—it's violence. This aargument 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 Honnold often excuse his behavior by 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, or being a “brooding genius,” gives someone a free pass for harmful behavior.
“But look at how much they’ve contributed”: Many argue that what a figure has contributed to society or their field outweighs any transgression. 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 so-called “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 or figure’s problematic views influence their work and impact, even subtly. Just as we should question praising billionaires for their “charitable acts” (which are really a drop in the bucket for them) in contrast to their exploitative practices that built their wealth, we should critically examine the figures we celebrate whose "contributions" have come at the expense of marginalized groups.
So, What Can We Do?
While these arguments attempt to create distance between art and its creator, figure and their legacy, the reality is that the two are inextricable. These caveats often dodge the real harm that is/has been caused and perpetuated by figures like John Muir, Edward Abbey, Yvon Chouinard, and Alex Honnold in Free Solo, and dismiss the lived experiences of marginalized communities impacted by their work, choices, and behavior.
By consuming and celebrating problematic figures’ 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 products like writing, film, and any kind of media.
Consider integrating these five strategies to counter-act the normalization of toxic masculine, white supremacist, patriarchal, and colonialist narratives and beliefs:
Speak out: It's important to explicitly name the harm caused by the artist or figure when their work or legacy comes up in conversation, whether in academic, professional, 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 do this is by intentionally curating reading lists, film lists, playlists, or art collections that center Black, Indigenous, and other marginalized voices.
Contextualize problematic works: In academic settings or public discussions, make sure that any engagement with problematic works includes a critical discussion of the figure’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 and racism.
Toss them in the trash: Better yet! Consider a more thorough approach: Remove these problematic artists, writers, and figures 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, Black, and People of Color thinkers, leaders, artists, and writers, you're going to wonder why you ever spent a millisecond of your time consuming and absorbing the work of mediocre, toxic masculine, cis, white dudes. There's no reason to lower our standards to celebrate mediocrity when marginalized creators offer brilliance.
As critical thinkers, we have the power to demand better and we need to be willing to hold public figures, artists, and writers accountable and make space for those who have been historically erased and silenced.
