Not every great artist is a tortured genius. But when it comes to the most afflicted creators among us, is it ever okay to ignore their personal sins for the sake of the art? It might depend on the artist — and the artwork.
Japanese pop artist Yayoi Kusama recently died at the age of 97. She was the one who did the polka-dot stuff and caused a ruckus with phallic motifs in the 1960s. But her most enduring controversy was that she was deeply racist at her core — at least, according to a few lines from her 2002 autobiography.
The worst of it involved her vivid descriptions of her New York City neighborhood. She claimed there were “black people shooting each other out front, and homeless people sleeping there.” She also “envisioned America as a land full of these strange, barefooted children and virgin primeval forests.” She called the people “exotic.” She apologized.
Kusama suffered from hallucinations, anxiety, severe depression, and OCD. Her Instagrammable infinity spaces and otherworldly sculptures delivered an infinitesimal peek behind the curtain of her heavy bangs. As an interactive element during her exhibit at The Broad in Los Angeles, my friends and I covered ourselves in polka-dot stickers, a sort of camouflage in front of polka-dot walls. Maybe that’s how Kusama saw all of us: as “exotic” creatures, roaming free, unencumbered by the prison of her mind.
During my four years of art school, I dove headfirst into figure drawing, design, and classical painting techniques. Impressionist, cubist, surrealist, abstract expressionist — the kind of work that can never be reproduced by hungover undergrads or anyone, ever again. Of course, some of those figures of fine art were a little off their rockers.
Caravaggio painted the masterwork “Narcissus,” but also killed a guy in an illegal street duel. Maybe you know Picasso’s “Guernica,” but not how his toxic behavior drove his lady muses to take their own lives. Van Gogh sawed off his own ear during an alleged psychotic episode, but check out those sunflowers and “Starry Night.”
Maybe it would have been cooler if Picasso were boyfriend material, strumming his acoustic at bonfires, painting dumb art that never saw the light of day. But we got this guy. And paintings that sell for $180 million and make headlines when they’re heisted.
I think it’s okay to separate the art from the artist, or the product from the truth about the person who made it. I’m reminded of my leftie acquaintances in L.A. reading headlines about Chick-fil-A’s biblical values and going on a rampage swearing never to eat “at the place that contributes to anti-LGBTQ stuff” again. But then still secretly eating Chick-fil-A. Because the chicken was more valuable than the “evil” company mission. Christians, of course, would probably agree that both the Bible and the chicken are divine.
It’s also easy to engage in a little 21st-century snobbery, looking back on “history” — sometimes mere months old — from the highest horse. Pass me my rose-colored morality glasses; I have some judging to do.
Maybe you’ve seen news of fashion designer John Galliano’s booting from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. After much fanfare surrounding an upcoming honor from Vogue’s Anna Wintour at the 2027 Met Gala, his name and his accompanying exhibit were scratched from the event. It was a prestigious honor, given only to two other designers during their lifetimes. But Galliano also said some things about Jewish people that typically don’t make the best first impression on strangers. Something about wanting certain people dead via specific measures.
Knowing his history, Wintour still chose him for the honor. An insider reportedly claimed, “Anna knew everything. She believed his genius outweighed his appalling behavior.” Later, she and the Museum committee caved to internet backlash, and Galliano withdrew.
But I kind of agree with fashion’s apex skeleton on this one. Talking out of his behind, as they say, Galliano messed up. He apologized, claiming he was on drugs at the time of his outburst. You could argue that he wouldn’t have said those things (drugs or not) if he didn’t believe them. That may be true, but as Wintour noted, his clothing designs are still stunning.
Then, of course, there’s Michael Jackson. We’re supposed to hate him because of his personal life. Only Bubbles, the pet chimpanzee, knows the objective truth. But we got “Billie Jean,” “Thriller,” and “Beat It” from MJ. There’s something about the chorus of “Earth Song” that feels like rock gospel screaming to the heavens. I’m not even thinking about Neverland Ranch; I’m seeing myself. You. Humanity. Art mirroring our souls and reflecting our human experience. The complete picture. Including our darkest pain.
MJ transcended his own trauma to create something bigger than himself. And he leveraged other brilliantly tormented talents such as Quincy Jones, Freddie Mercury, and Paul McCartney to do it. Maybe, from the outside, we can do two things at once: holding MJ accountable while riding the musical wave to a higher plane. In 2026, “Michael” was the first biopic to pass $1 billion in global box office sales, proving there were plenty of fans willing to do just that. Hee-Hee Woo!
Here’s the thing. I will defend art for art’s sake until the end of time because I believe that once beautiful art disappears, society may be doomed. But even in the creative world, we need parameters. The art must be unequivocally greater than the transgressions of its creator, otherwise we end up torturing ourselves.
Despite his influence in music as we know it, Kanye “Ye” West seems determined to tip the scales in favor of his personal demons. I’m still holding out hope for his art — I’ll do anything for “Stronger” and “Gold Digger” at the gym — but there comes a point where the fun gets ruined by the story unfolding outside the studio.
Still, there are always worse examples. A quick refresher about Adolf Hitler’s passion for watercolor painting. He could have made a name for himself using those talents, but he chose a different path. (What’s that poem about how two roads diverged in a yellow wood?) This is why no one should care that some of Hitler’s paintings are currently sitting in a climate-controlled Army vault in Virginia, never dispayed. Evil machinations overwhelmed his gift of imagination.
We’re lucky to share this moment with those brave enough to create something, put it out there, and let the rest of us interpret it as we please. Along with classical music and art, please give me a conversation-starting duct-taped banana or a self-shredding Banksy any day of the week. I would also happily live the rest of my days inside a James Turrell skyspace installation — the greatest controversial take being an altered perception of time, space, and seeing in the first place.
But perhaps the proper response isn’t separating the art from the artist at all. Maybe it’s recognizing the humanity it took to create something beautiful.
“I don’t think we can separate the art from the artist, nor should we need to,” Australian songwriter and writer Nick Cave once wrote. “I think we can look at a piece of art as the transformed or redeemed aspect of an artist, and marvel at the miraculous journey that the work of art has taken to arrive at the better part of the artist’s nature. Perhaps beauty can be measured by the distance it has travelled to come into being.”
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