Help! I Hate... My Artist

Every week, The Art Journal's resident artworld Agony Aunt Charlotte Jansen answers your questions about access, gatekeeping and sticky social problems

Have a burning question for her? Get in touch anonymously here.

I run a small independent gallery and publishing imprint. A few years ago, I started working with a young artist. Their early projects were provocative and thoughtful explorations of identity. But, as their profile has been building, things have changed. Their last project featured portraits of people from vulnerable communities who didn’t give their consent, and there’s been some backlash online. I have found myself in the position of defending the artist and the project publicly while privately trying to make them understand the problems in their work. I feel trapped by the situation and unprepared to manage it, but I don’t want to abandon this artist – even though I fear that, by continuing to platform them, I am exposing myself and potentially harming my business.

I don’t blame you for feeling conflicted. Independent galleries and small publishers survive and thrive on the relationships they build with artists and collaborators, and putting either of those things at risk is high stakes. Conversation, mutual trust, respect and sharing the risk-taking when believing in difficult and often uncommercial work is something you have to do together. You have invested your time, money and, I’m sure, emotion into this artist before they had any visibility – you took a punt, and it sounds like you still believe in their work and still find something valuable in their practice.

As you’re well aware, I’m sure, the internet tends to flatten every situation into a binary: support or cancel. Yet things are rarely so clear and unnuanced – in fact, it sounds like the ambition of this artist’s work is to actively break away those binaries. At the same time, I understand that defending work ethically in public that you feel cannot defend in private is an unsustainable position which will take its toll. The strain can be immense. I found myself in a similar position a year ago, where I had to defend work by an artist that many people objected to because of accusations relating to the artist’s shady personal past (though only anecdotal) and their association with certain political ideologies. As none of it was proven and the artist had declared otherwise, my feeling was that, even if I didn’t like the work personally or agree with their point of view, it should have a right to exist. Art is a forum, after all, for tolerance, difference and debate. But when people started vehemently protesting the inclusion of this artist in a show – both online and at the event – I’ll admit I started to doubt myself and wondered if it was even worth the headache. If I didn’t like the work, why was I wasting my energy on defending it?

I think that loyalty and complicity can often resemble each other from the outside – and sometimes even the inside too. It’s a tricky line to tow. Art that unsettles or provokes people is not the issue here. Many artists have been dropped by their galleries – especially in the last three years – for their politics. When work speaks about identity, power or vulnerability, that will often be the case. But if vulnerable people were used – dare I even suggest, exploited – here, that is a different issue. And that remains the case even if the artist knew them personally, and belongs to their community,

When material is used without consent and the criticism you’re getting is not about interpretation but responsibility, you need to act. If the artist is unable, unwilling or ill-equipped to engage seriously with this, you won’t be able to solve it easily.

This also reminds me of the Martin Parr controversy in 2020, one of two defining controversies of his career. He had written an introduction and promoted a 2017 re-edition of the 1969 photobook London by Gian Butturini. The edit juxtaposed, across a double page spread, a photograph of a gorilla in a cage in London zoo with a portrait of a Black woman in a glass compartment while working on the London Underground. A 20 year-old Cambridge student picked up on this and started an anti-racism campaign mostly aimed at Parr – he apologised publicly and quit his role at Bristol Photo Festival. At his request, the publisher destroyed the remaining copies of the book. It didn’t make it go away, but I think what people came to understand is – people make mistakes. How they own them is not the only thing that counts, but it makes a difference. Though Parr bore the brunt of the controversy, the book’s publisher, Damiani – arguably equally accountable in this case – did comply with Parr’s request to destroy copies of the book, and removed it from circulation. As far as I can see, they took a backseat in the crisis communications during the controversy.

You say you don’t want to abandon the artist. I don’t think you necessarily need to. But you may need to stop protecting them from the consequences they should be facing themselves. Right now, you are functioning as both their advocate and conscience: publicly absorbing criticism while privately educating the artist. That arrangement benefits them far more than it benefits you. It also quietly transfers moral and reputational risk onto your gallery and imprint — and onto anyone else who works with you. Staff, collaborators, audiences and artists notice when an institution repeatedly asks for understanding on behalf of someone who appears uninterested in accountability. You do not owe unconditional loyalty to a person simply because you believed in them early on.

Nor does ending, pausing or redefining a professional relationship make you cowardly or censorious. Small independent organisations often feel they must tolerate damaging situations because they lack the financial or institutional cushioning larger organisations possess. In reality, smaller spaces are usually more vulnerable to reputational erosion precisely because trust is their main currency.

What I suggest you do is stop seeing this as a decision between support and abandon, and instead consider other possibilities – you could pause your projects with this artist, for example, until they are ready and mature enough to have serious discussions about ethics. Refuse to act as their unofficial spokesperson. Ask the artist whether they understand that collaboration is a reciprocal responsibility and make them aware of the impact this has had on you. Make rules and insist on them before you collaborate on any future project.

I’d love to be romantic about endurance – being loyal and brave, staying committed to difficult work in troubled times. But being discerning matters too. I’d see this as an opportunity to educate them and to grow. Not every relationship has to end in public uproar and denouncement. Not every mistake – if if it takes a while to be owned – has to define us forever. We’re all human, after all.