Picking up where we left off... art vs the artist

On Thursday we opened up our stories for a conversation about art versus the artist. While I shared some initial thoughts that evening, I couldn’t stop thinking about everything that was said. I spent the following day adding to my thoughts, coming back to them again and again, and debating whether I should post this at all.

I want to start by saying that I'm not trying to change anyone's mind or convince people to lean any certain way. If you don't agree with me, that's okay. I'm not judging anyone for what they choose to read or consume, and I hope we can extend that same respect to one another. We won't all agree on everything, and that doesn't mean we can't still have worthwhile conversations. In fact, I think it's important that we do, otherwise they simply become the conversations we only have privately with trusted friends because they're too difficult to have publicly.

For some people, art vs the artist is completely black and white. For others, it's much more complicated. I want to thank everyone who respectfully took part in this discussion. I've read every single message and replied to as many people as I could. I genuinely appreciated how thoughtful and respectful the conversation was.

I wanted to discuss this particular subject because John Boyne has a new novel releasing soon, and it prompted me to revisit how I feel about his work in the wake of last year's Polari Prize controversy.

For anyone unfamiliar with said controversy, the Polari Prize was established to celebrate and support LGBTQ+ writers and literature. Last year, its decision to longlist John Boyne's novella Earth sparked significant controversy. While Boyne is a gay author, many writers, judges and members of the LGBTQ+ community argued that his public statements about trans people were fundamentally at odds with the prize's values of inclusion. The backlash led to authors withdrawing their books, judges stepping down, and ultimately the prize being paused while organisers reviewed its governance and representation.

I followed this controversy closely at the time. I shared it in our literary news roundup, saw Boyne’s now-deleted social media post during the controversy, standing at an F1 race captioned, “I’m in the Polari position,” and read, among many other articles, his piece in The Telegraph titled Here’s What Happened When They Tried to Cancel Me. I wanted to understand his perspective too. And I didn’t like it.

Some of you might be reading this thinking, "Ah, duh. I've known John Boyne was problematic since (insert controversy here)." This was all news to me last year, and I'm sure I won't be the only one. So, if you're only just catching up on John Boyne's antics, feel free to take a pause and do your own Googling from here.

Finding all of this out was genuinely gutting. I have struggled to reconcile how someone can write books that are so full of empathy, compassion and humanity while also making public comments that contribute to harm against the trans community.

And yet, as The Elements series itself reminds us, people are rarely simple. They are contradictory, messy and capable of holding seemingly irreconcilable ideas at once. In many ways, John Boyne himself is no exception. I think what has been most difficult to comprehend though is that the empathy in his writing made me expect something very different from the person behind it.

I know many of you have felt a similar grief after discovering things about authors or artists whose work has meant something deeply personal to you. Whether it's John Boyne, J.K. Rowling, Craig Silvey or countless others, it can be incredibly disappointing when you discover public views or actions that feel completely at odds with what you found in their work.

For me, it's exactly as Claire Dederer writes in Monsters. Learning more about an artist can fundamentally change your experience of their work. That's what happened for me with The Elements series. I can't think about those books now without thinking about the Polari Prize and everything that followed. 

Every time someone has mentioned the series since, I've found myself launching into a huge rant because, while I've been wrestling with my feelings about it since last year, this conversation has helped me realise that this is clearly one instance where I simply can't separate the art from the artist.

Another thing this discussion has reinforced for me is that it's always easier to find nuance when you're not the one those comments and actions are directed towards. I recognise that's a privilege, and it isn't always what good allyship looks like.

I've also been reminded that, for many trans people, and for their loved ones, this isn't an abstract philosophical debate about separating art from the artist. Supporting someone who has expressed exclusionary views can feel deeply personal, and it does not go unnoticed when the people around them continue to do so.

At the same time, I still think the broader conversation about art versus the artist is one worth having. Not because it diminishes the very real harm that can be caused by an artist's words or actions, but because these questions don't begin and end with John Boyne. They arise across literature, music, film and art, and they're something many of us will continue to grapple with throughout our lives as readers and consumers of culture.

It's one thing to debate art versus the artist in the abstract, it's another to ask what we actually do with that information once we have it. For me, that's meant listening even more carefully to trans voices and thinking more intentionally about the books I choose to champion here. In truth, that's something we've always tried to do, but I've generally let our curation speak for our values rather than speaking so directly about politics. 

In bookselling, this is a conversation we have frequently among ourselves. A few people suggested that a bookshop choosing not to stock a particular author is a form of censorship or book banning, and I don't think that's the right way to look at it. Bookshops are curated, and that curation is part of what makes each one unique. Some booksellers choose not to stock certain authors. Others see it as their role to provide whatever their customers are looking for. Some may choose not to display a book prominently but keep copies behind the counter for customers who specifically ask for it. All of those approaches are valid, and none of them are censorship.

Those books are still being published, promoted and are widely available. Choosing not to sell a particular book is a business decision, it isn't an attempt to stop it from existing or prevent other people from reading it. Booksellers know there are many ways to access books, and that no single bookseller determines access to literature.

Ultimately, the most power sits with us as readers. Collectively, we shape the market through the choices we make about where our money goes and who we choose to support. For some people, this conversation won't change anything. They'll continue reading authors regardless of their views. Others will think more carefully about who they choose to support. Many people told me there are countless brilliant authors whose work they'd rather support instead. 

Some people also said they'll only borrow books by authors whose values they don't agree with from the library. Although it's worth noting that, in many countries, authors still receive public lending payments, so borrowing from a library can still provide some financial support. If someone's goal is to avoid financially supporting an author altogether, borrowing from a friend or buying a book second hand are generally the only ways to do that.

Many people believe that buying an author's work is, to some extent, financially supporting that author's views. In the case of J.K. Rowling, whose wealth and platform have been used to actively support campaigns and legal action against trans rights, buying her work does financially support those efforts. 

With other authors, I think the relationship between purchasing their work and supporting their views is often more symbolic than tangible. Buying a book still supports an author financially, and for many people that alone is enough reason not to. But it's often much harder to point to a direct connection between that individual purchase and how that money is ultimately used.

There are probably countless artists whose views we wouldn't agree with if we knew them. But we don't know what we don't know. Most of us don't research every author before picking up a book, and unless their views become part of the public conversation and happen to cross our algorithm, they're simply not something we're likely to encounter. So how many of us are already reading authors whose values we fundamentally disagree with without ever realising it? And should we be expected to vet every author before deciding whether to read their work?

Sometimes choosing not to support someone's work feels like the right response. Sometimes people continue engaging critically with it. Sometimes our own views evolve over time. I don't think life is as black and white as internet discourse projects. What matters is that we're making these decisions thoughtfully, recognising the impact they can have on other people, and accepting that reasonable people can arrive at different conclusions.

It also made me wonder, for those who feel very certain about where their line is, where does that expectation actually end? Because once we start thinking about ethical consumption more broadly, those same questions extend far beyond books and into our everyday purchasing decisions.

I don't ask those questions to shame anyone for the choices they make or suggest they're hypocrites. I ask them because I think very few of us move through the world in perfect alignment with our values all of the time. Ethical consumption is rarely straightforward. We make compromises, sometimes knowingly, sometimes because we have to, and sometimes without even realising it, because it simply isn't possible to interrogate every purchase we make or every piece of media we consume.

That doesn't mean our choices don't matter. They absolutely do. But the internet can sometimes create an expectation of moral perfection that isn't always reflected in the complexity of real life. We often present our values in their clearest form online, while offline we're constantly weighing up competing priorities, having different conversations, and making imperfect choices.

Meaningful change doesn't begin and end with the books we choose to buy. Consumer choices matter, but they're only one piece of a much bigger picture. We know that real change also comes from supporting organisations doing important work, advocating for better policies and legislation, challenging those in positions of power, showing up for the people around us, and continuing to learn. Real change has always been, and always will be, a collective effort on many fronts.

One of the things I've been wrestling with the most is the suggestion that we should only surround ourselves with people whose values perfectly align with our own. We can't choose our family, our colleagues or our wider social circles, and I've found myself in plenty of difficult conversations with people I love whose views I don't agree with. I've also learnt that I can't simply argue someone into changing their beliefs. After all, when has a passionate debate about moral values over dinner and drinks ever led to anything other than hangxiety and frustration?

I've come to believe that shutting people out altogether only serves to further push them into silos that reinforce the very beliefs we're hoping they'll question. Sometimes creating distance is absolutely the right response, particularly when someone is causing very real harm. But other times, I've found that meaningful change is far more likely to happen through continued conversation, patience, and lived experience.

Learning that I don't need the people around me to share every one of my moral values has been incredibly freeing, just as I don't always need the artists whose work I consume to either. I read widely. I consume news from a range of sources. I listen to lots of different opinions. I care deeply about human rights. But I'm not perfect, and I don't expect everyone around me to be either. Holding everyone to an impossible standard of moral perfection is exhausting, and I don't think only surrounding ourselves with people, or only consuming art that perfectly aligns with our worldview is the answer.

However, just like me, you probably have a line. Maybe yours has always been clear and unwavering. Maybe it's a little wiggly. Maybe you're still figuring out exactly where to draw it, or perhaps you've never really thought about it until now.

It's not my place to tell anyone where that line should be. I'm putting my hand up and admitting that I'm still drawing my lines as I go. But I do think everyone deserves the time and space to work it out for themselves, to ask difficult questions, to do their own research beyond social media headlines, to form their own opinions, and to take part in respectful, complicated conversations.

Because if we immediately shy away from these conversations, or react with outrage before they’ve had room to unfold, they stop happening at all. People become afraid of asking questions, exploring complexity, or saying the wrong thing, and I don’t think that’s how we learn from one another. As long as we're willing to listen to each other, approach these conversations with empathy, and treat each other with kindness and respect along the way, that's a far better place to start than expecting everyone to arrive at the same conclusion.

If you're interested in exploring this topic further, I'd highly recommend:

• Monsters by Claire Dederer

• Outraged by Ashley "Dotty" Charles

• The Witch Trials of J.K. Rowling podcast