In the 1980s, she was among those who opened our eyes. In that France under Mitterrand that was beginning to bet on virtue and humanity, the little redhead from Massachusetts revealed to us the margins, the non-conforming bodies, the fluid genders, the bruised faces and eyes, the violence done to women, gays, and transgender people. She showed us dependencies and addicts, and behind her lens, this ugly world was beautiful.
In 1987, at Arles, Nan Goldin presented 'The Ballad of Sexual Dependency,' a work about love, sex, drugs, and loss, through a marginal America that she carried at the end of her gaze. She was Jewish, daughter of Holocaust survivors, with grandparents who had fled pogroms in Russia, raised, as she said, in the consciousness of the Holocaust. A trash Jew, who had been a prostitute, waitress, addict, lesbian. What joy for all of us aspiring rebels.
The transformation of this counterculture icon represents a profound shift that speaks to broader cultural and political tensions. Goldin, who once used her camera to expose the vulnerabilities and humanity of society's outcasts, now finds herself positioned as an activist whose political stance appears to have overshadowed her previous commitment to bearing witness to human suffering in all its forms.
Her earlier work was revolutionary precisely because it refused to look away from pain, regardless of its source or the identity of those experiencing it. The Ballad of Sexual Dependency and her other seminal works from the 1980s and 1990s captured intimate moments of love, violence, addiction, and death within marginalized communities. These photographs were unflinching in their honesty, presenting subjects with dignity even in their most vulnerable moments.
The photographer's Jewish heritage and family history of persecution seemed to inform her empathetic approach to documenting other marginalized communities. Her grandparents' flight from Russian pogroms and her parents' survival of the Holocaust provided a backdrop of historical trauma that appeared to sensitize her to the suffering of others, regardless of their background.
However, the events following October 7th have revealed what critics see as a troubling blind spot in Goldin's worldview. While she has been vocal in her support for Palestinian causes and criticism of Israeli actions in Gaza, observers note a conspicuous absence of acknowledgment for the Israeli victims of the October 7th attacks. This selective empathy stands in stark contrast to the inclusive humanism that characterized her earlier artistic work.
The contrast between Goldin's past and present positions raises questions about how political activism can sometimes narrow rather than expand one's capacity for empathy. The photographer who once documented the full spectrum of human experience with remarkable sensitivity now appears to view complex geopolitical situations through a more rigid ideological lens.
This evolution from an artist who revealed the humanity in society's margins to an activist who seems to have lost sight of certain victims represents more than just a personal transformation. It reflects broader tensions within progressive circles about how to balance solidarity with oppressed groups while maintaining universal principles of human dignity and compassion.
The photograph that once captured the bruised face of a battered woman or the tender moment between lovers now seems to have given way to a vision that can see suffering only when it fits within acceptable political narratives. The artist who taught us to look unflinchingly at difficult truths appears to have developed her own blind spots.
For those who found inspiration in Goldin's earlier work, her current stance represents a particular kind of betrayal - not just of her artistic principles, but of the very communities she once championed. The marginalized subjects of her photographs knew suffering intimately and might have expected their documentarian to recognize it wherever it appeared, regardless of the political inconvenience.
The irony is palpable: a photographer renowned for her vision has, in the eyes of many, lost her sight. The woman who taught others to see has apparently forgotten how to look. In choosing sides rather than bearing witness, she has abandoned the very quality that made her art so powerful - its refusal to turn away from uncomfortable truths.
This transformation serves as a cautionary tale about the dangers of allowing political ideology to override artistic integrity and human compassion. It demonstrates how even those with the most developed capacity for empathy can lose their way when they allow activism to replace the more difficult work of maintaining compassion for all who suffer.
The legacy of Nan Goldin's early work remains intact, but her current positions cast a shadow over that achievement. The question remains whether the photographer who once showed us how to see the humanity in everyone can rediscover that vision herself, or whether she will remain trapped in the very kind of blindness she once helped others overcome.
