Image: Canva.
What does the erosion of democracy feel like? Would we clock it outside of a history textbook or a Discovery Channel doco? Would we recognise it if it were happening to us? As Australians, we tend to be allergic to hyperbole: drawing grand historical comparisons just seems a bit cringe. Incomprehensible things happen, bad decisions are made, yet the norms and processes we rely on for fairness prevail. She’ll be right.
Until they don’t, and she isn’t. Anyone who has studied even high school–level modern history knows that repression begins with the cauterising of the arts. The banning of certain books, films and music; the silencing of defiant or transgressive voices.
When Creative Australia unceremoniously dumped artist Khaled Sabsabi and curator Michael Dagostino from our country’s Venice Biennale team for 2026, barely six days after they were appointed, the response from the arts community was one of anger and incredulity. The reversal had been triggered by questions in the Senate about artworks almost two decades old, along with a media inquiry from the Australian, a well-practised combatant in culture wars.
Conservatives often suggest the arts are a waste of public funding, disconnected from an imagined ‘real’ Australia, or else deliberately divisive. Around the world, reactionaries and authoritarians mock the arts as being ‘woke’ and ridiculous. And yet today, as throughout history, the arts are the first targets during moments of political repression: not just to defund them but to neuter, redirect and control them. The role of culture in reflecting our reality and shaping our discourse is potent and essential, and even the harshest critics know it—despite everything they tell us in their campaigns.
What does the erosion of democracy feel like? Would we clock it outside of a history textbook or a Discovery Channel doco?
In the US, Donald Trump mocked Hollywood elites, and yet in his second term has been quick to declare himself chairman of the John F Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts and stack the board with his appointees. The National Endowment for the Arts obeyed in advance by scrapping their Challenge America funding program focused on underserved communities in favour of celebrations of the 250th anniversary of US independence. The Smithsonian’s National Portrait Gallery has been accused of queer erasure in omitting the context of the AIDS crisis in presenting an iconic artwork. Infringing on the independence of culture and storytelling may seem trivial compared with a slashing of trans rights, a dismantling of the public service, a far-right infiltration of the White House and a rise of oligarchic influence. But time and again the arts are the canary in the coal mine when it comes to the erosion of democratic norms and the narrowing of pluralism and inclusion into centralised, hegemonic narratives.
Our current arts crisis unfolds in parallel contexts. Creative Australia’s decision occurs alongside disturbing increases in anti-protest laws, attempts to censor criticism of Israel’s military actions and the escalation of politicised culture wars in the lead-up to the next federal election. There are two artworks in question. One, the ‘purposefully ambiguous’ video installation You (2007), depicts the now-deceased Hezbollah leader Hassan Nasrallah. The other, Thank You Very Much (2006), is an eighteen-second video piece of jerkily edited footage of the Twin Towers attack and a press conference by then-president George W Bush.
Shadow arts minister Claire Chandler, who claims ‘to stand up for the crucial democratic values of freedom of speech and freedom of expression’, asked why Creative Australia would allow someone who ‘highlights’ a figure such as Nasrallah to represent the country at the Biennale. Artistic depiction was then equated to endorsement by Penny Wong, who said that ‘any glorification […] is inappropriate’. As pointed out in the Conversation, Australian art has long depicted outlaws (What does Wong make of the Ned Kelly paintings that fill our galleries?), while Memo engages with the multi-dimensional nature of the earlier work as a critique of the War on Terror and the era of fear, suspicion and uncertainty the 9/11 attacks unleashed. But, like many artworks, there’s no single clear reading here: it’s a simplistic misinterpretation to present them as sympathising with terrorists. The artist was not given an opportunity to explain the historical and personal context, the intent or the thinking driving these early works. Within twenty-four hours, Creative Australia’s board reversed the artistic team’s selection and tossed the concept of arms-length processes—and a nuanced understanding of artistic expression—into the bin.
Appearing on the ABC’s 7.30 a few days after the firing, federal arts minister Tony Burke was at pains to point out that he ‘was not involved in the selection’ and ‘not involved in the decision that it be ceased’. He insisted that ‘the arts minister [or] any politician should not interfere in decisions about artistic merit’. Rather, he said he had called Creative Australia CEO Adrian Collette to flag that he wasn’t briefed on all the potential controversies in the lead-up to the Biennale announcement. Burke maintained that he expressed his support for whatever decision Creative Australia would choose to make.
The arts are the canary in the coal mine when it comes to the erosion of democratic norms.
Despite Burke’s assertion that he believes that funding should be allocated at arms-length from the government, it’s telling that he framed this as a choice for Creative Australia. If you trust your expert arts body and respect the independence of its processes, wouldn’t you expect the organisation to uphold their original decision and support the artists, the innovators and storytellers whose role, as Sabsabi and Dagostino outline in their public statement, is ‘to challenge, inspire and reflect on the complexities of our world’?
In my past lives, as deputy lord mayor of Sydney and before that, as a policy advisor in a state arts minister’s office, I occasionally found myself an unwilling conscript in culture wars (though with lower stakes, even though it never felt like it at the time). This occurred during debates over proposed public artworks which some declared too ambitious, too abstract, too playful or too political, or when routine (and overly frequent) media monitoring sent shock-jock talking points straight into nervous politicians’ inboxes. When there are public funds attached, and when artists are given a platform in public space or representing a broader community (as in the case of the Venice Biennale), it is a valid exercise of democratic freedom to debate and discuss the content of that work. This is normal political discourse.
What isn’t normal is to allow the Senate, the court of public opinion or the Murdoch (or any) media to determine arts funding and programming. The most experienced (and well-resourced) arts executives and board members in the country should be able to hold the line when it matters, to reinforce the integrity of independent selection processes and advocate for freedom of expression.
This isn’t Creative Australia’s first experience dealing with the costs of culture wars. The organisation was forced to apologise and required to pay a six-figure settlement to artist Casey Jenkins for reneging on funding Immaculate, a work that includes a live stream of self-insemination with donated sperm. That should have been a lesson learned about caving in to right-wing backlash. When it comes to the Biennale reversal, Creative Australia’s only justification so far is that it wanted to avoid a ‘prolonged and divisive debate about the 2026 selection outcome’ and that this debate in itself would be damaging to public support for Australia’s artistic community and broader community cohesion.
What isn’t normal is to allow the Senate, the court of public opinion or the Murdoch media to determine arts funding.
The leadership and board should know better than most that culture wars don’t end with one scalp, one show cancelled or one work withdrawn: capitulation to political pressure only results a more constrained and white-washed palette of acceptability. As Greens senator Sarah Hanson-Young noted in Senate Estimates on 25 February as Collette and Creative Australia chair Robert Morgan were called to account for the events leading up to the board’s decision, this rescission has opened the door to every other Creative Australia decision being raked over the coals in pursuit of headlines and political point scoring.
The organisation has also battled such threats before, and been rewarded by the results of supporting their artists: in late 2023, Sky News and the Australian tried the same playbook against Kamilaroi/Bigambul artist Archie Moore, the last artist who represented Australia at the Venice Biennale, accusing him of an ‘anti-Israel social media post spree’. Creative Australia stood firm in 2023, and in 2024 Moore won the Golden Lion, the highest global recognition in the art world.
In 2026, it’s likely that Australia’s pavilion will stand empty.
In his book On Tyranny, historian Timothy D Snyder describes the kind of ‘compliance in advance’ Creative Australia is demonstrating—not following a direct order but sensing the mood in the air and going above and beyond to side with the powers-that-be—as ‘anticipatory obedience’. Drawing from the history of fascism, Snyder writes:
Do not obey in advance.
Most of the power of authoritarianism is freely given. In times like these, individuals think ahead about what a more repressive government will want, and then offer themselves without being asked. A citizen who adapts in this way is teaching power what it can do.
At a moment when fascist, authoritarian and far-right movements are gaining real power around the world, these ideas seem less like historical reflection and more an awakening to a growing reality.
By failing to fight for the artist and independent process, Creative Australia is foreshadowing what we can anticipate from a Dutton government: the return of Brandis-like redirection of arts funding and purity-testing of future grant recipients or appointees. In its fumbling of this issue, Creative Australia has accelerated a narrowing of who gets to tell Australian stories and what kinds of stories are now acceptable to tell. The subtext has been heard loud and clear: once again, marginalised voices are to expect greater scrutiny. Prepare for your institution or your funding body not to support you in the face of culture war attacks. Perhaps best not to depict or engage with any complex narratives or ideas, lest a backcombing of your catalogue might find something that can be twisted into a media panic.
In response, artists have mobilised. There have been key resignations and significant letters of support. The Saturday Paper reports that lawyers have been engaged. Notably absent from the discourse have been most major cultural institutions, the kinds of organisations that have collected Sabsabi’s work and yet have remained silent. One exception is the Museum of Contemporary Art, which includes You in its collection. The museum rightly asserts that the ‘withdrawal has major ramifications for the arts in Australia and the reputation of Australia in the world’. (In contrast, the National Gallery of Australia is now embroiled in its own censorship scandal, with revelations it requested depictions of the Palestinian flag be covered in a work by SaVĀge K’lub.) At the time of writing, over 4000 artists, arts workers and educators have signed an open letter standing with the artistic team, calling for their reinstatement and questioning how this reversal from Creative Australia aligns with the organisation’s legislated mandate ‘to uphold and promote freedom of expression in the arts and to support Australian arts practice that reflects the diversity of Australia’.
Creative Australia is foreshadowing what we can anticipate from a Dutton government.
But who else stands with the arts? We have not yet seen other parts of our society—the broader union movements, peak bodies, civil society and community organisations—speak up and see this as their fight too. Despite the upheaval caused by its decision, the Guardian reports that Creative Australia staff have been told that the organisation will not be reversing its decision. It looks like Creative Australia will stay on course to ‘[review] the selection process for the Venice Biennale 2026’, doubling down on the idea that it was the selection process that was flawed rather than the politicised reversal.
This is a critical moment for building an awareness of why this issue matters beyond the arts sector, particularly when both sides of politics have demonstrated little to separate them on upholding free expression. It comes down to those of us who love the arts and who see the significance of this event as more than just a one-off. We urgently need to get better at explaining how our fight is part of a bigger battle against authoritarianism and censorship. If we don’t, then we stand to lose platforms, stages, funding and courage for those probing provocations and uncomfortable realisations that art can trigger—and yes, for the kinds of conversations about values and narratives that this debacle has generated over the past two weeks. (Ironically, Creative Australia’s decision seems to have sparked the kind of debate the board was looking to avoid.) These conditions erode a critical part of our democratic landscape, the part that connects political issues, debates and decisions to emotion and story, light and shade, the ridiculous and the sublime, playfulness and resistance. And this hurts us all beyond the walls of the gallery.
Gangulu artist Lilla Watson is credited for the phrase, ‘If you have come here to help me, you are wasting your time. But if you have come because your liberation is bound up with mine, then let us work together.’ This is the wisdom and coalition-building this response needs now. The compliant actions of Creative Australia are a warning: we need to acknowledge it and not only imagine but demand the world we want, one where artistic expression, diversity of representation and nuance of narratives are valued as an essential part of a democratic fair society and as the foundation of our freedoms.
