Hugo Crosthwaite’s Fauci Portrait Controversy

A stop-motion portrait of Dr. Anthony Fauci by artist Hugo Crosthwaite set off a storm that reached all the way to the White House. What was intended as a meditation on science, leadership, and resilience during moments of public health crisis instead became a flashpoint in the political debate over art, memory, and who controls the narrative in America.

Hugo Crosthwaite is no stranger to controversy. Born in Tijuana and raised between Mexico and San Diego, his work reflects the complexities of living on the border. He has long embraced themes of migration, identity, and resilience, often weaving together imagery that speaks to both sides of the border simultaneously. His rise to prominence accelerated after winning the Smithsonian’s Outwin Boochever Portrait Competition, a recognition that opened doors for national commissions and museum exhibitions. His career has consistently blended technical mastery with sharp cultural critique.

The Fauci project stood apart not only because of its subject but also because of its medium. Rather than delivering a static portrait, Crosthwaite chose stop-motion animation, a labor-intensive process that allowed him to layer history into Fauci’s image. Across frames, the portrait invokes the long trajectory of Fauci’s career, from his work during the HIV/AIDS epidemic to his central role in navigating COVID-19. The decision to use animation was deliberate: it created a visual narrative that could shift and transform, mirroring the uncertainties and challenges that define public health leadership.

It was not long after the portrait was unveiled that the Trump administration dismissed it as “divisive.” Fauci, who became a symbol of both trust in science and political controversy during the pandemic, was already a contested figure. For Crosthwaite, the White House’s condemnation was less an insult and more a validation. He has described being labeled divisive as a kind of badge of honor, proof that his art was doing what it was supposed to do—provoke thought, raise questions, and challenge authority.

The portrait also connects to a longer history of activist imagery in American art. Crosthwaite incorporated echoes of ACT UP protests and other visual symbols tied to public dissent, embedding them into the shifting narrative of Fauci’s image. In doing so, he raised broader questions about memory: who gets remembered, how history is framed, and what stories are deemed acceptable for public recognition. The label of “divisive” speaks not just to one artwork but to the ongoing struggle over who defines the cultural record.

For the Smithsonian, the commission underscored the delicate balance of national portraiture. The museum has long been tasked with honoring figures who shaped American life, yet that responsibility is never free of politics. By including Fauci, the Smithsonian acknowledged not only his role as a public servant but also the debates that accompany figures at the center of national crises. The Crosthwaite portrait became more than an artwork; it was a mirror reflecting cultural divides and the evolving definition of what it means to serve the nation.

In the end, Crosthwaite’s animated Fauci is not just a portrait of a man but of an era—an era marked by pandemics, protests, and polarized politics. The White House may have sought to diminish it, but the controversy only amplified its significance. For viewers, the work invites reflection on how art and memory intertwine, and how even a portrait can ignite battles over history itself.

By sparking debate at the highest levels of government, the Fauci stop-motion portrait stands as proof of art’s enduring power to challenge, unsettle, and define cultural conversations. Those who encounter it at the Smithsonian are reminded that national portraiture is not merely about reverence—it is also about reckoning with the complexities of public life.