Why Do We Romanticise Art Heists While Condemning Cultural Destruction?

Why does cultural destruction cause outrage while cultural theft sometimes stirs a strange form of admiration for thieves? The destruction of the ancient and monumental Buddhas of Bamiyan by the Taliban 25 years ago was described in contemporary reporting as an act of “cultural genocide”. When ISIS extremists rampaged through the antiquities museum in Mosul more than a decade ago, destroying many precious Mesopotamian artefacts in their wake, the world was horrified by their actions. Reckless militants were considered to have waged war on history. The demolition of parts of Palmyra by ISIS during the Syrian civil war was viewed as an attempt by extremists to destroy the country’s identity through a form of cultural annihilation. The anger, sadness and outrage that each of these acts of vandalism elicited is evident even years later.

Recovery from such acts of destruction is never easy nor straightforward, as can be seen in a modern assessment of those places. In Mosul, the painstaking UAE-led restoration of historic landmarks after the last remnants of ISIS were purged from the city is widely regarded as having helped restore its heartbeat. Photographs released this week of Afghanistan’s Bamiyan Province to mark the passing years since 2001 continue to radiate the absence of the huge statues from the sandstone cliffs. In Palmyra, meanwhile, the process of restoration will take years and is necessarily complex.

But compare these three tales of cultural crime to recent acts of cultural theft, and a different rhetoric emerges. Earlier this week, thieves broke into the Musee Renoir in the south of France and stole four paintings, dropping two as they made their exit. Bryan Masson, mayor of France's Cagnes-sur-Mer commune, made a statement outside the Musee Renoir regarding the early-morning break-in. Meanwhile, the Louvre in Paris has been robbed by several criminals who smashed windows and stole jewellery, including an emerald-and-diamond necklace that Napoleon gave to his wife, Empress Marie Louise, as well as Empress Eugenie's crown and a tiara, necklace, and single earring from the sapphire set that belonged to Queen Marie-Amelie and Queen Hortense.

Most of the reporting of the crime has focused on the value of the works involved, treating it like an insurance claim. What it didn’t overly concern itself with was the devastating nature of the loss, the slim chances of recovery, or the violent nature of the crime, which involved hacksaws and knives to breach security. One of the big stories of last autumn was the theft from the Louvre in Paris, which was described in newspapers around the world as a “daring and audacious heist” and a “Hollywood-style robbery”. The speculation about what might happen next after the pieces were stolen was also rife, with chatter about whether the thieves would sell what they stole or melt it down.

Europol, the law enforcement agency, recently reported that violent robberies by art thieves are increasing, dismantling the romanticisation of them as non-violent opportunists. Like the break-in at the Musee Renoir, the operation at the Louvre involved violent threats as well as confrontations with staff and visitors. Last week, planners in London considered an application to open a tourist destination and licensed premises at the Hatton Garden safe deposit building that was the subject of a 2015 raid, where criminals have been venerated in popular culture while victims lost their life savings.

It is hard to understand why we collectively see theft and destruction through different lenses when the resulting devastating loss is the same. We must view museum heists as violent acts of cultural destruction rather than adorning them with glamourising narratives.