The following article was created by ChatGPT5 in response to a request for a deep research report on art appropriation in the 20th and 21st centuries.
Art has long been a mirror held up to popular culture – and often, that mirror reflects famous faces and everyday people captured without their consent. From Pop Art’s bold celebrity portraits to candid street photography and now AI-generated imagery, artists have repeatedly blurred the lines between homage, appropriation, and innovation. Below, we explore key categories of art appropriation since 1900, ranked by their impact on the cultural landscape, and illustrated with notable examples.
Andy Warhol’s Marilyn (1967) exemplifies Pop Art’s appropriation of celebrity images. Warhol lifted a publicity photo of Marilyn Monroe – without permission – and transformed it via silkscreen into garishly colored, repeating portraits[1]. This series, created shortly after Monroe’s death in 1962, helped inaugurate a new era of art that borrowed familiar icons from mass media and reimagined them on canvas. Warhol did the same with other well-known figures of mid-century America – from Elvis Presley to Jackie Kennedy – effectively turning the imagery of public personalities into Pop Art products[2]. The act of appropriating “a celebrity’s already circulated image” (often without asking permission) was central to Warhol’s work[3]. His Marilyn prints in particular commented on how endless reproduction of a star’s face can commodify a person into an image or object[4]. Indeed, Warhol once quipped that he wanted to be “a machine,” reflecting how he mass-produced icons like Monroe and Campbell’s soup cans as art[1].
Warhol’s uninhibited image use did raise eyebrows and legal questions. He did not own the Monroe photograph or the Campbell’s Soup logo that he famously silkscreened. He simply appropriated them[1]. By today’s standards, one could argue his works were “transformative” fair use, but in the 1960s this was uncharted territory[5]. In fact, Warhol was sued multiple times by photographers for copying their images. For example, photographer Fred Ward settled with Warhol after the artist used Ward’s Life magazine photo of Jacqueline Kennedy in a painting[6]. Civil rights photographer Charles Moore likewise sued Warhol for appropriating a news photo of a 1960s racial protest (Birmingham Race Riot) into a Pop Art silkscreen[7]. These disputes were settled out of court[6]. Nonetheless, the precedent was set: famous faces were “fair game” as raw material for art, especially once Pop Art made images of Hollywood stars and politicians part of the artist’s palette.
Other artists soon followed Warhol’s lead. In the United Kingdom, Peter Blake’s 1967 Sgt. Pepper’s album cover collage featured Marilyn Monroe, Shirley Temple, and other celebrities mingled into a single artwork (permissions were reportedly sought for some, but the spirit was boldly appropriative). Decades later, street-art provocateur Banksy paid tongue-in-cheek tribute to Warhol’s Monroe by replacing her with Kate Moss. Banksy’s Kate Moss (2005) silkscreen mimics Warhol’s neon colors and layout, but swaps in the 21st-century supermodel’s face[8]. Like Warhol, Banksy did not ask Kate Moss or Warhol’s estate for consent – appropriation in this case doubled as flattery and satire. Such works highlight Pop Art’s lasting influence: by turning public figures into art without approval, artists comment on fame itself. As one Artsy critique noted, Warhol’s Marilyn series showed how a celebrity’s image can eclipse their identity – “Who is Marilyn Monroe if not the image of Marilyn Monroe?”[4]. Pop artists and their successors embraced that concept, using famous likenesses as a shared visual language to connect with audiences while also questioning our culture’s obsession with celebrity images.
By the 1970s and ’80s, “appropriation art” became an explicit genre, with artists openly lifting photographs or artworks to recombine and recontextualize them. These artists often tested the boundaries of copyright and fair use – sometimes sparking legal battles in the process. Richard Prince, for example, built a career on re-photographing images from advertisements and popular media. His most famous series, Untitled (Cowboy), consisted of photos he took of Marlboro cigarette ads – specifically the iconic “Marlboro Man” cowboy scenes[9]. Prince would crop or enlarge the ad imagery and present it as his own art. By removing the cigarette logos and isolating the rugged cowboy, he “revealed [the images] as hallucinatory fictions of society’s desires,” wrote the Metropolitan Museum of Art[10][11]. In effect, Prince’s work was a copy of a copy of a myth – a direct appropriation of a corporate marketing image to expose how deeply such images permeate our culture[12]. This approach was hailed as groundbreaking art criticism, but it also led to lawsuits. (In one case, photographer Patrick Cariou sued Prince for using Cariou’s Rastafarian portraits in a series of collages; after a winding legal fight, a court in 2013 largely sided with Prince under fair use[13].)
Another well-known appropriation artist, Jeff Koons, repeatedly tested image rights in the ’80s and ’90s by transforming found photographs into sculptures and paintings. Koons once made a sculpture of a couple holding puppies – directly inspired by a postcard photograph – without permission. He argued it was a parody, but in Rogers v. Koons (1992) the court disagreed and Koons lost[14]. It became a “noteworthy case” underscoring that artists aren’t immune from copyright when borrowing imagery[14]. Koons later won a different case by convincing judges that his use of a fashion photo in a painting was sufficiently transformative[15].
These courtroom dramas became almost a rite of passage for appropriation art. Shepard Fairey’s “Hope” poster of Barack Obama is a prime example from the 2000s. Fairey, a street artist, created the stylized poster in 2008 by appropriating an Associated Press news photograph of then-candidate Obama[16]. The poster – with its bold red-beige-blue design and the caption “HOPE” – became an instant pop-culture icon and spread virally during the campaign. However, its origins sparked debate: Fairey hadn’t obtained a license for the photo. In fact, he preemptively sued the AP in 2009, asking the court to declare his work fair use[16]. The AP countersued, and a very public legal battle ensued. Fairey argued he had dramatically transformed the source photo into a “stunning, abstracted and idealized” graphic with a different message[17]. The AP argued that he simply traced their photographer’s shot without credit or compensation[18]. Ultimately the case settled out of court, with both sides agreeing to share rights to reproduce the image[19]. Fairey also paid a fine after it emerged he had falsified some evidence about which photo he used[20]. Despite the legal scuffle, the Obama Hope poster now hangs in the Smithsonian as a celebrated piece of political art[21] – proving that unauthorized appropriation can create an image so powerful, it becomes part of history.
These episodes highlight a tension at the heart of appropriation art: artists feel that reusing imagery is essential for creativity, yet it bumps against other creators’ rights. Courts and critics have wrestled with where to draw the line. Yet many influential works of modern art would not exist without this practice of borrowing. Photomontage pioneer John Heartfield, in a much earlier era (1920s–30s), cut and pasted pictures of living politicians into searing anti-Nazi collages. He “appropriated and reused photographs” of Adolf Hitler and other officials from news sources to ridicule and expose them[22] – certainly without their consent. Heartfield’s montages, published as magazine illustrations and posters, “chose recognizable photographs of politicians or events…and then took apart and rearranged the images to change their meaning,” delivering a powerful political message[23]. His famous 1932 piece “Adolf, the Superman” showed Hitler with an X-ray chest full of gold coins, implying corrupt financing[24].
Such art was unquestionably appropriation used for satire and commentary. It underscores that from Heartfield to Warhol to Prince, appropriating images of public figures (be they dictators, movie stars, or cowboys) has been a potent artistic strategy. Each time, it raises questions: Does the new artwork transform the meaning of the original? Is it critique, homage, or theft? The answers often depend on whom you ask. But culturally, these works have expanded our notions of art and image ownership. They also set the stage for today’s debates about rights of publicity – the idea that famous people can control commercial use of their likeness. In practice, artists in the U.S. have usually been allowed to depict celebrities in art under First Amendment free expression[25]. For instance, a painter’s unlicensed portrait of Tiger Woods was deemed protected art, not a violation of Woods’ rights, in a 2003 case. Still, the balance is continually tested as new technology emerges.
If Pop artists appropriate the famous, street photographers appropriate the anonymous. Street photography is the art of capturing everyday people in public spaces, typically without asking or alerting them. In Western countries, this practice has long been accepted legally and culturally – operating on the principle that there’s “no expectation of privacy on public streets”[26]. The result has been some of the most beloved images in photographic history, all created by essentially appropriating a moment of a stranger’s life.
For example, the iconic “Lunch Atop a Skyscraper” (1932) – depicting eleven construction workers eating lunch on a steel beam high above New York City – was a news photo taken without the workers truly realizing its future fame. Published in a newspaper and later distributed widely, it became a poster seen by millions. Those men dangling their boots over Manhattan received no royalties or permission requests; the image entered the cultural zeitgeist on the strength of its captivating content[27][28].
Similarly, street scenes like Henri Cartier-Bresson’s candid photographs of Paris or Vivian Maier’s mid-century snapshots of Chicago capture unguarded expressions of ordinary people. These photographers essentially “document human life wherever, whenever and however we find it,” as one street photography essay put it[29]. The artistry lies in seizing a fleeting moment – a passerby’s glance, a couple’s kiss, a protester’s stance – and framing it beautifully. Importantly, none of the subjects in these images posed or signed a release; they often had no idea they’d become part of an artwork.
In the eyes of the law, a photographer owns the image, and the subjects – having been in a public setting – have little claim[26][30]. In fact, U.S. courts have explicitly protected photographers’ rights to exhibit and sell such images as art. A notable example: In the early 2000s, an Orthodox Jewish man in New York sued photographer Philip-Lorca diCorcia after discovering his own bearded face in diCorcia’s gallery series “Heads” (candid street portraits taken with a hidden flash). The man felt his privacy and religious beliefs were violated by having his image sold in a gallery without consent. But the court dismissed the case, ruling that because the photo was art, it was protected expression[31][32]. In short, being captured in public by a photographer falls under life’s fine print. As long as the image is presented as art or editorial content (e.g. in journalism), no permission is required and no payment is owed to the subject[26][30].
This facet of appropriation is fascinating because it feels so everyday. Unlike Warhol’s painting of Monroe, a street photographer isn’t using a celebrity or a pre-published image – but they are taking someone’s likeness and making it their own art. The ethics can be debated: some argue it’s exploitative or voyeuristic to exhibit photos of unsuspecting people. Others counter that street photography, by its very candid nature, reveals truths about society that posed or permission-granted images would not. Many countries embrace it as an art form that adds to historical and cultural record. Think of Garry Winogrand’s bustling New York street scenes or Diane Arbus’s portraits of people on the margins – these works shine precisely because the subjects weren’t performing. There’s an authenticity in candid moments that artists and viewers cherish
The general rule (in Western law) is that public space is public domain. This has enabled generations of photographers to appropriate the look of strangers on city streets and turn it into art. Street photography, in a sense, is appropriation of reality – a form of artistic people-watching. It treats the flow of urban life as an unscripted theater where anyone might become the subject of an artwork. And as technology has advanced from Leica cameras to camera phones, this practice has only proliferated. Today, an image snapped on a sidewalk can become a viral Instagram post or a prize-winning photojournalism piece – still without the subject’s consent. The understanding is that life in public is fair game, an unwritten social contract that we are all potentially “extras” in each other’s images.
As we move further into the 21st century, art appropriation is taking on new forms through artificial intelligence. Generative AI models can now create astonishingly realistic images of people who never sat for a portrait – including images of real public figures in imaginary scenarios. This raises the stakes of everything discussed above. Historically, an artist needed some source material (a photograph, a live subject, a printed image) to appropriate a likeness. Now, algorithms can conjure a hyper-realistic likeness out of thin air, drawing from vast datasets. Want to see a Hollywood star depicted as a Renaissance oil painting, or a politician placed in a fantasy scene? Type a prompt, and AI can produce a convincing image in seconds.
The cultural implications are enormous: AI makes appropriation of likeness not only easier, but practically limitless. Already, we’ve seen viral examples – like the fake images of President Trump being “arrested” (generated by an AI artist and widely shared as a what-if scenario), or the pope in a stylish designer coat (another AI creation that fooled many online viewers). These didn’t involve stealing a specific copyrighted photo, but they did appropriate the persona and appearance of real individuals without consent. In essence, the AI is trained on countless real images (without any one person’s permission) and then synthesizes a new image that looks plausibly real. It’s a frontier where the lines between art, satire, and misinformation can blur.
From an art perspective, AI-generated imagery is both exciting and troubling. On one hand, it opens up creative possibilities – any style, any face, any setting can be imagined and rendered. On the other, it challenges our legal and ethical frameworks. The right of publicity – which gives individuals (especially celebrities) legal control over commercial uses of their name and likeness – is being tested by AI art as well as deepfakes. In general, using a real person’s face in, say, a TV commercial without permission is illegal, but what about using AI to create a new image of that person and selling it as art or a collectible? It’s a gray area. Public figures and artists are understandably anxious: if anyone can generate an image of them doing anything, it could distort their image and deprive them of potential revenue from legitimate endorsements. As a result, we’re seeing calls for stronger protections and digital watermarks on AI images.
For the art world, AI imagery poses a provocative question: Is AI appropriation the ultimate Pop Art? Warhol appropriated Marilyn from a publicity still; tomorrow’s artist might appropriate Marilyn entirely via AI, mixing her likeness with, say, another style or context, without ever touching a real photo. The cultural landscape could dramatically shift if such works become commonplace. On one hand, it democratizes creation – anyone can make art of famous figures now, not just those with skill to paint or the savvy to find source photos. On the other hand, it might oversaturate and cheapen the mystique that appropriation art once had. If every fan with a laptop can create their own “Warhol-style Marilyn” or place themselves next to a virtual celebrity, the aura of originality and transgression in appropriation might fade. We may also see more pushback from celebrities protecting their likeness. Already, actors are negotiating contracts to control AI versions of their faces and voices in films and games. In the age of AI, the conversation around consent and creativity is heating up: artists want freedom to innovate, but public figures are grappling with how to keep control of our identities.
In summary, the trajectory from Pop Art to AI art is a story of ever-expanding ability to replicate and reimagine human likeness. Artistic appropriation of well-known people has evolved from literal collage (think Heartfield cutting up newspaper portraits of Hitler) to silkscreened icons (Warhol’s Marilyn), to photographic remix (Prince’s cowboys, Fairey’s Obama), to the candid camera (street shots of strangers), and now to the pixel-perfect AI replica. Each step has brought new creativity and new controversies. Yet, it all revolves around the same core idea: using someone else’s image to say something of your own.
Love it or hate it, this impulse has produced some of the most memorable art of the last century. And with AI, it is poised to challenge our definitions of originality and reality even further. As viewers (or collectors), we must navigate this landscape with awareness. Appropriation art has always held a mirror to society – sometimes reflecting what we idolize, sometimes what we’d rather ignore. In doing so, it forces us to ask: Who owns an image? The person in it, the person who made it, or the public that beholds it? The answer continues to evolve, frame by frame, in galleries and street corners and digital screens around the world.
