The other day, I woke up to find several sexually explicit photos of myself in my inbox. Some of them showed me doing things I'd already written about in the widely quoted account of my encounter with photographer Terry Richardson at age 19. Others showed me doing things of which I had – and have – no memory at all. My body language is stiff, but a close reading of my face reveals nothing, even to me. The lights are on, but no one's home.

I have two different haircuts.

"Please let me know if it is indeed you, and if so, whether you think it's two occasions and you forgot, or what," New York Magazine reporter Benjamin Wallace wrote in the email.

This was not entirely unexpected. A little while before that, I came across a photo of Richardson reaching out to grab my breast. It jogged a vague memory of "Uncle Terry" groping me without asking – something I was always terrified would happen when I was modeling for Guys With Cameras – but which I didn't precisely recall happening in the shoot I wrote about. It made me wonder what else I wasn't remembering.

It was not a very good feeling to have, least of all when I'd already spoken at length about my experience in the belief that I was telling the absolute truth. I worried what conclusions Wallace would draw for his readers. My conclusions would, I figured, be somewhat different: trauma – particularly sexual trauma – affects memory, often in ways that allow predators to traumatize their victims while simultaneously rendering them unreliable witnesses to their own lives.

On Monday morning, instead of pictures, I woke up to Wallace's cover story, "Is Terry Richardson an Artist or a Predator?" Is that supposed to be a trick question?

From Roman Polanski to Woody Allen and thousands of "nice guys" in between, it should be obvious by now that artists and predators aren't mutually exclusive. Sexual predators aren't drooling monsters that hide in caves: they are husbands, fathers, employees, friends and, yes, sometimes artists. Why is this so hard for some people to understand?

But figuring the headline might have been written by an editor looking to titillate, I read on.

In more than 7,000 words, the false dichotomy of the headline is never directly addressed – despite all the words the article spends illuminating Richardson's glamorous-but-messed-up childhood, his nepotistic career arc and what various people think of his "provocative" work. Call me crazy, but allegations of sexual harassment and abuse are a little more important than what type of sandwich Uncle Terry likes to eat in the morning.

It treats the central question of Richardson's many critics – Was meaningful consent given for the sex acts in these images? – in a cursory fashion, given that it's the theme this major magazine article promises to explore. It isn't as though the author lacked for material: Wallace and I spoke for over an hour, and the only quote he used from me was in regard to the aforementioned images.

Stories from other people were treated similarly: brief points about their accusations accompanied by parenthetical denials from Richardson's camp. Charlotte Waters's story of assault was mentioned, but accompanied by the "mitigating" mention that she referred to herself as a pervert in an introductory email – almost as though that was a green light for whatever. Sena Cech released a statement about how her story was mischaracterized by Wallace.

As someone morbidly interested in the psychology of criminals and sociopaths – as well as the banal ways abuse weaves itself into our lives from generation to generation – I'll admit that I was able to dissociate myself enough to find the New York Magazine story an enthralling read in much the same way that I devoured the book Devil in the White City or the killer Eliot Rodger's lengthy manifesto. It offers detailed, socially-understandable explanations for Richardson's behavior: his unconventional and even traumatic childhood; his lack of empathy; his seemingly limited understanding of how coercion works; and all the people who enabled him to continue to operate.

There's even some mention of the power structures that keep Richardson insulated from the consequences of his actions, including the fact that agents send models to him and they feel, in the model Sarah Ziff's words, "pressured to comply because my agent had told me to make a good impression". (Ziff, in the years since, co-founded the labor organization Model Alliance to address the systemic problems that make young models vulnerable to both Richardsons and an economically exploitative system.)

Wallace does a good job describing the – if I'm being generous – willful naïveté that Richardson exhibits about his own "work". But his pose is undermined by the apparently savvy way he chooses "collaborators" for his more explicit work. "Kate Moss wasn't asked to grab a hard dick," said one anonymous photo agent – the first real nod to false sense of choice with which Richardson apparently presented his no-name models.

But, even the moments of clarity about the exploitative nature of the system in which Richardson has operated are surrounded by quotes from his "yes men" and women – one of whom is his girlfriend, although that's not mentioned – sounding as defensive and delusional as you'd expect.

After reading more about Uncle Terry's fucked-up childhood, I have to wonder: is the more important question How did he get this way?, or rather How do we stop him? Or is the real question even more complex:What does this say about the fashion industry as a whole that so many people have let him and other, sneakier people get away with this for so long? Would we really be having this conversation if Uncle Terry were just another abusive uncle and/or a member of the economic underclass? Or, conversely, if he were the CEO of a corporation using his position to get blowjobs from employees?

"Art" has apparently been deemed a falsely separate realm in which neither basic labor laws nor ethics apply, so it's not surprising that an exploration of how this man makes art (and uses sex) so badly misses the point about how that art (and the commoditization of it) enables him to get away with something far less than enthusiastic consent. Yes, Terry Richardson has muddied the waters by entwining his sex life – and his sexual predation – with his work life. But it's supposed to be up to journalists to disentangle those threads and shine a light on them, not just give a thumbs-up and move on.