Brian Hinds: From Mentor to Monster

by Chris Peterson

Let’s stop pretending this is complicated. Brian Hinds isn’t a “troubled teacher” or a “fallen mentor.” He’s a predator who built a career on trust and then destroyed it. For more than a decade, he stood in front of teenagers at Louisville’s Youth Performing Arts School, talking about honesty and emotion and “finding your truth on stage.” Meanwhile, according to federal investigators, he was secretly trading and possessing images of sexually abused children. That’s not weakness. That’s evil.

The FBI says Hinds admitted it. He confessed to sending and receiving those images. It’s not rumor or speculation. It’s in black and white — the kind of admission that rips away any shred of “misunderstanding.” Thankfully, authorities have made clear that none of the victims are connected to the school where he taught. But that doesn’t make this any less vile. This isn’t about art. This isn’t about mental health. This is about a man who used his title as a teacher, his position as a mentor, and the language of theatre to hide behind something unspeakable.

He betrayed every single person who ever believed in him. Every student who looked up to him. Every parent who trusted him. Every colleague who defended him. Every teacher who now has to walk into a rehearsal room and prove, once again, that not all of us are monsters. His name will stain that program for years. Students will remember his voice, his lessons, and then the headlines — and they’ll wonder how those things could possibly coexist.

He’ll never teach again. He’ll never direct again. And he shouldn’t. His name will live in court filings, not playbills.

But the rest of us, we can’t afford to look away. Predators like Hinds thrive on access, not just opportunity. We’ve seen this time and time again in the theatre. They depend on people being too polite, too trusting, too willing to believe that “they’d never do that.” We have to stop giving them that luxury. Every rehearsal room, every classroom, every youth theatre should be a fortress of accountability — a space where transparency is the rule, not the exception. It’s not paranoia; it’s protection. The kind of protection every young artist deserves.

Theatre invites closeness. It builds intimacy. It demands emotional exposure. That’s what makes it beautiful — and that’s what makes it vulnerable. We have to guard that beauty fiercely. We have to stay vigilant, to notice the warning signs, to intervene when something feels off. Because predators don’t just appear — they groom, they charm, they embed. And when they’re finally exposed, the damage is already done.

So let’s be ever watchful. Let’s keep the lights bright and the doors open. Let’s teach our students that boundaries are not barriers to creativity — they’re what make it possible. We owe them that. We owe every student who’s ever trusted an adult with their dreams that kind of vigilance. The art deserves it. The kids deserve it. And the next Brian Hinds needs to know: he’ll never get away with it again.