Street Art of Resistance [1st ed. 2017] 9783319633299, 3319633295

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Palgrave Studies in Creativity and Culture

Street Art of Resistance EDITED BY Sarah H. Awad & Brady Wagoner

Palgrave Studies in Creativity and Culture

Series editors Vlad Petre Glăveanu Department of Psychology Webster University Geneva, Switzerland Brady Wagoner Department of Communication and Psychology Aalborg University Aalborg, Denmark

Both creativity and culture are areas that have experienced a rapid growth in interest in recent years. Moreover, there is a growing interest today in understanding creativity as a socio-cultural phenomenon and culture as a transformative, dynamic process. Creativity has traditionally been considered an exceptional quality that only a few people (truly) possess, a cognitive or personality trait ‘residing’ inside the mind of the creative individual. Conversely, culture has often been seen as ‘outside’ the person and described as a set of ‘things’ such as norms, beliefs, values, objects, and so on. The current literature shows a trend towards a different understanding, which recognises the psycho-socio-cultural nature of creative expression and the creative quality of appropriating and participating in culture. Our new, interdisciplinary series Palgrave Studies in Creativity and Culture intends to advance our knowledge of both creativity and cultural studies from the forefront of theory and research within the emerging cultural psychology of creativity, and the intersection between psychology, anthropology, sociology, education, business, and cultural studies. Palgrave Studies in Creativity and Culture is accepting proposals for monographs, Palgrave Pivots and edited collections that bring together creativity and culture. The series has a broader focus than simply the cultural approach to creativity, and is unified by a basic set of premises about creativity and cultural phenomena. More information about this series at http://www.palgrave.com/gp/series/14640

Sarah H. Awad  •  Brady Wagoner Editors

Street Art of Resistance

Editors Sarah H. Awad Department of Communication and Psychology Aalborg University Aalborg, Denmark

Brady Wagoner Department of Communication and Psychology Aalborg University Aalborg, Denmark

Palgrave Studies in Creativity and Culture ISBN 978-3-319-63329-9    ISBN 978-3-319-63330-5 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-63330-5 Library of Congress Control Number: 2017964491 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s) 2017 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, express or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. Cover illustration: Artwork by .frA* / www.instagram.com/essegeefra / #essegeefra Printed on acid-free paper This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by Springer Nature The registered company is Springer International Publishing AG The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

Contents

I ntroducing the Street Art of Resistance   1 Sarah H. Awad and Brady Wagoner

Part I  Theories of Aesthetics, Resistance and Social Change   17  rt and Social Change: The Role of Creativity and Wonder  19 A Vlad Petre Glăveanu  ubjectivity, Aesthetics, and the Nexus of Injustice: S From Traditional to Street Art  39 Thomas Teo  esisting Forms: Prolegomena to an Aesthetics of Resistance  63 R Robert E. Innis

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Part II  Image Circulation and Politics

  85

I ndigenous Images of Democracy on City Streets: Native Representations in Contemporary Chilean Graffiti and Muralism  87 Guisela Latorre  he Resistance Passed Through Here: Arabic Graffiti T of Resistance, Before and After the Arab Uprisings 113 Rana Jarbou  he Arabic Language as Creative Resistance 155 T Basma Hamdy

Part III  Urban Space: The City as an Extension of Self

 177

 peaking Walls: Contentious Memories in Belfast’s Murals 179 S Daniela Vicherat Mattar I nventive ReXistence: Notes on Brazil Graffiti and City Tension 201 Andrea Vieira Zanella  mbodied Walls and Extended Skins: Exploring Mental E Health Through Tataus and Graffiti 223 Jamie Mcphie I ndigenous Graffiti and Street Art as Resistance 251 Matthew Ryan Smith

 Contents    

Part IV  Artists and Social Movements

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 275

 epresentations of Resistance: Ironic Iconography in  R a Southern Mexican Social Movement 277 Jayne Howell  he Democratic Potential of Artistic Expression in  T Public Space: Street Art and Graffiti as Rebellious Acts 301 Cecilia Schøler Nielsen The Aesthetics of Social Movements in Spain 325 Óscar García Agustín  heherazade Says No: Artful Resistance in Contemporary S Egyptian Political Cartoon 349 Mohamed M. Helmy and Sabine Frerichs I ndex 377

List of Figures

Chapter 1 Fig. 1 Mural in Tahrir Square after the 2011 Egyptian revolution. Graffiti artist: Omar Fathy (Picasso). Photo credit: Ranya Habib Chapter 3 Picture 1 Palestinian Roots, Ahmad Al Abid, York University, Toronto, Photo by Thomas Teo Picture 2 Filled in Shibboleth in Tate Modern, London, Photo by Thomas Teo Picture 3 Capitalismo = Terrorismo, Valparaiso, Chile, Photo by Thomas Teo Picture 4 Endless Worship, Wall painting in London 2016, Photo, Courtesy Klaus Dermutz Picture 5 Kill All Artists, Wall painting in Venice 2016, Photo, Courtesy Klaus Dermutz Chapter 5 Fig. 1 Aislap, Meli Wuayra (2010), graffiti mural, Museo a Cielo Abierto San Miguel, Santiago Fig. 2 Gigi (Marjorie Peñailillo), Untitled (2011), graffiti mural, Valparaiso, Chile Fig. 3 Gigi (Marjorie Peñailillo), Luisa Playera (2013), graffiti mural, El Tabo, Valparaiso, Chile

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47 50 53 54 56

88 98 99 ix

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Fig. 4 Fig. 5

List of Figures

Gigi (Marjorie Peñailillo), Luisa del Bosque (2012), graffiti mural, Villa Alemana, Chile Inti, untitled graffiti mural (“Ekeko”) (2012), Bellas Artes, Santiago

100 103

Chapter 6 Fig. 1 Hanthalah in Amman, Beirut, Cairo, Riyadh, Bahrain, and refugee camps in Lebanon 119 Fig. 2 (a) Leila Khaled is a member of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine, who became notorious as an airline hijacker in 1969. Her family fled during the 1948 Palestinian exodus. Photo by William Parry; (b) Al Mubadara (Palestinian National Initiative) is a Palestinian political party, itself a resistance to both Fatah and Hamas, led by Mustafa Barghouti. Photo by Ameer Al Qaimari 123 Fig. 3 Calligraphy in Bahrain’s villages (2007–2010) 127 Fig. 4 Pro- and anti-Assad graffiti war. Visible stencil is a play on Hizballah’s logo with the phrase, “and the people will prevail.” Hamra-Beirut, Lebanon. 2013 133 Fig. 5 (L-R): “It doesn’t matter what she’s wearing, harassment is a crime,” “women are a red line,” Bahia Shehab’s “No” stencils, “you can’t break me” with face of Samira Ibrahim, “I am free” in a woman’s voice, jinsiyati campaign for women’s right to pass nationality on to children, “no matter how much it does or doesn’t show, my body is free,” “fight rape,” “no to harassment,” “I am demonstrating on July 8th,” “against the regime,” “she will not be forgotten, sitt el banat” (reference to the blue bra incident), “the uprising of women in the Arab world” logo, juxtaposition of media attention towards Aliaa Elmahdy and Samira Ibrahim, Alaa Awad’s pharaonic women mural, stencil of a woman driving, “salute to the woman fighter,” “the street is also ours,” “I support the uprising of women in the Arab world so that no child is raped in the name of marriage,” “don’t silence me,” clenched fist in female symbol, “Nefertiti” by Zeft, “I don’t have a car, I have a camel, #women2drive,” group sexual harassment,” “I am my own guardian.”148 Chapter 7 Fig. 1 ‘Perception’, Photo Courtesy of eLSeed, 2016 Fig. 2 ‘Sheikh Emad Effat’ by Ammar Abo Bakr, Mohamed Mahmoud Street, Cairo, 2012. Photo, Hassan Emad Hassan

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  List of Figures    

Fig. 3

A still from ‘The Homeland Hack’, photo courtesy of Arabian Street Artists, 2015

Chapter 8 Photo 1 Shankill road, Belfast, DVM 2009 Photo 2 Republican mural on Beechmount Avenue, Belfast 2009, DVM Photo 3 Loyalist mural on Sandy Row, Belfast 2009, DVM Photo 4 Mural of the West Belfast Taxi Association taxi, supported by former IRA members, along the Falls Road, Belfast, DVM, 2009 Photo 5 Mural off Shankill Road, Belfast, DVM 2009

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170 184 186 188 190 194

Chapter 9 Photo 1 Pixação in Florianópolis, Santa Catarina, Brazil 206 Fig. 1 Mosaic of graffiti produced by Brazilian artists in different cities in the country. The mosaics in Figs. 1 and 2 were produced by Laura Kemp de Mattos ([email protected]) and the rights of use of the images granted to the author 213 Fig. 2 Mosaic of graffiti produced by Brazilian artists in different cities 214 Chapter 10 Annotated Polaroid 1: Tataus228 Annotated Polaroid 2: Rape City 231 Annotated Polaroid 3: The Bear House 233 Annotated Polaroid 4: Love 237 Chapter 11 Fig. 1 Jessica Sabogal, This Type Love. Mural (2015). Montreal, Canada. Image courtesy of Jessica Sabogal Fig. 2 Marianne Nicolson, Cliff Painting. Petroglyph (1998). Kingcome Inlet, British Columbia, Canada. Image courtesy of Marianne Nicolson Fig. 3 Nicholas Galanin. Indian Petroglyph (2012). Image courtesy of Nicholas Galanin Fig. 4 Corey Bulpitt. Salmonhead/LIFE (2015). Washington State, United States. Image courtesy of Corey Bulpitt Fig. 5 Warren Schlote. THIS IS INDIAN LAND. Ketegaunseebee (Garden River) near Baawaating (Sault Ste. Marie), Ontario, Canada. Image courtesy of Warren Schlote

253 258 259 265 268

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List of Figures

Chapter 12 Fig. 1 Fig. 2 Fig. 3 Fig. 4

“URO as Represor” (Photo by author) “URO as Tehuana” (Photo by author) Helicopter with image of Cué (Photo by author) Oaxaca: The land where god and the resistance never die (Photo by author)

284 287 291

Chapter 13 Photo 1 Photo 2 Photo 3 Photo 4 Photo 5

by Cecilia, Copenhagen 2010 by Jonny Hefty, Aalborg 2015 by Jonny Hefty, Aalborg 2015 by Cecilia, Copenhagen 2008 by Cecilia, Odense 2015

305 305 306 318 320

Chapter 14 Fig. 1 Fig. 2 Fig. 3 Fig. 4 Fig. 5

María González Amarillo Contrafoto21 @redesycalles @redesycalles Alberto Escudero, No Somos Delito

327 335 338 340 342

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Chapter 15 Cartoon 1 From right (the dog) to left (the girl): “Haa haay…Until the last breath hahahaay…Until the last beat of my heart, ha ha ha, oh my heart…the parliament is master of its decision hohoho…Gamal is the driver of modernization, haha, my heart will stop from laughter…” 350 Cartoon 2 Two judges, wearing the Green Sashes of Judiciary Honor, are head-butting a football to each other. On the air-borne football is written ‘The Constitution’. The caption reads ‘Professionals playing with the Constitution of Egypt’ 357 Cartoon 3 Text at top: ‘Withdrawal of civilian factions from constitution-forming committee’. Bubble, man saying: “That way, what’s left is its bottom half only!” 359 Cartoon 4 The red book, ‘Constitution of 2014’, is saying: “It’s like, doctor, I have a problem…I feel I’m not taken seriously… I feel useless…and the comers and goers keep slapping me around…”360 Cartoon 5 On the sword: ‘Military Courts’. Writing on paper: ‘No…No’. Sheherazade is saying: “I don’t know why I feel Shahryar is not dead” 364

Introducing the Street Art of Resistance Sarah H. Awad and Brady Wagoner

The world we live in today is defined more by borders and walls than by common spaces. Mental and physical barriers separate us from them. They divide those in power from the masses, separating people by nationality, ideology, and identity, and marginalizing all those who do not conform to the societal norm. But these barriers, no matter how concrete, are permeable, open to interpretation, negotiation, and destruction. This book is about the multiple ways people use imagination to reconfigure those barriers and create meaningful spaces. The book covers a wide spectrum of sociocultural contexts in which the power dynamics and the motives for doing resistance art vary widely. Yet the case studies presented share a common intention of proclaiming spaces and influencing public discourses through street art, graffiti, and images. Throughout the book we will look at walls that have become an arena for contentious dialogues through which social and political resistance is manifest. S.H. Awad (*) • B. Wagoner Department of Communication and Psychology, Aalborg University, Aalborg, Denmark

© The Author(s) 2017 S.H. Awad, B. Wagoner (eds.), Street Art of Resistance, Palgrave Studies in Creativity and Culture, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-63330-5_1

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We will start the introduction of the book with a case example of a revolution street art image from Egypt, connecting it to the different key aspects of street art that will be discussed in the book’s chapters. We will then discuss the social life of images in urban space exploring their symbolic, dialogical, contextual, and transformative character. Finally, we will look at the potential of those images as art tools for resistance.

 evolutionary Graffiti in Egypt: R A Case Example Following 18 days of intensive nationwide protests with an epicenter in Cairo’s Tahrir Square, then-president Hosni Mubarak resigned on 11 February 2011 after having been in power for 30 years. One of the most visible signs of the momentous change was a flourishing of street art in the country’s major cities, including songs, monuments, posters, performances, and most of all graffiti. Simple paintings of flags, fists, and other symbols of solidarity and empowerment became ubiquitous in the streets, whereas sophisticated murals expressing revolution’s values, memory, and project for the future were created in key sights, such as Tahrir (which appropriately means “Liberation” in Arabic). The revolution provided the right conditions for the emergence of major artistic talents energized by the hope for a new Egypt. Their aesthetic success brought the cause international recognition through the countless newspaper articles devoted to their art. Street art, in general, and murals, in particular, became a major tool for the Egyptian revolutionaries. They have continued to use it until this day to fight for the unrealized ideals of “bread, freedom and social justice”. Figure 1 is an exemplary mural, painted by graffiti artist Omar Fathy (graffiti signature: Picasso) in September 2012 at which time the Muslim Brotherhood had taken power through the election of Mohamed Morsi. The Brotherhood was perceived by many to care little about promoting the revolutionary agenda; they had probably also made a backroom deal with the military during the transitional period before the presidential

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Fig. 1  Mural in Tahrir Square after the 2011 Egyptian revolution. Graffiti artist: Omar Fathy (Picasso). Photo credit: Ranya Habib

election. The mural is significant in a number of ways, each of which points to key aspects of street art that will be addressed in the present book. First, it is painted on the corner of Tahrir Square and Mohamed Mahmoud Street, which became the most widely known site for revolutionary graffiti and was the location of many street battles with the military and police. Occupying central places in the city ensures high visibility and infuses the space with a revolutionary identity, showing it is not under full state control. Throughout this book we will see examples of strategic placement of images to advance a particular political project, as well as how places and images mutually interrelate (see Latorre, this volume; Mattar, this volume; Smith, this volume; Agustín, this volume). Second, the mural powerfully positions the viewer, in this case quite literally. We stand together with the artist and the Egyptian flag from inside Tahrir, facing the violent police and military, who, in turn, shield

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the faces of the political leaders behind them. The paintbrush is ­juxtaposed to the primitive club of the military, which is elaborated in the red text: A regime fearing a paint brush and a pen An unjust system that attacks the victim If you were righteous, you wouldn’t have feared what I draw All you do is fight walls, show off your power on paintings But inside you, you are a coward You never rebuild what has been destroyed

In the case studies of this book the positioning takes other forms, such as between conflicting social groups (e.g., Irish Catholics and Protestants— see Mattar, this volume), indigenous groups’ struggle with post-­colonialism (see Latorre, this volume; Smith, this volume), between artists and the governing system (see Helmy & Frerichs, this volume; Nielsen, this volume; Howell, this volume; Jarbou, this volume) or positioning oneself within city space affirming presence (Zanella, this volume; Mcphie, this volume). Third, the image is filled with local and international symbols. The military and police are represented as violent in nature through blood, skull and crossbones, fanged teeth, and a club. ACAB is an international symbol standing for “All Copes Are Bastards”. The artist clothed in the colours of the Egyptian flag, represented with the tools of a more traditional painter. The composite head builds equivalences between past and present authorities, on the right Mubarak and on the left Tantawi, who was the leader of the Supreme Council of the Armed Forces (SCAF). Behind them is Mohammad Badie, the Muslim Brotherhood leader, who was thought to be running the show from behind the scenes. The text below reads “the commander never dies,” which rhymes a local proverb that offspring are similar to their parents, so that the parents, in a way, never die. All these symbols operate through feelings that they produce in the viewer, rather than through their “face” value. In the studies of this book we see symbolism borrowed from diverse cultural streams, which are threaded together in street art that aims to challenge local structures of power. This is also illustrated in the book in the use of language and its iconic meaning (see Hamdy, this volume), as well as indigenous motifs (see Latorre, this volume; Smith, this volume).

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Finally, it is the nature of street art to be transitory. The above mural was, in fact, the third version painted on the same spot, after earlier ones had been painted over. The first version had just the composite face of Mubarak and Tantawi with the phrase below it. The second version was painted during the presidential elections and included, behind the composite face, the faces of Amr Moussa and Ahmed Shafik, who were earlier members of Mubarak’s political party. After the mural in Fig. 1, a fourth version was painted that included the face of ousted president Mohamed Morsi and the silhouette of a face with a beret behind him, suggesting the coming of military rule. The next day, the artist painted a civilian face to replace the beret, feeling that it might stifle the collective optimism following Morsi’s downfall (Hamdy & Karl, 2014). Thus, this mural took on multiple forms through time, representing the changing power dynamics and popular feelings in Egypt. In addition to being repainted, pictures of the mural were also distributed online and in the publications of numerous books about revolutionary graffiti in Egypt. The best of these books, Walls of Freedom (Hamdy & Karl, 2014) is now outlawed there. This mural is one example from the case study of revolutionary graffiti in Egypt during and after 2011. The name of this book is borrowed from a chapter about this case study written by the editors in collaboration with one of the book contributors (Awad, Wagoner, & Glaveneau, 2017). The initial questions of inquiry had to do with what interaction occurs once those graffiti images are in city space. Who are the different social actors involved and the visual dialogue and tension that occurs through the walls between those actors, and how it could be generative of social change. As the situation in Egypt progressed, it was of more interest what happened to those initial images of street art, how they were erased by government, reproduced, transformed onto online media, and how they were contested by other counter images from the government. This shifted the interest into the transformations that happen to images once they enter urban space, how they can be studied from socio-cultural psychology, and what stories they tell us about change in a society as we follow the social life of those images.

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Social Life of Images The features of the mural in Fig. 1 suggest a much more complex notion of images than is typical. The traditional view of images going back to Aristotle is that we replace direct perception with mental images, which we use in thinking. Sensory experience is thus the basis of all knowledge. Consciousness becomes an activity of pictorial production, reproduction, and representation like something projected on a surface (Mitchell, 1984). The world is split between physical and mental space, object and subject. The world and mind are symmetrical, except that the later depends on the former. While this notion of images feels intuitively correct it comes with a number of difficulties. First, images become sites of consciousness in their own right; we think through physical images just as much as mental (Wittgenstein, 1958). Second, they cannot be seen without a “trick of consciousness,” being “there” and “not there” at the same time (Mitchell, 1984). Third, images as in Fig. 1 are not perceived simply visually but through multiple senses. We put our body into the image; stand beside the artist and confront the bloody violence of the authorities. This presents a more dynamic view of images than the traditional notion would have it. Fourth, people perceive images different as a result of their personal and social-cultural background. The interpretation of images is thus part of a social process. In short, images are not passively perceived impressions of the world; rather, they construct a representation of the world, ourselves, and our social relationships, which can motivate collective action as revolutionary murals in Egypt did. In what follows we will outline key features of images as approached through social-cultural psychology—namely, their symbolic, dialogical, contextual, and transformative character.

The Symbolic Nature of Images Images are interpreted here from a psychological understanding of humans as beings that create and use symbols to act on the world, others, and themselves (Vygotsky & Luria, 1994). These symbols are social in origin, being derived from ones social group, but are also creatively

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t­ ransformed by individuals. Through symbols human beings are in a constant process of mutually changing their environment and, in turn, being changed by it (Valsiner, 2014). We build monuments and create archives so as not to forget. Mitchell’s (1984) approach to graphic images is further elaborated in this account to explore their dynamics in urban space, including how they function through graffiti, street art, posters, and monuments. They do not just communicate a single message, but are embodied with changeable meanings that give them their symbolic status. Their iconic construction of shape, color, and form propose a meaning, and borrows from previous images, as well as creates new compositions and meanings. Because of these polyvalent qualities we refer to them as symbols rather than signs. Symbols are signs embodying multiple meanings, carrying a face and an underlying sentimental value that gives them their stability and effectiveness (Bartlett, 1924; Wagoner, 2017). Contemporary politics often involves creating compelling images of group leaders to rally the public around a cause. Returning to the example of Egypt, now-president Al-Sisi has effectively created an image of himself as a strongman that can save the country from the impeding chaos, which can be seen on government billboards and in other media.

Social Actors and Dialogue Once in the public sphere, the image takes on a new life in the hand of several actors as they take the positions of producers, audience, and authority. These social actors exercise agency as they produce, interpret, transform, and destroy images. The producer of an image could be a graffiti artist, a caricaturist, or a government entity producing a poster or building a monument. The image then is exposed to an audience, including pedestrians, as well as authority figures, who not only perceive those visuals, but actively interpret, modify, and destroy them. Audience exposure also goes beyond the physical location of an image through news and online media. Many street art images were seen by international audiences; their visual nature transcended language barriers and facilitated a wide exposure. The social life of images is further controlled by authority. The position of authority refers to any actor controlling what is allowed

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or not allowed in public space. Most of the time this is the government and local authorities through censorship, but it could also be private owners, pedestrians, and neighborhood watchers claiming authority over certain parts of the city and erasing images that they see as violating their space. The different social actors also play different roles in different phases of an image process, for example the government could be image producer one moment, audience in another, and authority in a third. This tripartite framework thus looks at images as creating interactive dialogues between the social actors as they negotiate different contentious issues. This is possible because images present a condensed argument and prototype for a socially shared form of knowledge; in theoretical language we can say images provide the figurative nuclei for new social representations (Moscovici, 1984). The audience can then actively create their counter-arguments in response to those attributed to the image (Davis & Harré, 1990), engaging in a dialogical and argumentative process (Lonchuk & Rosa, 2011). We normally think about dialogue as a symmetrical conversation, taking place through language discourses, but the dialogue in street art is a visual one, that is relational, temporal, dynamic, power-based, and changing through time. This dialogue presupposes change rather than stability, involving the constant negotiation of thoughts and meanings together with the creation of divergent social realities. A creative image may trigger a special kind of tension for the viewer. It may represent the existing social realities of the time, while simultaneously communicating something new that violates these realities, playing between the familiar and the unfamiliar (Markova, 2003). This dynamic often creates perceptual, emotional, and representational tensions that can continue to influence the viewer long after (Moscovici, 1976). Through this visual dialogue power is distributed among the different social actors and the multiple voices they present.

Context Context is a complex notion that involves social-cultural factors, the medium, and materiality. As already mentioned, socio-cultural factors directly influence how we understand images. This point has been

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t­horoughly described by hermeneutic philosophy: when we interpret some material we enter a cultural stream of interpretation. There is no understanding without social and historical mediation (Gadamer, 1989). Thus, similar to other human behavior, images cannot be analyzed in isolation of the place and time of the action, and the social, cultural, historical, and political dynamics affecting the production, perception, and social life of the images. The chapters of this volume provide ample historical contextualization in order to highlight the evolving norms, sites, and relationships that continuously gnaw into the present. It is only against this background that we can adequately understand the particularities of each case. The medium through which the image is placed whether city space, online, or news media, as well as how the image travels in between those mediums is also of interest in interpretation. For example, the city space is an especially effective medium in creating visibility and negotiating the power dynamics within a system. The specific placement of an image in the urban environment reproduces space that is initially produced by a centralized power, thus negotiating the authority’s dominant control over this space (Lefebvre, 1991). The specific materiality of an image further tells the situated story of it. The physical locality of those images, the surface they occupy (legal/illegal graffiti walls, government building, under the bridge, gentrified and touristic areas), and the tools used to produce them (paint, stencil, spray, print posters) are all informative of the social life of the image. In a gray sandy city as Cairo, colors easily strike recognition on the wall: a large yellow smiley face on a barricade wall in the middle of clashes between protestors and security forces creates a symbol for recognition; placing a stencil spray documenting the killing of a protestor in the same spot they were killed create an experience of remembrance in its situated immediacy; and the change of revolutionary graffiti from big murals to sprayed stencils in response to security risks and threat of arrest illustrates adapted resistance strategies in a changing political landscape (Awad, 2017; Awad et al., 2017). Or outside of Egypt: the placement of the graffiti of a relaxed nude body, which far from the aesthetic ideals of the society, by the natural topography of the beach in Chile helps to defy patriarchal notions of feminine beauty right where they are contested (see Lattore, this volume); and the strategic

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placement of markings on colonized space is a physical symbolic act of reclaiming lost land (see Smith, this volume). There are also surfaces that invite and trigger expression as they form physical and symbolic barriers that give shape to different forms of injustice. To name but a few examples: the Israeli–West Bank wall (see Jarbou, this volume), the USA–Mexico wall, new walls erected within Baghdad, ruins of the Berlin wall which stands as a reminder of a segregated past, and the sectarian divisions on walls in Northern Ireland (see Mattar, this volume).

Transformation of Images Central to the study of images in the public sphere, especially urban space, is the acknowledgment of their temporality. The social life of image transformation can be as or more informative as an analysis than the content of an image at one point in time. The key idea is that as an image is produced in a certain context, no matter how novel it is, it has a past life and is oriented toward future dialogues. The past life includes the history of the different icons constructing the image, the previous images it is contesting, and the medium it travelled through. Then once introduced in a certain context, it takes a life span of its own, independent of the intentions of the producer; its audience and censors appropriate it differently, assign meanings to it, and physically alter it by modification, reproduction, or destruction. Following this social life for a certain image tells a story about a contentious dialogue within a certain community. This is a story about arguments, what is tolerated, negotiated, and repressed. The different additions made to the mural in Fig. 1 every time it was repainted, for example, tells a story of power transitions, desperate aspirations, and counter-revolution progression.

On the Multiple Forms of Art and Resistance Now that we have highlighted some key features of images that will be discussed further in the chapters, we look here at their potential as tools for resistance. This book starts from the premise of understanding

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r­ esistance as an act of opposing dominant representations and affirming one’s perspective on social reality in their place. Resistance is seen as a “social and individual phenomenon, a constructive process that articulates continuity and change, and as an act oriented towards an imagined future of different communities” (Awad et al., 2017). Therefore, when we choose to focus on art that triggers social change, we look at social change as the collective, symbolic, meaningful, and substantial processes of change affecting society (Wagoner, Jensen, & Oldmeadow, 2012). With this premise we are adopting a very inclusive definition of art, which includes different creative visual interventions that open up spaces for multiple voices in a society. In a broad sense, this book deals mostly with different forms of street art interventions that are used as political tools in order to create dialogue, tension, resistance, and social change. But it also includes street interventions that contrast this meaning such as commissioned interventions and murals that hinder this dialogue (see Mattar, this volume). We will look at the aesthetic value in those interventions as embodied in their meaning and social act of resistance, rather than in how they might be evaluated by their traditional artistic criteria. Murals—large paintings directly executed on walls (coming from the Spanish word for wall, mural)—will be a prototype thoroughly explored in the present book but are by no means the only form. Graffiti is another form explored, that includes mainly typography, but also images in many instances. Graffiti is a diverse genre that belongs to an underground culture where its freedom of expression and in many instances illegality are at the core of its practice. In contrast to graffiti’s typically illegal status, there will be also examples of commissioned urban art. From one side, commissioned art shows the growing success of street art that made local authorities and businesses want to embrace it and use it for beautification, profit, and tourism. From the other side it opens up questions about its commercialization. What started as an organic and free-spirited movement is now often done for profit (see Bansky’s film Exit Through the Gift Shop for a brilliant portrayal of this dilemma). This also raises the question, “what is public art?”: is it all forms of art outside of the formal spaces of museums and exhibitions? Is it about accessibility to all and interaction with the public (Miles, 1997)? And what is public versus

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common space (see Agustín, this volume)? Lastly, the discussion of different visual interventions in city space will also include printed posters, installations, and even structures, which all communicate different stories through representations in images. The distinctions—murals, graffiti, urban art, etc.—highlighted above can be limiting. They are mentioned here mainly to point out that there is an open discussion around what counts as each, and not to imply that we can neatly classify works into different boxes. Classification tends to simplify one form and restrict oneself to a single perspective. Most of the time an image can be interpreted as an intertwined style of more than one form. Moreover, the styles continuously travel between different mediums with changing forms. In this book we have left the definition of terms open for different contributors to use them as they best fit their context of investigation.

The Chapters to Follow In the first section of the book “Theories of Aesthetics, Resistance, and Social Change”, Vlad Glaveanu explores the relationship between creativity, wonder, and social change with a particular focus on public, participatory, and interactive forms of art. Glaveanu discusses art as a creative activism that has the potential to create spaces for reflexivity and foster social transformation. Thomas Teo then highlights various forms of struggle and injustice that relate to subjectivity and the arts, admitting that art embodies neoliberal contradictions and often supports the status quo. Teo elaborates on the possibilities and limitations of aesthetics in resisting power in the visual and performing arts, arguing that street art may be a better candidate for challenging the status quo than traditional art. Robert Innis uses Dewey’s aesthetics to point out how various creative practices that were not meant to be considered works of art give rise to material forms that provoke new ways of interaction and destabilize existing social and political relations, looking specifically at the critical– aesthetic role of graffiti as “resisting forms”. In the second section, “Image Circulation and Politics”, Guisela Latorre looks at Chilean community-driven street art that recognizes and

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celebrates the current and past challenges to colonization posed by native peoples of the Americas, casting them as models for resistance to the Chilean neoliberal state. She investigates the Chilean urban landscape and how it could promote experiences, ideas, and aesthetics often marginalized or silenced in the country’s official history. Rana Jarbou studies graffiti in the Arab world before and after the Arab uprisings. She investigates the interrelation between visual production and political struggle in the region and how it continues to shape cultural identity. Graffiti circulation is seen as creating online and offline social spaces in which expressions of resistance are shared beyond physical communal borders, highlighting new networks of knowledge production and solidarity. Basma Hamdy then focuses on the creative use of language in resistance and its symbolic attributes. She looks at the significance of the Arabic language, its influence on collective identity in the Middle East, and illustrates where it is used in resistance as a symbol of power. In the third section, “Urban Space: The City as an Extension of Self ”, Daniela Vicherat Mattar investigates cases when visual productions on city walls become objects of division, conflict, and barriers to coexistence rather than spaces of resistance and negotiation. She analyzes murals in Belfast, Northern Ireland, as they express the contested memories about the city’s contemporary history of division. Looking at how urban infrastructures shape our social life, where street art, murals, and urban graffiti afford walls having a voice, telling stories, and keeping memories alive. Andrea Vieira Zanella then looks at graffiti in different cities of Brazil as re-inventing urban space by adding voices to the urban polyphony, provoking sacred sensibilities, and in a way affirming others possibilities to life. This, in turn, affects how people relate with their city. Jamie Mcphie then draws the connection between our bodies and the environment, looking at mental health and well-being as not bounded within a subjective self, but as a process distributed in the environment. He describes graffiti and tattoos from Liverpool, UK, as extended dermatological layers of the self, creating forms of narratives, testimony, and resistance. Mathew Ryan Smith then focuses on indigenous graffiti writers in European colonies such as Canada, Australia, and South Africa. Looking at how graffiti writing indicates resistance through signifiers and symbols of decolonization. He argues that the writing of graffiti

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serves as a ­symbolic method of occupation, where the image stands in for the physical body. Graffiti here represents another means of visibly re-occupying tribal lands by embodying its spaces as a mode of decolonization. In the last section, “Artists and Social Movements”, Jayne Howell illustrates the irony employed by a social movement in the state of Oaxaca in Mexico in their visual productions. The chapter discusses the production as well as the interpretation of posters, graffiti, and three-­dimensional imagery to critique neoliberal policies that they contend contribute to economic marginalization. Cecilia Nielsen then discusses the street art and graffiti scene in Denmark, focusing on the political aspect of those city interventions and their democratic potential. She argues that the aesthetic value of graffiti and street art works are beyond their beautifying values, but in their potential of exposing new ideas and questioning status quo in public space. Óscar García Agustín then looks at the visual representations of three social movements in Spain as they transform the privatized public space into a common space, giving voice and visibility to those who think that their voice has been excluded from the public and is not being taken into account. Mohamed Helmy and Sabine Frerichs then turn to the visual production in caricatures and the use of humor. They look at contemporary political cartoons in Egypt and how they are deeply connected with the Egyptian national character despite heightened censorship. Building on a rich repertoire of visually and conceptually authentic elements, it is argued that those images are used as a democratic practice that has the potential for being a sword as well as a shield.

References Awad, S. H. (2017). Documenting a contested memory: Symbols in the changing city space of Cairo. Culture & Psychology, 23(2), 234–254. Awad, S. H., Wagoner, B., & Glaveanu, V. (2017). The (street) art of resistance. In N. Chaudhary, P. Hviid, G. Marsico, & J. Villadsen (Eds.), Resistance in everyday life: Constructing cultural experiences. New York: Springer.

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Bartlett, F. C. (1924). Symbolism in folklore. In Proceedings of the VIIth international Congress of psychology (pp.  278–289). Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Davies, B., & Harré, R. (1990). Positioning: The discursive production of selves. Journal for the Theory of Social Behaviour, 20, 43–63. Gadamer, H. (1989). Truth and method. New York: Crossroad. Hamdy, B., & Karl, D. (2014). Walls of freedom: Street art of the Egyptian revolution. Berlin: From Here To Fame Publishing. Lefebvre, H. (1991). The production of space (D.  Nicholson-Smith, Trans.). Oxford: Blackwell. Lonchuk, M., & Rosa, A. (2011). Voices of graphic art images. In M. Märtsin, B. Wagoner, E. L. Aveling, I. Kadianaki, & L. Whittaker (Eds.), Dialogicality in focus: Challenges to theory, method and application. New York: Nova Science Publishers. Marková, I. (2003). Dialogicality and social representations. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Miles, M. (1997). Art, space and the city: Public art and urban futures. London: Routledge. Mitchell, W. J. T. (1984). What is an image? New Literary History, 15, 503–537. Moscovici, S. (1976). Social influence and social change. London: Academic Press. Moscovici, S. (1984). The phenomenon of social representations. In R. Farr & S. Moscovici (Eds.), Social representations (pp. 3–68). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wagoner, B. (2017). The constructive mind: Bartlett’s psychology in reconstruction. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wagoner, B., Jensen, E., & Oldmeadow, J. A. (Eds.). (2012). Culture and social change: Transforming society through the power of ideas. Charlotte: IAP. Wittgenstein, L. (1958). Philosophical investigations. Oxford: Blackwell. Valsiner, J. (2014). An invitation to cultural psychology. London: Sage Publications. Vygotsky, L., & Luria, A. (1994). Tool and symbol in child development. In J.  Valsiner & R. van der Veer (Eds.), The Vygotsky reader (pp.  99–172). Oxford: Blackwell. Sarah H. Awad  is a PhD fellow at the Centre for Cultural Psychology, Aalborg University, Denmark. She received her MSc in social and cultural psychology from London School of Economics and Political Science and her BA in mass

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communication from the American University in Cairo. Her research interests are in the interrelation between the fields of cultural psychology, communication, and social development. She studies the process by which individuals develop through times of life ruptures and social change using signs to create alternative visions of social reality. She looks specifically at images in the urban space and their influence on identity, collective memory, and power relations within a society. Brady Wagoner  completed his PhD in psychology at University of Cambridge and is now Professor of Psychology at the Aalborg University, Denmark. He has received a number of prestigious academic awards, including the Sigmund Koch Award, Gates Cambridge Scholarship, and was awarded the early career award from the American Psychological Association (division 26). His publications span a wide range of topics, including the history of psychology, cultural psychology, remembering, imagination, creativity, and social change. He is associate editor of Culture & Psychology and Peace & Conflict, co-founding editor of Psychology & Society, and on the editorial boards of several other journals. He has published ten books, including Symbolic Transformation: The Mind in Movement Through Culture and Society (Routledge, 2010) and Culture and Social Change: Transforming Society Through the Power of Ideas (Information Age, 2012). His latest books are The Constructive Mind: Bartlett’s Psychology in Reconstruction (Cambridge University Press) and Handbook of Culture and Memory (Oxford University Press).

Part I Theories of Aesthetics, Resistance and Social Change

Art and Social Change: The Role of Creativity and Wonder Vlad Petre Glăveanu

Change is, undeniably, the real constant in the existence of both individuals and society. While social change has repeatedly been claimed as omnipresent (see Reicher & Haslam, 2013), we are still in need of theories that can account for the incredibly wide spectrum of societal transformation, from incremental to revolutionary, from local to global. It is not my aim in this chapter to provide such a theory. However, I will attempt to bring a new angle into a growing field of studies closely related to social change—creative activism. My interest in this area doesn’t have to do only with the fact that I am a creativity scholar and a social psychologist by training, but also with the importance of gaining a deeper understanding of activism as one of the key engines of change within community and within society. What distinguishes creative activism is the fact that it engages artistic skills without being reducible to art (Harrebye, 2016). At a more basic level, it designates activism that surprises us, that stands out as different, original, and potent when it comes to redefining the way we see and relate to the V.P. Glăveanu (*) Department of Psychology, Webster University, Geneva, Switzerland © The Author(s) 2017 S.H. Awad, B. Wagoner (eds.), Street Art of Resistance, Palgrave Studies in Creativity and Culture, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-63330-5_2

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social world. Creative ­activism is thus not a sub-form of social activism but a quality of activist or socially engaged action. Street art, Internet memes, flash mobs, protests, and boycotts, to give just a few examples, can be characterized as more or less creative, more or less novel in their aims and the means employed to achieve them. And these means are, very often, explicitly artistic. Artistic creative activism (or artivism), in this context, refers to the deliberate use of art within activist action. This is not the ‘high art’ of galleries or museums but a much more participative form of art grounded in everyday life, particularly in our communal living. Even when classic artistic images or techniques are used, they are appropriated and transformed in ways that can question societal norms, values, practices, and, oftentimes, our conceptions of art itself. Street art is an excellent example in this regard, and one I will come back to in this chapter. For the moment let us note, together with Edelman (1995), that politics builds on art just as much as art is guided by political values and discourses. There is no form of artistic expression that doesn’t rely on such values and discourses, even when the artist’s intention is not political in nature. Reversely, social and political life is infused by the images and values embedded in art as a way of seeing or constructing the world. And it is precisely this fundamental function of art that makes it quasi indispensable within creative activism. As Campana (2011) concludes, based on a review of other works: The arts’ role in activism can include the communication of a movement’s or group’s worldview, opposition, and vision; facilitation of dialogue towards political and social consciousness for both participants and the broader public; creation and expression of collective identity and solidarity; and working toward ‘cognitive liberation’, a critical transformation from hopeless submission to oppressive conditions to a readiness to change those conditions. (Campana, 2011, p. 281)

In other words, the use of art in activism and, more broadly, in social change, opens up the space of the possible, the space of imagination and creativity for both activists and their audiences. It is a space where reality becomes multiple and malleable, at least as experienced in art. However,

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such artistic depictions of the social world are not inconsequential. On the contrary, they both show and mobilize, reflect and transform, invite viewers not only to notice, but also to participate. This is because much of today’s artistic creative activism relies on public, socially engaged, participative, performative, and/or interactive art. It is, essentially, art that can ‘“disrupt everyday life and involve and inspire passersby’” (Boros, 2012, p. xi). As Boros (2012) continues, because it addresses everyone, artistic creative activism is “inherently democratic” (p. 5), “intended for the public and social spaces in our lives” (p.  6). Street art that carries social or political messages is, once more, emblematic in this regard. But why exactly is street art, and artistic creative activism more generally, important for social movements and potentially effective in delivering social change? The present chapter answers this question by pointing to creativity and wonder. My main argument here is that creativity, and principally the experience of wonder situated at its core, can help us bridge art and society and explain the relation between activism and social change. In order to understand why this might be the case we need, first of all, to consider why creativity has been largely absent until now from theories of social change. Undeniably, many manifestations of activism for social change, including street art, can be considered creative. What prevents us from discussing them as such is a long legacy of seeing creativity as an individual, intra-psychological process that has little to do with society and much more with ‘creative domains’ such as the arts and sciences. Countering this approach, I review here a sociocultural model of creativity based on notions of perspective, reflexivity, and wonder. In particular, wonder, as an experience and active exploration of the possible, plays a vital role in creative action. What do these notions have to do with social change? Towards the end of the chapter I discuss and exemplify my claim that creative activism participates in social change by enabling us to experience collective wonder. The chapter ends with a few considerations regarding the limits of creativity and art and also a possible explanation for why, even when seemingly failing, artistic creative activism still contributes to long-term social change.

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Creativity and Social Change Social change comes in many shapes and forms, but most of the time it involves social action or mobilization. In such contexts, social change “takes place as a result of human agency and intention to affect a given social environment based on the view that existing social conditions or relations are untenable” (Subašić, Reynolds, Reicher, & Klandermans, 2012, p. 62). For Harrebye (2016), social movements “consist of groups of people who share a collective identity centered on social solidarity (internally and in a certain way often with the surrounding society), a common identifiable cause, and ideas that are maintained and advocated over time” (p. 47). The human agency mentioned above, as well as the capacity to advocate for new ideas, can be discussed in terms of creativity. And yet, creativity is surprisingly absent from theories of social change. In a review of the literature within social and political psychology, Subašić et al. (2012, p. 62) mention traditional concepts in this area of study: social identity, intergroup relations, relatedness, minority influence, perceptions of the social world, group-based emotions, etc. The danger embedded in operating with many of these concepts, even if this is not the intention of the authors proposing them, is that of using reifying, often dichotomic categories: us versus them, minority versus majority, cooperation versus conflict, and so on. While many of these categories are not intrinsically static (see, e.g., studies of re-categorization processes; Gaertner, Mann, Murrell, & Dovidio, 1989), their research use tends to focus us on how things “are” (perceived, felt, or instituted) and less on how they “could be.” What is largely missing is thus a view of how identities, perceptions, and emotions are mobilized within social action to create a space for critical reflection about what is possible; in other words, a space for creativity and imagination in the social arena. There are many reasons why creativity as a concept is absent from theories of social change. To begin with, creativity research, at least in psychology, has focused largely on individual attributes at the expense of social variables, including the study of how people create together (Glăveanu, 2010). Second, it oftentimes reduced creativity to cognition and different types of thinking (e.g., divergent, combinatorial, lateral), disconnecting idea generation from action (what most refer to nowadays

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as innovation rather than creativity; Anderson, Potočnik, & Zhou, 2014). Third, society rarely features as a domain of creative action, unlike art and science, design, etc. While notable artistic or scientific creations do concern society as a whole, there is little interest for the creativity involved in living together and solving communal problems (what I refer to as societal creativity; Glăveanu, 2015a). Finally, as Harrebye (2016, p. 114) also states, the idea of creativity has been tainted by its association with capitalism and consumerism, losing its critical edge. To create, according to the most common psychological definition, means to generate novelty and value (Amabile, 1996), and, unfortunately, this value is often considered in economic terms. The importance of creativity for the health of individuals and society, for transforming what is given in new and surprising ways, and, ultimately, for being at the heart of social change, escapes both creativity and social theorists. What would a sociocultural rather than individual-based view of creativity bring to theories of social change? First and foremost, in sociology and political science, a regained focus on agentic individuals within the collective. Models of society, including social change, need to balance structural constraints and human agency in their depictions of the social world and, often, this is a very difficult task. Understanding creativity as a relational concept, taking place at the interface between self and other, between what exists in the situation and what is “not there” or “not yet there,” offers an exciting theoretical venue for addressing both person and society in their evolving interrelation. Second, psychology studies of social change are hindered primarily by what Reicher and Haslam (2013) rightfully call the “conformity bias,” manifested in rendering people “as puppets, driven by unchanging urges, incapable of addressing, let alone changing, their circumstances” (p. 114). By postulating a universal and static human nature and orienting it towards stability and familiarity, psychologists have little to add to understanding change, and even less fostering it. What including creativity in theories of human and social development offers is basically a correction of this bias and a new emphasis on agency, within constraints (Gruber, Clark, Klempe, & Valsiner, 2015). This is a very important point to make since, in lay conceptions, creating is often seen as the ultimate individual freedom. My u ­ nderstanding of creativity is precisely one of bounded freedom, one that is constrained

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but, at the same time, enabled by other people. And this is exactly why creativity has a great part to play in social change—it builds on social relations and interactions while transforming them. If creativity itself has been remarkably absent from discussions about society, the same is not true of art, particularly in recent years (see David & McCaughan, 2006; Mesch, 2013). Art, often taken as a proxy for creativity, is equally harmed by a view of artists as “isolated and alienated from society” (Campana, 2011, p. 279), while, in fact, they actively participate in how society is portrayed, thought of and acted upon. By focusing on socially engaged, public, and participative art as part of creative activism, my hope in this chapter is to shed new light on the relation between creativity and society. I argue that creativity embedded within the arts has the potential to both trigger and shape social movements and lead, under specific circumstances, to effective social change. Before developing this argument further though, a question arises: is all activist art, for example street art, supposed to be creative? While important, this kind of question can be misleading, as it invites us to operate with a black-and-white assessment of creativity. Instead of inquiring into when and where creativity is present (or missing), we should focus our attention on how socially engaged art can be creative and how this creativity participates in social change. The first question is addressed in the next section, the second one in the sections following it.

How is Street Art Creative? Asked in this manner the question probably surprises those who don’t even consider street art—for example tags, stencils, and graffiti—in terms of creativity. For some, the debate is whether graffiti is aesthetically pleasing or not, if it infringes private property or not, if it should be legal or not, etc. Many would also probably point to the difference between signing one’s name on the wall and a stencil by Banksy and consider the latter artistic (thus creative) rather than the former. However, what this implies is an a-contextual judgment of creativity based on the classic criteria of novelty, originality, and value. Even a tag can be considered creative depending on how it is made, when and where (for instance, tags placed

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in largely inaccessible places often make us wonder about how and when did their makers achieve their aims, often a sign of great ingenuity). As any product of human activity, street art can very well be assessed in terms of how novel or unique it is, whether it contributes to community or not, and so on. And, indeed, we can discuss a continuum of creativity here—from simple tags to elaborate graffiti—just like in many other domains. But this kind of creativity assessment would focus us, once more, on the “what” rather than the “how” of creativity. In answering the “how” question, we need to move beyond street art as a product and understand it as a process reuniting makers and their audiences. The creative process in the case of a stencil or graffiti doesn’t begin with the idea and doesn’t end with its realization. On the contrary, the distributed notion of creativity I am advocating for (see Glăveanu, 2014) is sensitive to the expanded context of human creative action, in this case, of engaging in street art. Creative activism, for Harrebye (2016, p. 14), “can be regarded as being creative in two senses of the word: firstly, by creating a space for the revitalization of the political imagination and secondly, by doing so in inventive ways.” The latter is what we mostly consider when thinking about creativity and street art, for instance. Is there novelty in the topics chosen? In the methods used? In the location or message? The former, though, is a much more important and yet often neglected sign of creativity—the ability to open up spaces for thought, to connect us to what is possible in our lives and in our society. In other words, street art is at least potentially creative because, even when seen as “ugly,” “useless,” “violent,” or even “criminal,” it does carry with it the capacity to make us wonder. We wonder about the author or authors of graffiti, their motives, and life trajectory. We wonder about the meaning of what is depicted and the significance of the space it occupies. We wonder about how other people might see it and perhaps about our own reactions (positive or negative) to it. Last but not least, we wonder about what can and cannot be done in public spaces and, in the best-­ case scenario, try to see society through the lenses of street artists and their work. In other words, the potential creativity of these products and their capacity to make us wonder should not be read only in terms of the products themselves, their more or less aesthetic qualities—such ­judgments need to consider a broader context of who, when, where, and how they

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were made and received by others. Of particular interest are experiences of wonder that can lead viewers, not only authors, to new understandings or insights about the social world, their place and possibilities to act within it. They nurture, even if in small, sometimes unperceivable ways, the political imagination mentioned by Harrebye (see also Glăveanu & de Saint-Laurent, 2015). This is one possible answer to the “how” question above. Street art is creative for opening up a space for reflexivity, imagination, and future creativity for individuals and for the collective. Boros (2012) similarly refers to the basic functions of public art in relation to societal living in this manner: There are at least three main ways that public art can create, support, and enliven both communal spaces and feelings of community. The first is through the beautification and amplification of our public spaces in order to create pride and communal feelings of ownership. The second is through direct and overt political critique and protest, which is in itself a political action. (…) The third way (…) is when art demonstrates imaginative new ways of seeing our world and our everyday lives simply through its restructuring of the everyday. (Boros, 2012, p. 15)

It might sound farfetched to invest all street art with creativity and political power and this is not my claim. Indeed, in places and at times when it becomes repetitive, it has no obvious message or serves mainly one function (e.g., to vandalize), it is highly likely it will not mobilize meaning-making or attract support. What I want to emphasize in this chapter, however, is that street art can help us see our world in a new way and this potential is highly relevant for our present discussion of creativity and social change. As Edelman (1995) eloquently wrote, works of art in general “can create perspectives regarding objects and scenes in everyday life and in history that are not otherwise apparent and not otherwise prominent” (p.  6). Street art often excels in this regard because its main function is to make visible objects and scenes we might not want to see or know about. More than this, it generates a different perspective on these objects and scenes, one that is often at odds with the societal view on them. This is, as I explain next, the defining feature of creativity.

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Creativity, Perspectives, and Wonder To create doesn’t mean to come up with as many ideas as possible, for as much as creativity tests insist on this aspect. To create means to act in and on the world in ways that are considered novel and meaningful by the creator and/or by other people. Essentially, creative action places in dialogue different perspective on the world, on oneself, others, one’s activity or situation, etc., it reflects on the differences between them and uses these differences to generate new ideas, objects, practices, and so on. Creativity, according to this definition, is not about ideas but actions that are flexible enough to articulate multiple perspectives on reality (for more details see Glăveanu, 2015b, 2016). Perspectives are preferred here because they have a social origin—they relate to different positions in the world—and orient our action. To take an example, social change involves multiple positions (e.g., activists, government officials, members of the civil society, of the military, and so on), each one developing one or more perspectives on society. To create in this context, just like in science, art, or everyday life, one has to be able to engage with more than their own perspective. This is, arguably, what makes successful activists—they are able, in their work, to address the concerns of different audiences while challenging or resisting taken-for-granted, dominant perspectives. Importantly, this model assumes that we are not fixed in a certain position (and its associated way of seeing and doing things) but we can, physically or imaginatively, switch or alternate between positions, effectively re-positioning ourselves towards a given reality. For example, we can dislike graffiti because it vandalizes private property. This perspective originates from a position towards street art that is typical for property owners or the police. However, what would it mean to consider graffiti from the perspective of its makers? Such re-positioning can bring new insights, challenge existing beliefs, and even lead to creative action. But, for this to happen, three conditions need to be set in place: 1. The difference in perspectives needs to be acknowledged: we need to become aware that multiple perspectives on the same reality are possible.

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2. The difference in perspectives needs to be valued: perspectives different than one’s own should be appreciated and understood in their own right. 3. The difference in perspectives needs to be acted upon: perspectives need to be placed in dialogue and this dialogue externalized and shared. In other words, noticing difference is only the first step—reflecting about differences in perspective and being able to see one’s own perspective as other people would is the engine of creative action. Creativity relies on the possibility of taking distance from the situation at hand, re-positioning oneself in relation to it and developing new perspectives that guide our action. It thus requires a history of interacting with other people and making efforts to understand their positions and grasp their perspectives, which might be very different from ours. In this new model, creativity is alimented by the views of others; conversely, denying other positions and perspectives on reality other than one’s own or the dominant view in society severely reduces our possibility for acting creatively. To take a simple example, a chair is typically used for sitting and this is the dominant societal perspective that we acquire through a personal history of socialization and learning from others (from parents, peers, teachers, etc.). But, of course, there are many other perspectives on chairs and, consequently, ways of acting in relation to them. One can imagine, for instance, gluing a chair to the celling and calling it modern art. This perspective emerges out of an artist’s position, one we might not typically take but we are nevertheless familiar with from meeting or knowing about artists. What does it mean, for our thinking and action, to be able to relate to a chair both in the conventional manner and in “alternative” ways, opened up by different perspectives? I would argue the latter considerably increases our chances of acting creatively through expanding our understanding of what is possible in the given situation. Following the example above, if you were surprised by the idea of gluing a chair to the celling, and even if you dismissed it as silly, you ­probably started thinking though that chairs can be used in many ways, even ways that make little sense in everyday life. In other words, you perhaps began

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to wonder what other original things we could do with a chair—adopting the terminology used here, what other perspectives on the chair are possible and which positions do they represent? Wondering, in this context, is associated with experiencing different perspectives and becoming curious about what else is possible in the situation at hand. Being aware that the space of the possible is wider than initially imagined and being ready to explore this space further characterizes the experience of wondering and places wonder at the core of creative expression. What does all of this have to do with social change? First of all, the perspectival model of creativity and its emphasis on positions, perspectives, and reflexivity is directly applicable to the study of societal issues, marked precisely by the multiplicity of social groups, roles, and points of view. Second, redefining creativity as collaborative action is relevant for social change that builds not (only) on ideas, but primarily on what people do, together with others. Finally, placing reflexivity and wonder at the center of creativity sheds new light on creative activism, where activists deliberately try to foster both in their effort to resist hegemonic perspectives and challenge the status quo. How this is possible and the role played by art in this process is considered in the next section.

Social Change, Art, and Collective Wonder Until this point I have argued that creativity theories could help us understand social change, particularly through creative activism such as the use of public, socially engaged art. I supported this claim with a theoretical perspective on creativity that grounds it in action rather than thinking and brings to the fore the importance of positions, perspectives, and reflexivity in the creative act. More specifically, creativity builds on wonder as an experience of and engagement with the possible. What I propose in this section is that the use of art in social change serves primarily the purpose of fostering wonder and, through it, cultivating the possibility of creative action. The experience of wonder articulates, in such cases, two facets: wondering at, which is often infused by strong emotional ­reactions (and, in this case, is stronger than the experience of awe), and wondering about, which signifies the process of exploring multiple perspectives and

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reaching different understandings of the situation. Both facets are instrumental in mobilizing authors and viewers towards creative action. It is important to note that, since creative activism deals with issues of collective concern and generally targets groups of people rather than individuals, the experience of wondering it stimulates has a collective quality. By talking about collective wonder here I am not suggesting that groups or communities wonder (i.e., drawing on a group mind hypothesis), but that the experience of wondering itself becomes shared. The fact that, in activism and social movements, people don’t only act (more or less creatively) together but also wonder together is often overlooked and yet crucial for the dynamic of social change. If in wondering we become aware of new perspectives and start exploring them further, collective forms of wondering amplify the potential for social transformation first of all by making it thinkable for many instead of a limited few. This phenomenon has deep social, cognitive, and emotional consequences for both individuals and communities. Socially, it encourages participation and solidarity; cognitively, it opens up new perspectives for action; emotionally, it can be experienced as cathartic and inspire a variety of emotional states, from outrage to hope. The crucial question I will come back to in the conclusion is when and how we can mobilze such potential to actually deliver social change. For the moment let us note that there is support in recent literature for the dynamic proposed above. Harrebye (2016), for instance, discusses at length what he calls the “mirror effect” or the critical theory of reflection in the context of creative activism. For him, “creative activism uses mirroring techniques to try to get us to see alternatives, real or not, and reflect the world around us in beautiful, distorted, and surprising ways” (p. 22). These mirroring techniques illustrate nothing else but the consistent use of reflection to stimulate the emergence of new perspectives and, I would add, the experience of wonder. Harrebye takes his departure from an interesting student tactic during the protests of 1996 and 1997 against Milošević’s regime in Serbia. During the demonstrations, participants would hold up huge mirrors in front of the police officers blocking their way, thus confronting them not with a view of the students but of themselves. For Harrebye this was not merely a way to show the policemen the nature of the system they were part of but, in fact, an ingenious

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method aimed at reducing the social distance between police and protesters by giving them a common status—victims of the regime. The literal use of mirrors in this case helps us reflect more generally on the meaning and value of mirroring. In theorizing this aspect, Harrebye notes: My use of reflection focuses on pragmatic and strategic types of critique and has a double meaning. The mirroring aspect in these tactics refers to the possibility of seeing something, literally, from a different perspective than the ones usually offered to us in the hegemony of mainstream culture. The contemplative aspect refers to the potential of such tactics to provoke reflection in the individual, because it triggers questions about the truisms that form the foundation of the automatic defense mechanisms that enable us to maintain the coherent worldview that we feel is necessary to feel safe in a society full of ideological trench warfare and confrontational headlines. The mirrors used for/against the police by the Otpor movement were reflexive in both sense of the word: they ‘allowed’ the officers to see the situation from another perspective (they saw themselves) and they consequently (may have) forced some of them to review the conflict and their own role in it. (Harrebye, 2016, p. 130)

He also proposes a typology of mirrors in his book based on the distinction between “inside” and “outside”, as well as “critical” and “contemplative” mirrors. What the different emerging categories suggest is that there are many ways in which we can use mirroring to generate new perspectives and stimulate reflexivity. Some of these perspectives show us differently, some show society differently, some help us reflect on the present while others are oriented towards the future. All in all, the “mirror effect” shares a great deal of similarity with the perspectival model of creativity advanced in this chapter. They both discuss the importance of re-positioning oneself and seeing the world through different perspectives. They also give reflexivity, both at individual and group levels, a key role in stimulating creativity and, ultimately, social change. However, where Harrebye’s account stops short is in acknowledging the importance of wondering in mirroring processes. I would argue, based on the ­perspectival model, that what makes (some) police officers in the concrete example above engage with the protesters’ devices is precisely their capacity to wonder about what the activists were doing and what that

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meant for everyone. Moreover, in emphasizing collective wondering I am going here beyond the reflexivity of single individuals and claim, together with Boros (2012, p. xiv), that “a feeling of connectivity is inherently participatory” and “this interest is the first part of participation.” The use of artistic techniques, a lot of them grounded in mirroring, is powerful precisely because they make people experience wonder together, either as authors, targeted audiences or spectators of creative activism. To a great extent street art draws on this “togetherness of experiencing” as it is essentially public. It also makes use of mirroring techniques in the sense that, oftentimes, it presents back to viewers a new perspective on their shared reality. While less explicit than Harrebye’s example of protest, street art in the form of graffiti, tags, and stencils is nonetheless pervasive in resisting mainstream ideologies and interpretations and offering its own conception of the world. The mere existence of street art, in fact, challenges our normative understandings of art and aesthetics, private and public property, the right to express opposing views, and so on. When used in the context of protest, such as the Egyptian revolution, street art acquires more than generic meanings and carries the collective memory (in the making) about the conflict (see Awad, 2017; see also Jarbou, this volume, with reference to the Arab Spring). Graffiti about the events depict not only (or not even) images but perspectives into what is happening that are actively constructed in the space between graffiti artists, the authorities and the general public (Awad, Wagoner, & Glăveanu, 2017). These perspectives are in dialogue with each other, support each other, or, at times, clash, in providing a space for reflexivity, memory, and creativity. Smith (2015), who considered the diagnostic role of art in Cairo, wrote that: A tag, a message, or an image painted on a visible surface within a heavily trafficked space is simply unavoidable, forcing the viewer to deal with its presence. And indeed, viewers must reckon with graffiti—whether it is to stop and look or to ignore the image, relegating it to background scenery. Graffiti and graffiti artists force their unsuspecting audience into ethical and aesthetic questions and decisions, leaving them to cope with the affective repercussions. (Smith, 2015, p. 32)

Being confronted by ethical and aesthetic questions is, in my account, a result of being able to wonder about the graffiti itself, the events, and

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the meaning of the oftentimes violent transformation taking place in society. Capitalizing on this possibility of making people wonder and, following this, to (creatively) participate in the revolution, protesters constructed, among other initiatives, a “Museum of Revolution” in Tahrir Square in the winter of 2012. As described by Smith, this “museum” was located in a large tent and included protest signs, pictures, and jokes from the revolution, collected by the “curators.” “It presented both an affective and educational attempt to inspire and shape emotions and solidarities” (Smith, 2015, p. 36). It was also a collective effort to make people wonder about themselves, their society, its present, and, most of all, its future. Numerous other examples of the potential of street art to make audiences wonder and cultivate collective forms of creativity aimed at social change are offered in the present book. For instance, Zanella (this volume), discusses graffiti as a form of intervention in urban spaces, provoking and promoting new ways of relating between inhabitants and the city, cultivating urban polyphonies. Street art can also follow more specific political agendas, such as raising awareness about a country’s indigenous population and the their struggle against a living history of colonization. Lattore (this volume) and Smith (this volume) vividly illustrate this dynamic in the case of Chilean indigenously inspired graffiti and muralism (see also the Decolonize Street Art Events in Smith, this volume). By including in busy urban spaces images of native traditional healers and spiritual leaders, these expressions of street art raise questions of inclusion and diversity, actively trying to “democratize” public spaces. In these, and many other cases presented throughout this book, we witness the potential of street art to surprise us, to challenge our views, to make us laugh and, most of all, to make us think, reflect and wonder about the society we live in, our collective contribution to and responsibility for its future.

Final Reflections In this chapter I argued that creativity is essential for social change and, more specifically, that the experience of wonder, an intrinsic part of the creative process, is often stimulated by the use of art in creative activism. If, in agreement with Edelman (1995, p. 7), we can say that “art creates

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realities and worlds,” then it also changes these realities and worlds by including more perspectives on them and inspiring creative action. Of course, though, not all experiences of wondering lead to creativity and not all creativity translates into (effective) social change. The question I would like to tackle at the end is why. Harrebye (2016), dealing with the same problem, comments on the “paradox” of creative activism: Creative activism simply seems to be entertaining enough for a large and potentially powerful segment to take things seriously. This strength also however seems to be the biggest problem for these groups, as they do not take the time to formulate a systematic structural critique capable of pointing in one direction, and thus end up serving as a coherent alternative to the existing order. Values in today’s network society, which the artistic critique might help shape, are based on principles of temporality, flexibility, and elasticity—none of which are compatible with the stability and stubbornness that critical masses need to mobilize momentum. The cynic, ironic, and utopian features of creative activism are in a frustrating cyclical sense both a reason and an effect of this predicament. (Harrebye, 2016, pp. 118–119)

This observation is certainly accurate. It points to the fact that wonder and reflexivity are necessary but not sufficient conditions for creative social action to take place and, most of all, to be carried out and lead to actual change in society. However, they are not in vain either. Wondering and creativity are empowering experiences which leave their mark on individuals and communities. While they might or might not generate successful outcomes, they nevertheless set the stage for deeper social processes to unfold. As Boros (2012, p. 12) rightfully notes, “personal artistic experience (…) expands the limits of our conception of what is possible” (p. 8) and, even when seemingly failing to trigger social change, it “nonetheless expanded the imagination of the collective consciousness, which lays open the possibility for change” (p. 12). This is certainly true, in my view, when it comes to the use of art and creative activism in Egypt and elsewhere (see, e.g., a discussion of the Getzi protest in Turkey in Yalcintas, 2015; also the chapter on Egyptian cartoonists by Helmy & Frerichs, this volume).

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In the end, those who think creativity and wonder are never enough should be reminded that only by acknowledging their role are we better able to understand and, ultimately, to cultivate these phenomena in both ourselves and in society. In this sense, the present chapter joins the plea made by colleagues to support public art projects (see Boros, 2012) and promote them as ways of building and transforming our communities (see also Lattore, this volume). There is a strong element of personal and collective responsibility in this call. It is not only the responsibility to respond to the efforts of others and their fight for a better society, but also, and more importantly, our shared responsibility when it comes to envisioning what a “better” society means. Creativity and imagination are called upon here but they cannot offer us “the” solution; rather, they confront us with more questions and more perspectives to wonder about. If envisioning social change is not enough to carry it through, it is equally the case that no change is possible without creating new visions of society and systematically challenging them. If change is a constant of our social life, wondering might just be its ever-present companion.

References Amabile, T. M. (1996). Creativity in context. Boulder, CO: Westview Press. Anderson, N., Potočnik, K., & Zhou, J. (2014). Innovation and creativity in organizations a state-of-the-science review, prospective commentary, and guiding framework. Journal of Management, 40(5), 1297–1333. Awad, S. H. (2017). Documenting a forbidden memory: Symbols in the changing city space of Cairo. Culture & Psychology, 23(2), 234–254. Awad, S. H., Wagoner, B., & Glăveanu, V. P. (2017). The street art of resistance. In N. Chaudhary, P. Hviid, P. Marsico, & J. Villadsen (Eds.), Resistance in everyday life: Constructing cultural experiences (161-180). New Delhi: Spinger. Boros, D. (2012). Creative rebellion for the twenty-first century: The importance of public and interactive art to political life in America. New York: Palgrave. Campana, A. (2011). Agents of possibility. Studies in Art Education: A Journal of Issues and Research, 52(4), 278–291. David, E. A., & McCaughan, E. J. (2006). Editors’ introduction: Art, power, and social change. Social Justice, 33(2), 1–4.

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Edelman, M. (1995). From art to politics: How artistic creations shape political conceptions. Chicago, IL: Chicago University Press. Gaertner, S. L., Mann, J., Murrell, A., & Dovidio, J. F. (1989). Reducing intergroup bias: The benefits of recategorization. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 57, 239–249. Glăveanu, V.  P. (2010). Paradigms in the study of creativity: Introducing the perspective of cultural psychology. New Ideas in Psychology, 28(1), 79–93. Glăveanu, V. P. (2014). Distributed creativity: Thinking outside the box of the creative individual. Cham: Springer. Glăveanu, V. P. (2015a). Developing society: Reflections on the notion of societal creativity. In A.-G. Tan & C. Perleth (Eds.), Creativity, culture, and development (pp. 183–200). Singapore: Springer. Glăveanu, V.  P. (2015b). Creativity as a sociocultural act. Journal of Creative Behavior, 49(3), 165–180. Glăveanu, V. P. (2016). Perspective. In V. P. Glăveanu, L. Tanggaard, & C. Wegener (Eds.), Creativity: A new vocabulary (pp. 104–110). London: Palgrave. Glăveanu, V. P., & de Saint-Laurent, C. (2015). Political imagination, otherness and the European crisis. Europe’s Journal of Psychology, 11(4), 557–564. Gruber, C.  W., Clark, M.  G., Klempe, S.  H., & Valsiner, J.  (Eds.). (2015). Constraints of agency: Explorations of theory in everyday life. London: Springer. Harrebye, S. F. (2016). Social change and creative activism in the 21st century: The mirror effect. Houndmills: Palgrave. Helmy, M. M., & Frerichs, S. (this volume). Defying Shahryar’s spirit: Egyptians cartoonists’ relentless quest for legitimacy. In S.  H. Awad & B.  Wagoner (Eds.), The street art of resistance. London: Palgrave. Jarbou, A. (this volume). Graffiti of resistance in the Arab world, before and after the Arab Spring. In S. H. Awad & B. Wagoner (Eds.), The street art of resistance. London: Palgrave. Lattore, G. (this volume). Indigenous images of democracy on city streets: Native representations in contemporary Chilean graffiti and Muralism. In S. H. Awad & B. Wagoner (Eds.), The street art of resistance. London: Palgrave. Mesch, C. (2013). Art and politics: A small history of art for social change since 1945. London: I. B. Tauris. Reicher, S., & Haslam, S. A. (2013). Towards a ‘science of movement’: Identity, authority and influence in the production of social stability and social change. Journal of Social and Political Psychology, 1(1), 112–131. Smith, C. (2015). Art as a diagnostic: Assessing social and political transformation through public art in Cairo, Egypt. Social & Cultural Geography, 16(1), 22–42.

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Smith, M. R. (this volume). Indigenous graffiti and street art as political resistance. In S. H. Awad & B. Wagoner (Eds.), The street art of resistance. London: Palgrave. Subašić, E., Reynolds, K. J., Reicher, S. D., & Klandermans, B. (2012). Where to from here for the psychology of social change? Future directions for theory and practice. Political Psychology, 33(1), 61–74. Yalcintas, A. (2015). Intellectual disobedience in Turkey. In A. Yalcintas (Ed.), Creativity and humour in occupy movements (pp. 6–29). London: Palgrave. Zanella, A. V. (this volume). Inventive ReXistence: Notes about the graffiti in Brazil and any tension produced in the cities. In S. H. Awad & B. Wagoner (Eds.), The street art of resistance. London: Palgrave. Vlad Petre Glăveanu  is Associate Professor and Head of the Department of Psychology at Webster University Geneva, as well as Associate Professor II at the Centre for the Science of Learaning and Technology (SLATE), University of Bergen. He received his PhD in Social Psychology from the London School of Economics, UK. His work develops the cultural psychology of creativity and has been published in over 100 articles and chapters. His books include Thinking Through Creativity and Culture (Transaction, 2014), Distributed Creativity (Springer, 2014), Rethinking Creativity (Routledge, 2014, co-edited), and Creativity: A New Vocabulary (Palgrave, 2016, co-edited). He is editor/co-editor of three handbooks: The Palgrave Handbook of Creativity and Culture Research (Palgrave, 2017), The Oxford Handbook of Imagination and Culture (Oxford University Press, 2017, co-edited with Tania Zittoun), and The Cambridge Handbook of Creativity across Disciplines (Cambridge University Press, 2017, coedited with James Kaufman and John Baer). Vlad Glăveanu is co-editing the book series Creativity and Culture for Palgrave and is the Editor of Europe’s Journal of Psychology, an open-access journal published by PsychOpen.

Subjectivity, Aesthetics, and the Nexus of Injustice: From Traditional to Street Art Thomas Teo

Foucault (1983) once distinguished three types of struggles: (a) against ethnic, social, religious, and other forms of social domination; (b) against exploitation of individuals in the production sphere; and (c) against “that which ties the individual to himself and submits him to others in this way” (p.  211), by which he meant struggles against subjectification. Foucault identified a historical trajectory that culminated in the submission of subjectivity (subjection, privileged subjectivities, etc.) as the most current battle. He rejected the idea that there is one fundamental struggle that underlies all other ones—a critique of traditional Marxist socioeconomic thought that privileged the production domain. In advanced neoliberalism those struggles need to be understood as intertwined in such a way that overt and subtle forms of domination are linked with an economic system that demands a self that is responsible for her financial and hence social well-being, not by selling his labor but by creating market I would like to express my gratitude to Klaus Dermutz and Angela Febbraro for their thoughtful advice on this project.

T. Teo (*) Department of Psychology, York University, Toronto, ON, Canada © The Author(s) 2017 S.H. Awad, B. Wagoner (eds.), Street Art of Resistance, Palgrave Studies in Creativity and Culture, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-63330-5_3

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opportunities for themselves in production or exchange of goods or services (see also Sugarman, 2015). The political–economically imposed and individually anticipated neoliberal subjectivity aligns with an increasing public contempt for classical collective struggles and resistances such a strikes, boycotts, demonstrations, sit-ins, and self-defense struggles, if they require embodied presences and actions. In the logic of neoliberalism, “I” as the subjective agent in this world does not need collectives; social media “actions” are as far as “I” will “go.” Only “my” marketable skills and “my” interests, or that of my family, or in some instances, that of my smaller communities in which “I” participate, have relevance. The notion that the basic political–economic system could be changed has been abandoned—it could be called the new nihilism rather than the end of history—because transformation appears to make sense only on the personal or family level, or, if I am politically engaged, in the lifeworld. To use a Habermasian (1984, 1987) distinction, resisting agency has moved away from the system to the lifeworld and to the self. Psychology as a discipline and practice not only collaborates with this neoliberal system (Davies, 2015), but reinforces and shapes it for the individual sphere to the degree that the corset of capitalism is not only imposed but sought out and experienced as freedom, a freedom that everyone else should and must choose. In the West and in the world more generally, subjects must conform to the logic of neoliberalism, which, ironically, despite its ideological commitment to the individual, reduces individual experience one-dimensionally (Marcuse, 1964) in terms of how we can conduct our actual lives, to the point where we seriously can speak of the extinction of the individual (a Hegelian stream of thought). Because traditional forms of resistance have been eroded ideologically and psychologically, and because intellectual textual engagements with power structures and forms are confined to certain academic circles, resistance appears futile. The question remains whether aesthetics in its critical function can be understood as a possible source of resistance in our work, interactions, and subjectivities. This argument is not a romantic turn to the art world that reflects and embodies neoliberal contradictions and often supports the status quo (Bourdieu, 1984). Rather, I am interested in the conditions for the

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­ ossibility of (street)art as a basis for resistance for the subject. Given that p the psychological humanities are my primary areas of interest, this chapter is not about the art world but about human mental life and the conduct of life (see also Schraube & Hojholt, 2016). Because the sources of the Foucauldian struggles are based on the subject’s experiences, understandings, feelings, and motivations of injustice, I will reframe these engagements and distinguish between an aesthetics of resistances in the spheres of economic–political injustice (which may include environmental injustice), interactive–recognitive injustice, and injustices of subjectification, which psychologically correspond  to socio-subjectivity, inter-subjectivity, and intra-subjectivity. Many critical theorists neglect the nexus between different forms of injustices that sometimes emerge in the art world more clearly. For example, The Professional Native Indian Artists Inc., formed in the early 1970s in Canada (see LaValle, 2014) and consisting of seven indigenous group members, was a reference towards the 1920s Canadian “Group of Seven” landscape painters that challenged the supremacy of European painting by choosing Canadian rugged landscapes and developing their own styles (now considered pioneers of Canadian art). Yet, the native artists were left out of the Canadian art world (e.g., galleries and exhibitions), initially struggling against the assumption that First Nations could develop only craft; fighting for recognition in the public by organizing themselves, which in the end led to economic success (e.g., Norval Morisseau’s art is now established, recognized, and highly valued financially and artistically); and ultimately establishing the idea that First Nations subjectivity is part of Canadian art and self-understanding. For the topic of this book, indigenous art also raises a question about street art’s potential urban bias: in which way does art developed in inlets and small communities in the high North, often denounced as craft, count as street art? (See also the chapters by Howell and Smith in this book.) This nexus of different struggles indicates that the “typology” is a heuristic rather than an idealtypic feature of social reality. I will proceed not with a systematic survey of artworks but make selections based on personal streams of thought and experiences. By focusing on injustice, art is no longer fulfilling the notion of disinterested pleasure (Kant, 1968). Rather, art moves from a self-understood mission of appreciating the

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s­ublime to the critical agenda of addressing injustice, power, and resistance. However, I do not suggest that art, in general, or street art, in particular, needs to be instrumental and I am more interested in what art does in subjectivity and how a subject that recognizes, debates, and struggles with injustice, intellectually or bodily, moves from understanding art to action. Because this is not an empirical study I am focusing on the conditions for the possibility of resistance based on (street)art.

Economic–Political Injustice Injustice in the economic–political domain refers to the production and distribution of wealth created in the world or in a specific historically emerged geopolitically defined location, and to its consequences for the conduct of life. Traditionally, such differences have been discussed as class differences that are addressed in many of the arts. A classic example from the visual arts is Théodore Géricault’s (1791–1824) The Raft of the Medusa (Louvre, Paris), which portrays magnificently in neoclassical style the aftermath of the sinking of the French naval frigate Medusa in 1816 that saved (what we call now) the one percent and put the underclass passengers on a barely functioning raft that led to their demise, with only a few survivors. The raft is a metaphor for inequality, capitalism, or fascism and the daily struggles of the poor (see Teo, 2015). The Medusa has disappeared from public consciousness, but there is another nautical example from the early twentieth century that has remained ingrained in the mind of many people in the West, partially because of the 1997 film Titanic (James Cameron, Director), winner of an Academy Award for Best Picture. Although this film’s depiction of the sinking of the RMS Titanic emphasizes personal relationships, passion and love, death and loss, it also portrays the consequences (not the sources) of class differences. The history of this disaster can be used as a starting point for debating how capitalism was and is creating an unequal and unfair access to life, and although it would be possible to produce and distribute wealth in a way to ensure that there is enough for everyone, inequality is increasing under current conditions (see also debates about the consequences of income inequality; Wilkinson & Pickett, 2009).

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In the performing arts one should mention a mastermind for addressing economic–political differences and its connection to fascism: Bertolt Brecht (1898–1956). His works are also psychologically insightful as he portrays rather than denies the contradictory lives that we live and are forced to live, given our real systemic circumstances. For example, Brecht’s The Good Person of Szechwan (1943, first performance) focuses on subjectivity in that the protagonist does bad in order to be good in existing political–economic conditions. Understanding these contradictions would allow an audience to challenge and realize how people give up long-term opportunities for short-term gain (see Holzkamp, 1983), and that solutions that do not challenge the overarching structure are not real results. This theme appears in his Mother Courage and Her Children (1941, first performance): Mother Courage, a complex female character full of contradictions, does not learn from the war and even after losing all her children she still seeks to profit from the war. Brecht wanted to confront the realities of war, to juxtapose the opportunities for making profits in war with the realities of suffering and collaboration. He intended for the audience to transcend the psychological category of empathy with the mother in order to grasp the sociopolitical and economic contexts of war—as a first step to resist war. Accordingly, it is not an empathy deficit that plagues us but an empathy surplus (in other words, instead of focusing on empathy we should work on changing the political–economic system). Brecht could be accused of being too obvious and not subtle enough in his political plays. His hope that the contradictions plaguing the individual conduct of life would disappear under socialism has been proven wrong in historical reality, as struggles against social and economic power and for recognition have continued under real socialism (Stalinism). George Orwell (1903–50) understood some of those difficulties in his 1945 Animal Farm while keeping to the ideas of democratic socialism. Yet, given the historical experiences in real socialism, the ideological contempt for collective solutions has reduced the appetite for progressive struggles in the political–economic sphere in the West. One of the few more recent examples, and a possible response to Animal Farm, is the South Korean film Snowpiercer (Bong Joon-ho, Director) from 2013. The film keeps in a sensory way to a discussion of class differences and inequality and finds the solution in abandoning the system either maintained by

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the old elites or by new emerging elites (see also the capitalism and fascism-­critical works of Pier Paolo Pasolini, 1922–75). Specifically dedicated to an aesthetics of resistance is Peter Weiss’s (1988) novel (published between 1975 and 1981) where he follows working class teenagers in Germany in the 1930s and their appropriation of high art into an antifascist resistance. For example, they discuss the Altar of Pergamon (180–160 BCE), displayed in a museum in Berlin, showing the victory of the Greek Gods over the Giants (Titanomachia). The workers identify with the defeated sons of Ge, the Giants, Titans, Cyclops, and Erinyes, who represent the working classes, and reject the triumphant Greek gods that represent Nazi Germany for them. In the novel, 100 pieces of art—including paintings, literature, theater, and architecture— are discussed, providing the reader with new ways of theorizing art. Weiss makes an important aesthetic point: the art and the intentions of the artists are less important than the interpreters of the art and we can appropriate many different forms of art for our own struggles. But political–economic inequality is not only produced in capitalism, but also in slave-holding societies, as we can see in the literature and in the many films of that genre. It is now generally accepted in the West that slavery is unjust (see also the works by Kara Walker, born 1969). The more difficult question is the degree to which slavery is a problem of recognition, or of the political-economic system. For instance, the American public accepts to a certain degree the consequences of slavery on the intellectual, economic, and practical life of African Americans. It is more difficult to connect slavery to the successes of an economic system that produced and still produces enormous racial wealth inequalities or, even more, to ask for financial reparations for slavery. It creates the zone where recognition and redistribution come into conflict (see Fraser & Honneth, 2003). Similarly, one could make the argument that as long as slave-labor factories outside of the West are out of sight, they are also out of mind. It is left to documentary filmmakers and photographers to make the case against slave labor. For example, the documentary The Corporation (Achbar, Abbott, & Bakan, 2003) shows not only the practices of corporations in developing countries, but also makes an interesting link to psychology: beginning with the US judicial decision in the nineteenth

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century that a corporation is, in legal terms, a person, the documentary poses the question of what kind of a person the corporation is. Using the International Statistical Classification of Diseases system, the documentary concludes that the corporation has a psychopathic, antisocial personality disorder. Although this can be criticized as another example of psychologization, it is a creative way of thinking about corporations and their exploits. As with issues of race, gender topics (as well as other social categories) have dimensions that involve recognition and identity, but also the political–economic sphere. Labor injustices concern the often unpaid labor of women, economic exploitation, and unequal pay, all of which have been addressed in the social sciences and the arts (a recently re-emerging debate concerns the salary difference between female and male actors). A very effective tool in the visual arts was the work by the Guerilla Girls who, in the 1980s, began to question the gender disparity in the arts. One of their most recognized posters, presented in 1989, depicts a partly naked woman with a gorilla head and contains the following text: “Do women have to be naked to get into the Met. Museum?” with evidence below: “Less than 5% of the artists in the Modern Art Sections are women, but 85% of nudes are female.” It addresses not only injustice in the political–economic sphere, but also subjectification, identity, and recognition (see Ryzik, 2015) (see also the Pussy Riot protesters or Frida Kahlo’s work).

Injustices of Representation, Recognition, and Interaction Gender injustices relate to not being recognized, having no voice, not being allowed to participate in or to be represented in social and political processes, or even in relations in which “I” disappear. The issue of women’s labor is not only one of distribution, but also one of recognition. Where one locates the problem is itself a political decision with consequences. This becomes clear in the context of income inequality. Recognition and changing consciousness is easier than changing habits

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and structures from which “I” benefit. An intellectual appropriation of the arts is less effective than embodied practices of solidarity and significant social–structural changes of which many persons have become suspicious. The dialectics of class and its political manifestation in real socialist countries have shown a movement from liberation to oppression, and privileging class over categories such as gender or ethnicity has led to new forms of domination. Borbely (2014), in his novel, describes, using a first-person narrative, the experiences of a child in communist Hungary, a brutal and unforgiving lifeworld, where experiences of humiliation and discrimination are rampant, because of assumed ethnicity. The author portrays a chilling atmosphere that the child does not comprehend at first, where injustices of recognition and imposed poverty impact identities and the conduct of one’s life and where not being a party member and an outsider leads to new forms of injustices. But oppression also breeds excellence in artwork, as can be seen in the works by one of the most recognized and pre-eminent contemporary artists: Ai Weiwei (born 1957) engages with subtle and sometimes not so subtle forms of oppression in the People’s Republic of China. For example, Weiwei (2014) produced a taxi window crank out of glass (p. 129), which, at first sight, does not seem to bear any resemblance to resistance. It is relevant to understanding the political context in which the Communist Party asked cab drivers to remove the cranks so that passengers could not drop critical leaflets through the open window during the Congress. His critique was also sharpened regarding the 2008 Sichuan earthquake where corruption at the government level, and lax building standards or enforcement of building codes, contributed to the death of many citizens (e.g., Rebar in Marble, p. 177). More generally, his work Study on Perspective (pp. 121–125) shows self-taken photos that include the raised middle finger in front of famous buildings and icons of culture (Eiffel tower, Tate Modern, Opera house in Sydney, etc.), an indication of challenging authority and tradition. Weiwei’s art shows us that aesthetics is not about mourning, but about the emergence of new political subjectivities (see Rancière, 2004). Although historically and culturally, the visual arts of painting and drawing remain the subject of broad public discussions in the West (e.g., when they are

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c­ hallenging existing religious ideas), they have less a standing in the mainstream than does film (this is perhaps especially so in the United States). Although there are discussions about the public funding of the visual arts, governments in the West usually do not restrict artists the way totalitarian regimes do. Power is expressed through money in lifeworlds: a famous example is Diego Rivera’s (1886–1957) removed/destroyed mural at the Rockefeller Center in New  York City because it contained a portrait of Lenin, as well as symbols of socialism. A less well-known example on a local level is a painting at my university entitled Palestinian Roots (Ahmad Al Abid, painter), which portrays a young Palestinian man overlooking a landscape with a bulldozer in the process of destroying a tree, with his arms behind his back, holding rocks in his hands (connoting resistance and perhaps contemplating whether to throw them or not). A well-known financial donor requested that the “anti-Israel” painting be removed, and, after this request was refused, decided to withdraw his financial support for a university program 1 (see also the chapters by Hamdy and Jarbou in this book) (Picture 1). Conflicts, wars, and violent struggles resulting from economic–political power, recognition, independence, discrimination, religion, ideology, and so on—unfriendly interactions in the widest sense—are extensively

Picture 1  Palestinian Roots, Ahmad Al Abid, York University, Toronto, Photo by Thomas Teo

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depicted, for and against, in the arts. A classic example is Pablo Picasso’s (1881–1973) Guernica (Museo Reina Sofia, Madrid), the masterpiece that shows the consequences of war to a civilian population, which portrays a scene in 1937 when German warplanes supporting General Franco bombed Guernica, a city in the Basque region, during the civil war in Spain. The painting shows the result of destruction, but also questions what it means to be Spanish (one can see the bull in the painting as either looking at or keeping a memory of what happened). Many movies have been made in the context of war; music has been composed (e.g., Benjamin Britten’s War Requiem of 1962); and installations have been presented— for example, by Hans Haacke (born 1936) (MOMA poll: “Would the fact that Governor Rockefeller has not denounced President Nixon's Indochina Policy be a reason for your not voting for him in November?”); see also Sue Coe’s (born 1951) critique of the media in recent American wars; and Nancy Spero’s (1926–2009) critique of the Vietnam War. Widely covered in the mainstream arts, such as films, are issues of racism (Spike Lee’s films); sexism (e.g., Thelma and Louise, 1991); homophobia and Aids (Philadelphia, 1993); and American culture and politics (Michael Moore’s films). Mainstream art does not refuse to take on issues of recognition (see also the music world). Art does not have to be avant-­ garde (Dada) in order to change perceptions of an audience. Indeed, many national artists deal with political issues on a local basis. Much of art is, in fact, political when addressing the many issues of injustice that people encounter, from legal injustice to environmental injustice to some kind of personal injustice.

Subjectification as Injustice Identity and its psychological consequences are core to the aesthetic project and are commonly discussed in mainstream culture. One could not even do marginal justice in enumerating the art works that address identity issues. But by subjectification critical psychologists do not mean challenges to identity but rather mechanisms of power that create an identity. With Foucault we refer to the ways that power and games of power contribute to the creation of an autonomously experienced self. The problem for the arts is that

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they have participated in the subjectification of persons. This problem is less one of amusement for the masses (Horkheinmer & Adorno, 1982) than of submission to socially produced forms of identity (consider music videos, for instance). To a certain degree we all submit to such processes (after all, we are societal beings), but the point of resistance would be to extend those forms of subjectivity or to reject them through aesthetic means. That aesthetics may shape and change identity is discussed in psychology and philosophy (e.g., Roald & Lang, 2013), but I am less interested in “who I am” or “who I can become” through art and more interested in identifying the limits of my first person standpoint and in determining how my standpoint becomes a changepoint through aesthetics. This changepoint is about resisting identity and not about choosing forms of identity (see also Papadopoulos, 2008). For example, art has a long history of describing and shaping ideas about mental illness, but more relevant for this discussion is how art can challenge established ideas about the “mad” subject (and transform subjectivity). Psychoanalytic thought has been assimilated and become influential in the art world (consider moving images) to the degree that art and psychologization have formed important allies. But such concinnity emphasizes the need for resisting subjectification, an aesthetics that is critical, and replaces new conformity with disconformity. Max Frisch (1911–91) addressed the imposed construction of a (false) identity in his play Andorra (Frisch, 1964), where the protagonist struggles with identity in a context where ethnic origins are important. Falsely identified as a Jewish person, the main character fulfills stereotypes and even when the lie is disclosed, does not accept the truth, nor does his community, which decides to kill him. The play is a reflection on German fascism, and on the denial of responsibility of the community. But from the perspective of subjectivity the play is about a socially and interpersonally constructed identity, embedded in prejudice, that is adopted intra-­ subjectively. The play does not directly target subjectification but reminds the audience to reflect about their constructions of minorities and challenges the subject to consider refusing culturally constructed ascriptions, to the degree that that is possible. Identity and agency find their limits in the objective social reality and are embedded in a social framework, which constrains the limits for a subject.

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Experiences of the outsider are important in art and have led to excellence in creativity (see also Dermutz, 2001, on the theater director, Zadek). It is not surprising that the experiences of immigrants and refugees have been “discussed” recently in the arts. Doris Salcedo (born 1958) installed a full-length crack in the concrete floor of the Tate Modern in London in 2007, calling it Shibboleth (the crack is now filled but its contours are still visible) (Picture 2). In the biblical tradition Shibboleth is a tool that allowed insiders to distinguish themselves from outsiders through language. For the subaltern immigrant to the affluent North, having a foreign accent becomes the sign for making distinctions, and the crack symbolizes the border that separates the foreigner, the immigrant, or the refugee from the good- and bad-willing nativists. It is a reminder for immigrants that an accent marks you for life and that your identity will always be challenged (where do you come from?). The question remains how such a subtle message in content (alluding to biblical stories) that is sensible, easily noticeable visually, but still an abstract installation, changes the standpoint of persons.

Picture 2  Filled in Shibboleth in Tate Modern, London, Photo by Thomas Teo

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The case of the dialectic of oppression and emancipation, where emancipation moves into oppression and vice versa, becomes even more problematic for the “alien.” For example, the hijab, and even better exemplified in the niqab—widely seen as symbols of oppression in the West, given the history of oppression against women and their struggles—may turn into symbols of resistance for the female subject that rejects culturally imposed ideas about liberty. It remains to be seen which subjectivity is more subjectified: that of the woman wearing a hijab, or that of the person who in a conditioned manner reacts negatively, using preformed arguments. Art can aid in decontextualizing this situation, which again is connected, political–economically, in terms of recognition and subjectivity. Artistic media need to be able to address such complexity. Another example of resisting identities is work by the German artist Anselm Kiefer (born 1945), who, in his earlier works, discussed issues of German identity and the question of how being a German artist is possible after fascism and the atrocities of the war (see Biro, 2013). For example, in Heroic Symbols Kiefer photographs himself with the “Hitler Gruß” in front of various European sites; in Interior he paints, using various materials, Albert Speer’s Mosaic Room in the New Reich Chancellery in Berlin, but distorts it so that it no longer appears neoclassical but rather dark, broken, and rotten, as do many of his landscape photographs. But for Kiefer the point is not only about the “darkness” of the Nazi regime, but also about the ridiculousness of their leaders (see Kiefer & Dermutz, 2010), citing Chaplin’s film as an example of dealing with fascism. Mass culture (popular music or film) has included the outsider identity, as well as LGBTQ, indigenous, alcoholic, criminal, and disabled identities, to name a few. Local problems of specific groups or persons are addressed, working with identity and recognition. Despite the important function of description and habituation (a gay couple kissing on TV), the question remains whether old stereotypes are replaced with new ones. There is also another critical stream of argument: how injustices in the political–economic system remain hidden behind struggles for recognition and identity, or how, using my own terminology, socio-subjectivity is defocused behind inter- and intra-subjectivity, a nexus made impossible to discern. Foucault’s solution, to install one’s existence as a piece of

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art, is out of reach for most people (and is to a significant degree elitist) (see Rabinow, 1984). It assumes that intra- and inter-psychological engagements are sufficient. Such engagements may very well reinforce a restricted over a generalized agency (Holzkamp’s, 1983, terminology)—a return to Max Stirner (1806–1856) rather than to the idea that we can collectively change the world.

 onditions for the Possibility of Resistance: C From Traditional to Street Art Implicit, in some of the arguments about art’s resisting potential, is the common differentiation between “higher” and “lower” art. These terms refer (for me) not to the intrinsic value of art, but to the cultural requirements and knowledge traditions that render them meaningful. The talk about “awe” or the “sublime” in art is not independent of being able to derive (sensible, intellectual, or practical) meaning from it. Mass art need not be afflicted with the problem of reaffirming identity and supporting the economic status quo: many mainstream movies challenge established injustices. But because in mainstream filmmaking huge sums of money are involved, the issue of injustice becomes a problem of marketability. One could reasonably argue that it also becomes a problem of ­authenticity: can we trust a multimillionaire musician or director to be “real” about the issue of economic injustice? Yet, the ethical issue of judging critical art as authentic or not is no longer as important as it used to be, which itself reflects a current Zeitgeist that values pragmatics over morality. Street art promises to escape such problems. The advantage of street art is to provide basic “messages” about injustices in the political–economic system. For example, in Valparaiso, Chile, a town that is known for its street art, that even offers graffiti tours, there was displayed a graffiti in the form of a simple text painted on the wall of the Palacio Baburizza (Fine Arts Museum) that reads: “Capitalismo=Terrorismo” (see also the chapters by Latorre and Zanella in this book) (Picture 3). A more complex message about faith, identity, and consumerism using wordplays is produced by Endless Worship (Picture 4).

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Picture 3  Capitalismo = Terrorismo, Valparaiso, Chile, Photo by Thomas Teo

Ideally, in street art primacy is given to interpreter, the art of resistance is more important than the artist or even the art, and there is a c­ onnection between living and doing art. The many examples in traditional art where artists engage with resistance but do not live it in real life is a situation that should be theorized rather than moralized. Museums can be visited for free or with minimal financial burden; of course, the building and space is highly abstracted from the space where most people live. The appropriation of street art in an urban landscape is free and may address local or global injustices and the production is cheap, while not denying the risks involved. I am not saying that the neoliberal market does not produce great art; empirically it does—my point is that the resisting function and the nexus between society, art, and subjectification is reinforced rather than challenged within this market. The arts are part of the logic of capitalism, and support it. It is not surprising that the musician, Bono, who is

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Picture 4  Endless Worship, Wall painting in London 2016, Photo, Courtesy Klaus Dermutz

well known for his philanthropic work, is a defender of capitalism, from which he benefits (tax benefit schemes) (see Haye & Seymour, 2014). The promise of art that is not captured by the neoliberal market can be maintained in street art and independent forms of art that admittedly can be coopted very quickly, as history has shown (Reinecke, 2012).

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The dialectics of the market can also be seen with the neoconceptual artist Wim Delvoye (born 1965) who installed Cloaca, “representing” the human digestive system where on one side food is entered and on the other side feces emerge (see Delvoye, 2013). But in the end, Delvoye, conceptualizing a critique of art, sells the products, vacuum-packed in clear plastic, to art buyers for a significant amount of money. The contradiction of art and money, particularly in this case, and of motivation and unintended consequences, the awareness of social injustices, and so on, require multiple reflexivities without which any critical dimension might be undermined. This leads to the core thesis of doing (street)art in neoliberal contexts: the less that money is involved in art the higher the resisting affordances. The “logic” of money in a neoliberal world “contaminates” the resisting potential of art. In doing what one criticizes, without addressing the issue or reflecting on it—even if it is for demonstration—making it part of the market cements the reality of submission and the impossibility of escape. Outstanding architecture, despite its sublime beauty, has become more and more a luxury for the rich (which was not always the case, as the Hundertwasser house in Vienna suggests, originally intended as public housing2). Money also leads to a division between the producers and consumers of art, but these roles make it easier for the basic consumer, unless he/she is buying art for collection or trade, to avoid the logic of the neoliberal market. Therein lies the promise of street art: It is one of the very few art forms that would be able to maintain (if wanted) its independence from the market. Street art can co-opt commercial art and leave it to the interpreter. I take Tom Sachs’s (born 1966) slogan “Kill all artists,” reproduced anonymously on a house wall in Venice, to mean that artists are supporting rather than challenging the status quo, with “successful” artists benefitting enormously from the current economy (Picture 5). Of course, we may not know the intent of the “artist,” but intent is less relevant than the “observer’s” meaning-making in terms of resistance. Street art can take the “originator” out of the equation and in doing so can undermine the attribution of creativity and genius to a single individual. Yet, we may not know if reproducing Che Guevara’s (1928–67) iconic face (photographed by Alberto Korda) in various commercial and

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Picture 5  Kill All Artists, Wall painting in Venice 2016, Photo, Courtesy Klaus Dermutz

non-commercial contexts is an act of habit, fashion, or still, resistance (see also the chapter by Mattar in this book). Recent work on aesthetics emphasizes the emancipatory potential of art (Roald & Køppe, 2015) and even modifies the critical concept of interpellation (Road, 2015), coining intra-pellation, a changing self-­ understanding based on the experience of art. It is a “projection of feelings and imaginings onto the work of art (externalization) which the work of art somehow confirms and expands, and in meeting this expansion, one agrees and identifies with it (internalization)” (p.  134). The focus in such analyses remains on art and the subject and not on injustice or resistance. Yet, critical questions remain: “resistance against what?” and “which injustices?” Critical theorists need to clarify which experiences of injustice are legitimate and why (e.g., do they include feelings of injustice because of immigration or because the country is no longer “great,” etc.).

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From the nexus of injustices that can be located in the political–economic system, in interaction, and in subjectification, significant conceptual issues regarding resistance and (street)art can be raised: in which way, can (street)art overcome intra-subjectivity? Related to this abstract question is the more concrete second question: in which way is (street)art disclosing the nexus of the political with the personal, a neoliberal reality that demands and constructs particular subjectivities that can be described as one-dimensional? Because of neoliberal subjectification processes that engage and involve the agency of subjects, it is difficult to envision resistance. Neoliberalism (e.g., Harvey, 2005) connects an economic system with identity and interaction and produces a new level of invisible control, in which the individual is held accountable, but this control is experienced as “normal” (“I” worked hard” and thus “I” am successful). It is a society where important steps are pre-fabricated, but where the remaining small strides are experienced as freedom. Can (street) art address this problem? Another question addresses how we can move from art appreciation, consciousness raising, and changing of minds and hearts to actions of resistance. This is probably the most difficult question, and one cannot necessarily demand an answer from (street)art. I have always been struck by Brecht theater performances in Austria and Canada, where a typically upper-middle-class (older) audience seems to enjoy the plays. Yet, this enjoyment represents the extent of engagement, which seems not to affect consciousness, let alone actions. I do not blame individuals for this, as much of theater is an element of distinction (Bourdieu, 1984), and art directors, in concert with the Zeitgeist, tend to emphasize the psychological and not the structural dimension of injustice. The lack of action is embedded in a neoliberal reality where structural change is discredited and made difficult (the new nihilism). The problem is that “higher” art, when focused on content, often requires pre-knowledge, which renders it elitist: a good example is Weiss’s (1988) 950-page novel, which, although written from the perspective of the working class, is highly complex and demands a certain knowledge horizon. Admittedly, such anecdotal evidence would require empirical substantiation but it is worth asking whether street art is a solution to this conundrum.

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Aesthetics needs to include not only debates about appreciation, modality, disinterested pleasure, beauty, order, art theory, and so on (see Gaut & Mciver Lopes, 2013), but also discussions about totalitarian structures, the nexus of economic injustice, a lack of recognition, and subjectification. Art need not only address experiences of alienation (Horkheimer & Adorno, 1982), but the sources of alienation, the role that life in general may play (existential dimension), and what the concrete conduct of life in specific socio-historical formations means. In which ways can (street) art contribute to a resisting agency? I do not have an aesthetic solution to the problem, except to say that all art is political; but not all of art resists injustices. Thus, in a Kantian sense reflection begins with the conditions that make it possible for art to address such problems (as they relate to subjects). (Street)art not only needs to remove itself form the logic of money, but needs to overcome experiences of injustices once removed (if one observes injustices against others in one’s context) or twice removed (if one observes injustices against others in the past that are not part of one’s own context). Being able to overcome the gap between something that happened a long time ago and has nothing more to do with “me” (Raft of the Medusa), and being able to evoke resistance is challenging. This can be done by focusing on the intellectual or the sensible dimension, with the latter giving art an advantage over academic seminars. Intra-subjectively, a general suture model is needed that extends beyond film (see also Butte, 2008) and that addresses practically, not theoretically, how the passive observer of visual, performing or street arts can be brought into a generalized agency—which (in my terms) also means to move from intra-­subjectivity to inter-subjectivity, and then to socio-subjectivity (sociopellation). Again, street art has the potential to do so much more than traditional art. The potential not only lies in reclaiming public spaces,3 which is an act of resistance, but to fill it with resisting content. Following this point, (street)art needs to reduce the gap between the producer and observer/interpreter of art—not in the sense that “my” life becomes a piece of art (Foucault) but in the sense that  “I” understand life as societal and not simply private or existential. It changes the conduct of my life, should “I” lack the competence or knowledge of art history to produce art on my own. This again means that the artist becomes less

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important than the art interpreter. It seems that street art enables the democratization of art and a move away from the celebrity culture. Yet, the dialectics of individualization makes street art struggle with that notion (we have street art celebrities such as Frank Shepard Fairey, Blek the Rat, Banksy, etc.). From a critical point of view, one does not need to know the name of an individual  artist in order to derive resisting meaning.4 (Street)art should less reaffirm a standpoint, but allow for changepoints concerning the subject. “My” life is always embedded in larger social, cultural, and historical contexts. Art is about expanding the subject’s horizon rather than limiting it (which is a general function of art but in the case of injustices it is about expanding the horizon about the nexus). An advantage of art is that it does not need to focus on the intellectuality of human mental life but on sensibility, emotions, desires, hopes, fantasies, and bodies (see also the chapter by Mcphie in this book). This immediacy allows for the freedom to “grasp” in one’s subjectivity the nexus without a lengthy academic lecture, which would mean focusing on a particular form of intelligence. For instance, the street artist ALIAS in Berlin often uses children and teenagers to make this emotional, non-­ political political point.5 A redefinition of beauty is required for this stream of argument (see also the chapter by Nielsen in this book). Beauty may be the ability to “debate” or reflect on the nexus of injustices that binds socio-subjectivity, inter-subjectivity, and intra-subjectivity. Resistance is not only an internal process. The ways in which ideas and actions are interiorized allows us to externalize them into a larger context. As important as internal conflicts may be for an individual (e.g., anxieties or obsessions) or a group (recognition), resistance needs to move to the overarching systems that are connected to those conflicts. Only then will the individual be able to move to action, to understand the possibility of action, and to begin to appreciate the connections between art, resistance, and the conduct of everyday life. Street art promises more hope to do so than traditional art and could address the dialectics of resistance, resisting resistance, and enriching its trajectory through reflection and inspiring critical thought and action. But this itself is an expression of hope more than anything else.

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Notes 1. See, e.g., the Toronto Star: http://www.cbc.ca/radio/asithappens/as-it-happens-wednesday-edition-1.3422116/pro-palestinian-mural-causesdeep-divisions-at-york-university-1.3422890 2. http://www.hundertwasser-haus.info/en/ 3. See StreetARToronto at: http://www1.toronto.ca/wps/portal/contentonly ?vgnextoid=bebb4074781e1410VgnVCM10000071d60f89RCRD 4. For example, John Hughes, the director of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, set his three heroes against paternal authority into the Chicago Art Institute where they give art an existential interpretation. https://www.youtube. com/watch?v=p89gBjHB2Gs 5. See: http://artelocal.eu/street-art-by-alias-in-berlin/

References Achbar, M., Abbott, J., & Bakan, J.  (Writers). (2003). The Corporation. In M. Achbar & B. Simpson (Producers). Canada: Mongrel Media. Biro, M. (2013). Anselm Kiefer. London: Phaidon. Borbely, S. (2014). Die Mittellosen: Ist der Messias schon weg? [The dispossessed: Has the Messias already left?]. Berlin: Suhrkamp. Bourdieu, P. (1984). Distinction: A social critique of the judgement of taste. London: Routledge & Kegan. (Original work published 1979). Butte, G. (2008). Suture and the narration of subjectivity in film. Poetics Today, 29(2), 277–308. Davies, W. (2015). The happiness industry: How the government and big business sold us well-being. London: Verso. Delvoye, W. (2013). Wim Delvoye. See webpage: http://www.wimdelvoye.be Dermutz, K. (2001). Die Außenseiter-Welten des Peter Zadek [The outsider-worlds of Peter Zadek]. Salzburg: Residenz. Foucault, M. (1983). Afterword: The subject and power. In H.  Dreyfus & P.  Rabinow (Eds.), Michel Foucault: Beyond structuralism and hermeneutics (2nd ed., pp. 208–226). Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Fraser, N., & Honneth, A. (2003). Redistribution or recognition? A politcial-­ philosophcial exchange. London: Verso. Frisch, M. (1964). Andorra. London: Methuen. Gaut, B., & Mciver Lopes, D. (Eds.). (2013). The Routledge companion to aesthetics (3rd ed.). London: Routledge.

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Habermas, J. (1984). The theory of communicative action (T. McCarthy, Trans.). Boston, MA: Beacon Press. Habermas, J.  (1987). The theory of communicative action. Volome 2: Lifeworld and system: A critique of functionalist reason (T. McCarthy, Trans.). Boston, MA: Beacon Press. Harvey, D. (2005). A brief history of neoliberalism. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hayes, N., & Seymour, R. (2014). Philantropic poverty: Bono and other philanthropic capitalists push charity to defend property. Jacobin. Retrieved from https://www.jacobinmag.com/2014/11/philanthropic-poverty/ Holzkamp, K. (1983). Grundlegung der Psychologie [Foundation of psychology]. Frankfurt am Main, Germany: Campus. Horkheimer, M., & Adorno, T. W. (1982). Dialectic of enlightenment. New York: Continuum. Kant, I. (1968). Kritik der Urteilskraft [Critique of judgment] (W. Weischedel, Ed.). Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. (Original work published 1790). Kiefer, A., & Dermutz, K. (2010). Die Kunst geht knapp nicht unter: Anselm Kiefer im Gespräch mit Klaus Dermutz [Art barely sinks: Anselm Kiefer in conversation with Klaus Demutz]. Berlin: Suhrkamp. LaVallee, M. (curator). (2014). Professional Indian Artists Inc., Group of seven: Janvier, Ray, Morrisseau, Odjig, Sanchez, Beardy, Cobiness. Regina, Saskatchewan: Mackenzie Art Gallery. Marcuse, H. (1964). One dimensional man: Studies in the ideology of advanced industrial society. Boston, MA: Beacon Press. Papadopoulos, D. (2008). In the ruins of representation: Identity, individuality, subjectification. British Journal of Social Psychology, 47(Pt 1), 139–165. Rabinow, P. (Ed.). (1984). The Foucault reader. New York: Pantheon Books. Rancière, J.  (2004). The politics of aesthetics: The distribution of the sensible (G. Rockhill, Trans.). New York: Continuum. Reinecke, J.  (2012). Street-art: Eine Subkultur zwischen Kunst und Kommerz [Street-art: A subculture between art and commerce] (2nd ed.). Bielefeld: Transcript. Roald, T. (2015). The subject of aesthetics: A psychology of art and experience. Leiden: Brill. Roald, T., & Køppe, S. (2015). Sense and subjectivity. Hidden potentials in psychological aesthetics. Journal of Theoretical and Philosophical Psychology, 35(1), 20–34. Roald, T., & Lang, J. (Eds.). (2013). Art and identity: Essay on the aesthetic creation of mind. New York: Rodopi.

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Ryzik, M. (2015, August 5). The Guerrilla Girls, after 3 decades, still rattling art world cages. The New  York Times. Retrieved from http://www.nytimes. com/2015/08/09/arts/design/the-guerrilla-girls-after-3-decades-still-rattling-art-world-cages.html?_r=0 Schraube, E., & Hojholt, C. (Eds.). (2016). Psychology and the conduct of everyday life. London: Routledge. Sugarman, J.  (2015). Neoliberalism and psychological ethics. Journal of Theoretical and Philosophical Psychology, 35(2), 103–116. Teo, T. (2015). Essay on an aesthetics of resistance. In J. Cresswell, A. Haye, A.  Larrain, M.  Morgan, & G.  Sullivan (Eds.), Dialogue and debate in the making of theoretical psychology (pp. 303–310). Concord, ON: Captus. Weiss, P. (1988). Die Ästhetik des Widerstands [The aesthetics of resistance]. Frankfurt am Main, Germany: Suhrkamp. (Original work published 1975 [vol. 1], 1978 [vol. 2], 1981 [vol. 3]). Weiwei, A. (2014). Evidence (exhibition catalogue). Berlin: Prestel. Wilkinson, R., & Pickett, K. (2009). The spirit level: Why greater equality makes societies stronger. New York: Bloomsbury Press. Thomas Teo  is a professor in the Historical, Theoretical, and Critical Studies of Psychology Program at York University (Canada), one of the few programs in the world where faculty and students can pursue advanced work in the history and theory of psychology. He is Fellow of APA and CPA, former President of the International Society for Theoretical Psychology (ISTP), and Past-President for APA’s Society of Theoretical and Philosophical Psychology (Division 24). He is former editor of the Journal of Theoretical and Philosophical Psychology (2009– 14). Recently, he edited and published the four-volume Encyclopedia of Critical Psychology (Springer, New York) and co-authored (R. Walsh, T. Teo, A. Baydala) the textbook A Critical History and Philosophy of Psychology: Diversity of Context, Thought, and Practice with Cambridge University Press. He has been active in the advancement of theoretical, philosophical, and historical psychology from a critical perspective throughout his professional career. His research has been critical–psychological in order to provide a more reflexive understanding of the foundations, trajectories, and possibilities of current subjectivity and the psychological humanities.

Resisting Forms: Prolegomena to an Aesthetics of Resistance Robert E. Innis

Intervening Art John Dewey’s (1934) pragmatist masterwork, Art as Experience, as well as other writings, is of extraordinary value in helping us to understand the aesthetic importance, roles, and matrices of graffiti and street art as “arts of resistance.” Dewey supplies analytical tools to establish that art in its various forms and the experiences to which they give rise are not in themselves “ethereal,” standing apart from the streams, eddies, and vortices of everyday life. Dewey affirms the social and political role of art forms in developing a world of organized and humanely ordered energies. He argues that art and the aesthetic grow out of the structures of ordinary experience, being related to them, as he puts it in a striking image, the way a mountain rises out of, yet is continuous with, the lowlands of a plain.1

R.E. Innis (*) University of Massachusetts Lowell, Lowell, MA, USA Aalborg University, Aalborg, Denmark © The Author(s) 2017 S.H. Awad, B. Wagoner (eds.), Street Art of Resistance, Palgrave Studies in Creativity and Culture, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-63330-5_4

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So, on such an account, there is no objection to looking at graffiti and street art as arts of resistance from a very broad-based and distinctively aesthetic point of view and to not subjecting them to criteria and expectations from a normatively conceived “art world.” No one looking at graffiti or street art expects them to have the kind of permanence that we assign to art works in the traditional sense. They are subject to obliteration at any moment for political, aesthetic, religious, and other reasons. The deadly combination of anti-Semitic graffiti on overturned tombstones is not of the same sort as antigovernment graffiti on walls and buildings directed toward a military junta or toward a single-party dictatorship maintained by secret police or a foreign power. Such types of “resisting forms” evoke counteraction of the part of authorities. Much graffiti and street art are, in fact, of a very high aesthetic and conceptual order and what they are “resisting” is by no means always the same. The arts of resistance belong to the semiotic or symbolic order. They are embodied in different types of sign configurations—images or all sorts, linguistic slogans, sculptural structures—with their own “logics” and intended effects. Charles S. Peirce called these effects their interpretants or “proper significate effects,” encompassing the affective, actional, and ideational orders. Graffiti and street art, whether linguistic or visual or a combination of elements including street performances, are made up of multiform symbolic structures functioning as tools of communication with the goal of creating shared experience in some forms, encompassing a continuum from sentiment to thought (see Dewey, 1927; Innis, 1994, 2017). In their decentered forms of appearing, graffiti and street art, while historically not totally new phenomena, have a spontaneity and creativity that in terms of scope is a novel type of combined activity, participation in which Dewey (1927) calls “additive.” These forms feed off one another in ways essentially different from the interaction of things purely in terms of physical energy or from human interactions in terms of force. As belonging to the symbolic order, the arts of resistance can be seen in many, though not all, their forms as motivated when and where open communication, which should be the bond that holds a community together, has broken down or when, in fact, it is forbidden or systematically prohibited or radically and systematically distorted. But this very situation is itself raised up to common perception when the phases and

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sources of constrained communication and the differential forms of power in a community or a society are made to appear and are recorded in arresting symbolic images of all sorts. It is the aesthetic intervening through graffiti and street art that makes them so interesting. Thinking of them in aesthetic terms and not just in terms of their message or discursive content or rhetorical functions foregrounds the intimate, indeed essential, connection between them and the media in which they are embodied. Graffiti and street art need the effective support of a medium, with some types more apt than others. They can have, or lack, aesthetic form, and independently of their content can have, or lack, an aesthetic effect, being “dead,” or lacking an organization of energy, from an experiential point of view. At the same time, it is this organization of energy that contributes to, indeed constitutes, the semiotic and aesthetic power of the arts of resistance.

The Aesthetic Threshold Dewey makes a pivotal distinction between mere experiencing and “having an experience,” a difference marked by the crossing of a threshold between ordinary instrumental “passing through” experience to a “consummatory” dwelling in experience for its own sake (see Innis, 1994, 2016b for an extensive discussion of thresholds of meaning). Such a dwelling-in is in response to objects and situations that have a distinctive quality due to their complete integration of means into their form. A meal can deliver needed calories, but it can be a deeply significant event in which each bite reveals a new taste and texture, just as the pattern in a fine rug can be contemplated independently of the rug’s function as a floor covering. The eating and the perceiving in these two cases each have a quality that is not independent of their indwelt underpinnings (see Polanyi, 1958, 1966 for the general relevance of the notion of indwelling). In his 1930 essay, “Qualitative Thought,” Dewey argued that “the world in which we immediately live, that in which we strive, succeed, and are defeated is pre-eminently a qualitative world. What we act for, suffer, and enjoy are things in their qualitative determinations” (195; see Innis, 2011).

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While, as Dewey (1934) says, experience goes on continuously in a circuit of interaction, “under conditions of resistance and conflict, aspects and elements of the self and the world that are implicated in this interaction qualify experience with emotion and ideas so that conscious intent emerges” (p.  36). In normal life we find constant “extraneous interruptions” and intermittent states of “inner lethargy” (p. 36), but we also find life punctuated by singular moments that are consummations and not merely cessations and as such they force themselves upon us. These are what Dewey thinks are “real experiences,” which can be of many different sorts: the death of a spouse or parent, the birth of a child, a special meal connected with a celebration, the awarding of a degree, a military coup, a revolution, and so forth. Such experiences, which do not have to be positive, make up experiential wholes where “every successive part flows freely, without seam and without unfilled blanks, into what ensues” (p. 37). Indeed, as Dewey remarks, “a single quality…pervades the entire experience in spite of the variation of its constituent parts” (p.  38). These experiences are special islands of order and, to be sure, disorder in the flow of experience, which involve various transitory phases and temporary sequences with forms of unity that are lived through and which we engage in normal experiences without attending to them in themselves. These lived through, not lived in, phases and sequences fade into a merged past, whose residues live on in our habits of life and forms of feeling, but they do not stand out in any way, becoming a kind of multiplied overlaid image, a sort of existential palimpsest, a background for the various experientially intensified moments, which, in a different way, are also incorporated into our being. Life consists, in many ways, of interruptions or dispersion into the commonplace, a state that does not and cannot be completely avoided. Our lives depend on the flywheel of habit. But experience, Dewey argues in the normative mode, has to be fed, clearly not all the time, in such a way that there is a “sense of growing meaning conserved and accumulating toward an end that is felt as accomplishment of a process” (p.  40). This is the point of entry of the aesthetic into our lives. It encompasses a continuum from the supremely intellectual domains of science through art proper to the various forms of practical action. Dewey’s central claim is that “no experience of whatever sort is a unity unless it has esthetic quality” (p. 42), that is, a qualitative unity that is

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felt. Even our immersion in the ordinary is felt even if it is just the ever present somatic tonus that is the background of our lives, a kind of ground bass over against which our lives are composed. Dewey writes that in the aesthetic dimension “the perceived object or scene is emotionally pervaded throughout,” such that it touches us and we become receptive to it, surrendering ourselves to it by reason of its affective power (see Innis, 2016a). Each art work demands of us an “adequate yielding of self ” (p.  55), which is not something purely passive. Dewey thinks of perception as “an act of going-out of energy in order to receive, not a withholding of energy…We must summon energy and pitch it at a responsive key in order to take in” (p. 55). Perception is creative, and, indeed, on the part of the aesthetic perceiver as opposed to the creator, re-creative. Just as the artist selects, simplifies, clarifies, abridges, and condenses, so the perceiver follows in the same way, performing acts of abstraction that extract what is significant. These are factors entering into “comprehension” in the literal sense of the word: “a gathering together of details and particulars physically scattered into an experienced whole” (p. 56). The various forms of graffiti and street art, to be sure, are physically scattered but their evolving ensembles can become experienced wholes, with different kinds of unity of themes and purposes, as the following chapters illustrate. Dewey foregrounds that in a “vital experience” the intellectual, the practical, the emotional–affective cannot be divided from one another, although they are not to be identified or confused with one another, being essential factors in the constitution of experience. An intellectual conclusion, a practical result, and the binding unity of a defining affective quality each have their own feel or tone. But the distinctively aesthetic dimension, clearly delineated paradigmatically, but not exclusively, in a work of art, is not focused on conclusions or pragmatic results. “In a work of art there is no such single self-sufficient deposit. The end, the terminus, is significant not by itself but as the integration of the parts. It has no other existence” (p. 57). The “meaning” of a work of art is found in the integration of all its parts, without which it could not exist. The work of art comes alive in the experience of the perceiver in what Dewey calls an integral experience of form due to dynamic organization. But it is not just the work of art that comes alive. The perceiver becomes alive

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in encountering it and by being caught up in a “movement toward an inclusive and fulfilling close” (p. 58). The arts of resistance likewise aim toward such a moving enlivening of experience but with more than aesthetic intent. This movement is compared to William James’s famous image of the alternate flights and perchings of a bird, which are internally related to one another and make up a history. Each resting place of conscious experience is only a temporary stopping point on the continuing trajectory of a prior doing which is now absorbed or undergone, a doing which “carries in itself meaning that has been extracted and conserved” (p. 58). In such a course of consciousness, supported by what Dewey called “accrued meanings,” the “form of the whole is therefore present in every member” (p. 58). The aesthetic form of consciousness, as opposed to the form of intellectual and practical forms, taken separately and abstractly, foregrounds with startling clarity the rhythmic dialectic of doing and undergoing that constitute an experience, which appropriates us to an event of deep significance. Doings introduce variety and movement, emerging novelty, whereas undergoings supply unity and cohesion, the hanging-­togetherness of experience, which does not occur in experience without a willingness on our part to be put into motion. Dewey’s ringing conclusion is: An object is peculiarly and dominantly esthetic, yielding the enjoyment characteristic of aesthetic perception, when the factors that determine anything which can be called an experience are lifted high above the threshold of perception and are made manifest for their own sake. (pp. 58–59)

The essential characteristics of such an experience are, Dewey shows, cumulation, continuity, conservation, tension, and anticipation, which do not in many ways really describe the core features of the fragmentation of life in late modernity or the degradations attendant on poverty in all its forms. It is such fragmentation that graffiti and street art as arts of resistance in all their forms addresses (see Innis, 2002, Part Two, especially chap. 5). Dewey clearly shows how the processes of interaction between self and world in the spiraling and open-ended circuits of reconstruction are initiated as impulsions, rooted in need. The self must embody itself in

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“all the supports and sustenances without which a civilized life cannot be.” Such a need is, as he puts it, “a dynamic acknowledgement of this dependence of the self for wholeness upon its surroundings” (p.  61). This is a core motivating factor in the arts of resistance, as many of the essays in this book illustrate. Impulsion pushes the self forward. In this being pushed forward the self experiences resistances, the overcoming of which becomes “a matured background of relevant experiences” (p. 62). It is this double movement of overcoming resistances and carrying forward past achievements that underlies the universal processes of experiencing. Experience, looked at this way, achieves, or should achieve, “a balance between furthering and retarding conditions” (p. 63). If the path is too smooth or the resistances too difficult experience becomes flat or totally ineffective. The key is for things in the environment, no matter what, to become appropriated means for the self to become what it is. The environment becomes a medium for self-expression, not in the sense of exhibitionism, but in the sense of completion. Consciously taking up the world and the powers of our bodies into the processes of self-formation, shaping them into forms that have a public life, open to perception and to being potentiated, and in this way taking on a life of their own, the life of forms, is what the self does. Concrete existence is marked by immediacy and individuality, to be sure, and these come from the present, on whose wave we are ineluctably carried. But, Dewey remarks, “meaning, substance, content” comes from “what is embedded in the self from the past” (p. 74), the complicated motivating matrix of the arts of resistance.

Graffiti and Street Art as Expressive Objects Dewey’s analysis of the act of expression is oriented toward the construction of expressive objects in which the artist has organized materials into an affectively charged form. Every self-in-a-situation must find a means of “progressive organization of ‘inner’ and ‘outer’ material in organic connection with each other” and in which it can embody the felt meanings of its existence. The inner material of emotion and idea and the outer field of potentially expressive materials are related to one another in tension-­filled ways. The arts

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of resistance transform the material environment as a whole into media to be shaped in ways far different from the painter’s studio or the musician’s keyboard or instrument. Of course, in many respects they arise through the idealization and spiritualization of a natural impulse: to strike out at someone, to riot, to kill, set fire to, to erect a barricade, and so forth. Nevertheless, when recourse is had to these arts we have a phenomenon identical with the “normal” artist: expression becomes the “clarification of turbid emotion” and makes clear what these forms are making present and articulating. It is not just our appetites that are reflected in the mirror of art, including the arts of resistance, but the artists themselves recognize and appropriate to themselves a transfigured sense of a new power, which itself elicits resistances of various sorts. Expression in the case of the arts of resistance, as in “official” or “sanctioned” art, is not a series of discharges, but rather an “indirect road” (p. 81). It does not aim a physical arrow, or bullet, but utilizes semiotic weapons of various sorts that overspill their purely aesthetic effects. They are in this sense not “pure” art forms and are, the most part, not meant to be even if what makes them effective is not just their message but their embodied form, which shows creativity of the highest order. It is a force field of strong emotions that furnishes the impulsion to express resistance in these indirect forms. As Dewey remarks “having an outer effect is something very different from ordered use of objective conditions in order to give objective fulfillment to the emotion” (p. 81). This is what the arts of resistance do. The emotion is one of resistance to what Dewey (1930) called the “problematic situations” marking the social and political orders. No discursive argument is in progress with its laying out of reasons. Unlike the actors on a stage who must cooperate with other players in creating a certain effect and to maintain an “illusion” of reality, the arts of resistance artists are on a different kind of stage, a stage fraught with conflict, differential positions of power, and different visions of what they expect of a life in common, with shared meanings and equitable distribution of life’s goods and access to them. Fine art has taken up these issues and themes and presented them in pregnant images. But Dewey rejects any erection of a barrier between the impulse to create “fine” art and the types of impulsions “which work in

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modes of expression not usually brought under the caption of fine art” (p. 83). Both involve “organization of material so as to present the latter in a form directly fulfilling in experience” (p. 83). One of the reasons we can consider the arts of resistance important is not their discursive content, but their forms whose contexts are ones of various types of resistances expressed in various rhetorical modes. It is a peculiar aesthetic quality or unexpected placement in the case of street art that make us dwell on these forms and not focus merely upon their message. This aesthetic quality is a kind of ‘aura’ that lures us toward it, that arrests us, affects us, and provokes us to thought. Speaking of painting, but in a way clearly applicable to our recognition of the aesthetic force of graffiti and street art, Dewey writes: We say with truth that a painting strikes us. There is an impact that precedes all definite recognition of what it is about. As the painter Delacroix said about this first and preanalytic phase ‘before knowing what the picture represents you are seized by its magical accord.’ This effect is particularly conspicuous for most persons in music. The impression directly made by an harmonious ensemble in any art is often described as the musical quality of that art. (p. 151).

But this “original seizure” in the case of graffiti and street art is meant to both lead to and demand “subsequent critical discrimination” (p. 151) and not just about its purely aesthetic work and worth. It is not primarily the mere fact of graffiti’s and street art’s existence, but their at times seemingly random placement such that they elicit a kind of “total response” that effects a “total organic resonance” (p. 127), rooted in the body-in-a-­ situation/environment in which one moves. Such forms are encountered “in passing” and their effect is not just singular, but spread out into the field of experience in which one is both actor and acted upon. While, as Dewey puts it, “the bustle and ado of modern life render nicety of ­placement the feature most difficult for artists to achieve” (p. 220), this is even more of a problem for graffiti artists and especially for those street artists whose works are “authorized.” Where are they going to “place” their works? The problem is of visibility. But the more visible the more likely to be scrubbed away. The less visible the more evident that the

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authorities are either not aware of these products or discount them by reason of their limited availability to a motivated audience, which it is trying to inspire and create. It is this “in passing” character that makes the arts of resistances an “art of dispersal” that by its very “decenteredness” imposes on us, the perceivers, severe perceptual demands. Arts of resistance are, as I have pointed out, “occasioned art” and in another sense “environmental art.” We do not just respond to them. We respond to, are oriented toward, what they are themselves responding to. And we do not go to them. They come to us by their location in the environment, a museum of walls, which the arts of resistance have made their own. But, in spite of their physical presence, and even their powerful messages, the aesthetic, as opposed to the political, status of the arts of resistance is not self-evident. We need some sort of criteria to sort the aesthetically relevant from the visual rubbish that surrounds us. It is precisely the recognition that so many are forced to live lives that do not have such fulfilling conclusions that leads to graffiti and street art and, paradoxically, to their having forms beyond the mere fact of opposition and resistance. Works of art that are not remote from common life, that are widely enjoyed in a community, are signs of a unified collective life. But they are also marvelous aids in the creation of such a life. The remaking of material of experience in the act of expression is not an isolated event confined to the artist and to a person here and there who happens to enjoy the work. In the degree in which art exercises its office, it is also a remaking of the experience of the community in the direction of greater order and unity. (p. 84)

These remakings of the experience of the community are also protests against the fractures and fissures in the social order and against the decay and deadness of the multiple environments in which whole sectors of society are forced to live, an issue addressed by certain forms of street art in mural form. Dewey says that “space is inane save as occupied with active volumes” (p. 220). Street art especially clearly attacks “inane space” in the physical sense, but it is likewise an “inane space” of meaning they are registering, a kind of perceptual and existential deadness devoid of the

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vital energy exemplified in “having an experience” even in the domain of everydayness. “Enriching defacement,” as in creative wall murals, becomes a response to ugliness and in cases such as these is the very opposite of vandalism, as, for example, the vast graffiti surfaces and mural locations in São Paulo attest. As Dewey writes: “there are general conditions without which an experience is not possible…the basic condition is felt relationship between doing and undergoing as the organism and environment interact” (p. 220–21). The absence on multiple levels of such felt relationships, marked and informed by enriching qualities, is one of the motivations toward all forms of the arts of resistance. These arts aim to awaken “in other persons new perceptions of the meanings of the common world” and present “the world in a new experience which they [people] undergo” (p. 86). Expressive objects do not just point to something, although they can and often do. They are not just signposts indicating a direction to be traveled. They are what Susanne Langer called “presentational forms” (see Innis, 2009). It is a matter to ponder whether verbal graffiti, purely as a type of discursive symbols, are themselves predominantly expressive in the aesthetic sense intended by Dewey. Words and signposts, used predominantly discursively, need not, but can, have the type of material qualities that expressive objects themselves have, a kind of “palpability” rather than transparency that could be ascribed to the aesthetic or poetic function of a sign configuration. The unique material quality of a work of art, exemplified in its effecting of a crossing of a perceptual threshold, distinguishes an expression from a statement. But graffiti are not, if they are to have real value, private or merely idiosyncratic expressions or gestures. Dewey is right on insisting that there must be “something beyond the occasion of the painter’s [graffiti or street artist’s] private experience, something that he takes to be there potentially for others” (p. 89). Graffiti can clearly be pointless. Graffiti of mere self-assertion, of narcissism, of destructive vandalism are found in (a) the anarchic and unprincipled defacing of monuments symbolizing civic unity (of course, if the unity is a lie, then the defacing could be interpreted as a challenge to the authorities to live up to the core idea of the monuments); (b) the defacing of public utilities such as transport with one’s own markings, similar to a dog’s or wolf ’s marking by urine, and in doing so marking

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one’s existence, to make oneself visible, even if only a very few know who is the source of the graffiti; or (c) the defacing of buildings and public spaces for no reason at all, no matter what the aesthetic values of these markings would be. Of course, the creative painting on the dead concrete of piers and arches of expressways or the painting of wall murals on desolate sides of buildings is a topic of great interest as in the public authorization of the painting of buildings for advertising and other ends. Arts of resistance, maybe even those sanctioned by the authorities themselves, are rightly directed against ugliness in its many forms. In this sense their true aesthetic value could be seen as a means of making ugliness invisible, as an aesthetic protest against the degradation of the environments and neighborhoods in which we live out our lives. In these instances there is a claim to a kind of aesthetic rationality that is to function as a social norm (Innis, 1987). Like the “high art” painter, we can say with Dewey that the graffiti artist or street artist does “not approach the scene with an empty mind, but with a background of experiences long ago funded into capacities and likes, or with a commotion due to more recent experiences” (p. 91), such as a revolution, a coup, mass migration, or some other break in the social fabric. The graffiti or street artist is filled with “meanings funded from his past intercourse with his surroundings” (p. 93), including the recent past. This fundedness gives the arts of resistance their hermeneutical thickness, effecting, to allude to Gadamer’s hermeneutics, a fusion of horizons, which is not without friction and instability. Because of our familiarity with the masterpieces of “high art” we may be tempted to ascribe too much creativity to a work of art, treating it as something unprecedented. But we do not have to insist on the utter novelty of graffiti and the forms of street art or their systematic bearing upon general ideas. For them to do their jobs they have to have a local habitation, even if no name. Owing to restrictive circumstances, many types of graffiti and street art are spontaneous and “occasional.” It is not fair in most cases to compare in terms of expression works of art that have had long gestation periods with forms that have had to be materialized quickly, even if from a preliminary plan. But clearly there are graffiti and street art of a high expressive order even if their media are at times, but not always, perceptually “lean.”

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The Energies of Graffiti and Street Art Dewey writes in a key chapter of Art as Experience that “the common element in all the arts, technological and useful, is organization of energy as means for producing a result” (p. 183, see Innis, 2016c). Many kinds of graffiti and street art are not purely perceptual and contemplative. They are forms of semiotic resistance that gives rise to what Peirce called an “energetic” interpretant, oriented toward action. Graffiti forms especially are instances of opposition, of provocation, clearly rooted, in multiple ways, in novel perceptual features that move experience beyond its normal threshold and lead to action or to a change of feeling, informing the behavioral and affective orders of our lives. The ideational order is likewise put into play, producing what Peirce called the “logical interpretant” of a sign configuration. We can think of graffiti and street art as a three-­ leveled organization of energies: perceptual, affective, and ideational, functioning on both the individual and collective levels. In the specific cases of graffiti as well as, by extension, street art we should expand this notion of organization of energies and cumulative progression to the actual systems of instances that mark the environmental field in which they exist. An environment could have multiple systems existing side by side. This raises problems of their systematic “legibility.” If, as one could reasonably suppose, graffiti especially exists in multiple systems, it should be possible, as the later chapters of this book show, to focus on how various instances hang together, what kinds of coherence and mutual implications obtain between them, and their reinforcing energies. These systems, if occasioned by specifiable stimuli, one would reasonably consider as having a thematic unity, a unity that is to be found in the set of marked surfaces with their different genres of articulation. Various graffiti and street art systems or configurations make up sets of decentered wholes which are scattered on the surfaces of society. They are by no means expected to be uniform, since they are the work of many hands, but they nevertheless could be expected to function as a kind of index of “how things are” at a time and place, as later chapters show. These systems are in continual variation, reinforcing one another and also, in their cumulative effect, conserving their core ideational “targets.”

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In line with this cumulative effect, Dewey offers us a way of understanding, or proposing how to analyze, the aesthetic recurrence of interlocked themes in the various graffiti systems. Aesthetic recurrence, as Dewey put it, “records and sums up the value of what precedes, and evokes and prophesies what is to come. Every closure is an awakening, and every awakening settles something. This state of affairs defines organization of energies” (p. 176). Recording and summing up, evoking and prophesying, closure and awakening are clearly central functions of the arts of resistance. Graffiti and interventional street art exemplify powerfully what Dewey calls the “great difference between violence and intensity of action” (p. 188). This is intensity of aesthetic action, of aesthetic intervening in the common environmental fields in which we all live out our lives, fields marked by energies of various sorts. “In the esthetic object the object operates—as of course one having an external use may also do—to pull together energies that have been separately occupied in dealing with many different things on different occasions” (p. 183) and ultimately to clarify, intensify, and concentrate our energies. This is especially the power of dispersed graffiti and street art of a predominantly political nature. If “esthetic effect is due to art’s unique transcript of the energy of things of the world” (p. 192), it is crucial to attempt to grasp the uniqueness of the arts of resistance as well as their close linking other genres of art and artistic production. Graffiti especially is a public transcript of the energies of the social web and its jockeying for various kinds of power, including the power of unconstrained speech. But specifically aesthetic effects of the arts of resistance come from their distinct ways of “selecting and ordering the energies in virtue of which things act upon us and interest us” (p. 192) in their various contexts (see Innis, 2014 for further discussion).

Between Medium and Subject Matter Dewey argues that no thematic material whatsoever is to be excluded from aesthetic consideration. And what could be more in need of aesthetic transformation or resistance than environmental ugliness or the ethical ugliness of arbitrary and lethal uses of power for personal or class

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gain? As to street art, modern life is filled with surfaces so bleak and desolate, or even just perceptually indifferent, that they cry out to be covered with some pigment in order to bring them to life. This what street art accomplishes. Dewey’s “principle of selection by means of vital interest” is fully operative in the arts of resistance. There is, however, no vital interest in the mere splashing or spraying of paint on public surfaces. Defacing is no more than a declaration of past physical presence and is rightly considered a public nuisance. For graffiti and street art to merit aesthetic, rather than merely sociological, consideration or contemplation we have to subject them to the same experiential demands as we do to the range of use objects with aesthetic properties or those in museums: exploitation of medium, rhythmic structure, perceptual and conceptual energies, relation between color and line, scale and placement, and so forth. For the arts of resistance the whole environment is its medium: walls, fences, fire hydrants, utility poles, wires from which things can be hung, painted statues, door arches, traffic lights, road surfaces, and so on. And of course there is the sky with the possibility of fireworks as a kind of skywriting, which is evanescent by intention. Graffiti and street artists exploit this variety of possible media in ways not essentially different from the creative use of materials to be found in a great deal of so-called modern art, with its collages, mixed media constructions, and so on. When we speak of “media,” Dewey writes, “we refer to means that are incorporated in the outcome. Even bricks and mortar become a part of the house they are employed to build; they are not mere means to its erection” (p. 205). In evaluating the aesthetic worth of these arts of resistance we must consider how well the medium has been exploited for aesthetic effect, how creative the artist has been, the novel use to which the medium has been put, including its placement. When Dewey remarks, rightly, that “brushstrokes are an integral part of the esthetic of a painting when it is perceived” we can also ask what such a remark would entail for graffiti and the various forms of street art. These are not meant principally to be merely perceived, although their “canonization” can transform them in this way, especially street art with its remarkable use of already existing surface. It is precisely street art’s striking perceptual qualities, embodied in exploitation of the environmental media, that lead us to notice it in the first place. It goes beyond the

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threshold of everydayness and perceptual habits informed by the omnipresence of random graffiti. The mere fact of being “out of place” and existing at all is crucial. Its very existence is a form of Peircean secondness, rooted in Dewey’s stress and strain of existence, and not just an idea-­ bearing symbol, but an index of opposition and resistance (see Dewey, 1935). Accordingly, “sensitivity to a medium as a medium is the very heart of all artistic creation and esthetic perception” (p. 207) and this is what ideally the graffiti artist and the street artist, to be effective in the perceptual sense, must have. Such is Dewey’s point: “the thing most fundamental to esthetic experience—that it is perceptual” (p. 227). And the graffiti or street artist’s creativity is rooted in the eye for expressive possibilities offered by the environment. Graffiti and street art construct an “argument of the eye,” a thesis that Art as Experience promotes on practically every page, a continuation of the type of critique that John Ruskin addressed to nineteenth-century issues. The continuous presence of these forms gives a certain tonality and confirmation to those indwelling these environments and is experienced as a kind of completion in the sense that the environment is experienced as theirs, even if it appears alien to outsiders. Street art is a taking possession of surfaces and spaces. This is especially so if the environment, without its aesthetic enhancement, is existentially and perceptually barren. The arts of resistance bear witness to Dewey’s claim that “the organism hungers naturally for satisfaction in the material of existence…a problem that is still unsolved. The hunger of the organism for satisfaction through the eye is hardly less than its urgent impulsion for food” (357)— and for some sense of solidarity.

Communication and Critique The arts of resistance make visible through the imagination not just resistance to “the way things are” but manifest and create the ability to participate in resistances. In Dewey’s words, “Men associate in many ways. But the only form of association that is truly human, and not a gregarious gathering for warmth and protection, or a mere device for efficiency in outer action, is the participation in meanings and goods that is effected

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by communication” (pp.  253–254). Communication, no matter what the medium, creates participation, joining together what has been isolated and singular. Dewey thinks of communication as a kind of miracle, the reciprocal back and forth conveyance of meaning that gives “body and definiteness to the experience of the one who utters as well as to that of those who listen” (p. 253). The “utterer” is the artist or group of artists who exploit the energy resident in materials used as media. That the medium of graffiti and street art is already given in the dispersed surfaces of our environment does not entail any less value in the ranking of aesthetic forms. To be different is not in itself to be inferior. What is determinative is the joining of the immanent sense quality of a medium and an articulated meaning. This is the specifically aesthetic demand made upon the creators of graffiti and street art. In the last chapter of his Art as Experience Dewey argues that aesthetic experience is “the ultimate judgment upon the quality of a civilization” (p.  339) and that “every culture has its own collective individuality” (p. 344), as the chapters in Part II of this book show in various ways. The arts of resistance clearly have a judgmental or critical function. Their aesthetic quality counts but also their appropriateness and their placement. Clearly not all these resisting forms are critical in a deep political sense. The embellishment of dead surfaces is, to be sure, a criticism rooted in the perception of the complex material matrices of a place. It is a criticism of those who have organized or constructed them with little consideration for their vital and perceptual import. Following Dewey, we can say that dead surfaces elicit forms of resistance that unite “the practical, the social, and the educative in an integrated whole having esthetic form” and in this way fill experience with social values. These social values encompass the values of a perceptually enriched environment despite the complexity of a modern life marked inarguably by “widespread disruption” (p. 351). This disruption is first and foremost located in the environmental fields in which people live out their lives and is due to various forms of poverty: poverty of power due to power differentials, economic poverty due to unequal access to the vital means of life, intellectual poverty due to degraded institutions mediating in distorted manner the cultural heritage of individual societies and of the human race as a whole, but especially

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poverty of experience. This type of poverty radically distorts the matrices of the twin processes of doing and undergoing, of activity and passivity, that mark the self-world relation. Dewey’s writes that “art is a strain in experience rather than an entity in itself ” (p. 344). When this strain, both in the sense of a heightened vital tension and of a coherent set of linkages, is missing in a community, it constitutes “one of the most serious problems of philosophy” (p. 348) in its critical function, a function shared by the creators of the arts of resistance in their multiple forms and formats. Philosophy and art are forms of “instruction in the arts of life,” although they do it in different ways and with different means. Instruction in the arts of life is not just a matter of conveying information about them. It is a matter of communication and participation in values of life by means of the imagination, and works of art are the most intimate and energetic means of aiding individuals to share in the art of living. Civilization is uncivil because human beings are divided into non-communicating sects, races, nations, classes and cliques. (p. 350)

Can we not think of graffiti and street art, in their very different, yet linked, motivating contexts, as a manifestation of the drive to overcome this divide, as an index, by their very existence, of what has gone terribly wrong in not extending the art of living to everyone? Dewey is certainly right in thinking that community of experience, which does not entail uniformity, “issues only when language in its full import breaks down physical isolation and external contact” (p. 349). Of course, language can work as a weapon and, Dewey says, “in a multitude of mutually unintelligible forms” (p.  349). Such are forms of speech between unequal partners, separated by force and violence. They are unintelligible by reason of irreconcilable premise systems which forbid questioning “the way things are.” Art, however, Dewey argues, is “a more universal mode of language” than the discursive structures that inform societies that are fragmented on the discursive level, societies that forbid the formation and implementation of imaginative visions of the possible or imaginative presentations of a deplorable actual. If, as Dewey says, “imagination is the chief instrument of the good” (p. 362) and “art is more moral than moralities” (p. 362), it is one of the

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functions of art to show that moral life needs the support of a moral environment (p. 359). Dewey is right in asserting, as his whole aesthetic project shows, that imaginative vision, as it manifests itself in art in general and in the aesthetic strain manifested in graffiti, “elicits the possibilities that are interwoven within the texture of the actual. The first stirrings of dissatisfaction and the first intimations of a better future are always found in works of art” (p. 359), including the resisting forms of graffiti and street art. These forms exemplify and generalize a point made by Dewey with respect to the recalcitrance of media that an artist encounters: “resistance and conflict have always been factors in generating art; and they are…a necessary part of artistic form” (p. 353). To the degree that we recognize the whole environment, with its different material surfaces, walls, arches, streets, and equipment as the medium of graffiti and street art and because they are open and seen by all in the community as a shared lived space, we can extend the notions of resistance and conflict to it. The whole environment is the source of the friction that generates aesthetic energy and puts it into political and social motion. The sciences, natural and cultural, disclose the environment’s resistance to us, but graffiti especially is often, indeed predominantly, motivated by other people, groups of people, who have physical, economic, and semiotic power over others. In a powerful and complex statement, Dewey writes: “Men have always been aware that there is much in the scene in which their lives are set that is hostile to human purpose. At no time would the masses of the disinherited have been surprised at the declaration that the world about them is indifferent to their hopes” (p. 352). These hopes and the manifestation of just what is blocking them are expressed in the vast ranges of graffiti and street art. In this way we can fully agree with Dewey that “esthetic experience is always more than esthetic” (p. 339). Ideally in graffiti and street art, as well as in life itself, we see a “body of matters and meanings, not in themselves aesthetic, become aesthetic as they enter into an ordered rhythmic movement toward consummation” (p. 339). Works of street art and graffiti of aesthetic merit, by reason of their exploitation and transformation of the materials supplied by the environment as a whole, are singular and unsurpassable forms “of complete and unhindered communication

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between man and man that can occur in world full of gulfs and walls that limit community of experience” (p. 109). Is it not precisely this community of experience that the arts of resistance, with their filling of gulfs and their covering of walls, strive to construct and create?

Note 1. I have treated different aspects of Dewey’s aesthetics in a number of essays and books. The most pertinent ones for present purposes are included in the reference list at the end of this chapter. I have avoided extensive citation of parallel materials and focused on Dewey’s contribution to a discussion of the central themes of this book.

References Dewey, J. (1927). The public and its problems. New York: H. Holt and Company. Dewey, J. (1930). Qualitative thought. Symposium, 1, pp. 5–32. In Hickman and Alexander, vol. 1. Dewey, J. (1934). Art as experience. New York: Berkley Publishing Group, 2005. Page references are to this edition. Dewey, J. (1935). Peirce’s theory of quality. The Journal of Philosophy, 32(26), 701–708. In Hickman and Alexander, vol. 2. Innis, R.  E. (1987). Aesthetic rationality as social norm. Phänomenologische Forschungen, 20, 69–90. Innis, R. E. (1994). Consciousness and the play of signs. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press. Innis, R.  E. (2002). Pragmatism and the forms of sense: Language, perception, technics. University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press. Innis, R. E. (2009). Susanne Langer in focus: The symbolic mind. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press. Innis, R.  E. (2011). The ‘quality’ of philosophy: On the aesthetic matrix of Dewey’s pragmatism. In L. Hickman, M. Flamm, K. Skowroński, & J. Rea (Eds.), The continuing relevance of John Dewey: Reflections on aesthetics, morality, science, and society (pp. 43–60). Amsterdam: Rodopi.

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Innis, R. E. (2014). On not beating one’s wings in the void: Linking contexts of meaning-making. In B. Wagoner, N. Chaudary, & P. Hviid (Eds.), Cultural psychology and its future (pp.  131–150). Charlotte, NC: Information Age Publishing. Innis, R. E. (2016a). Affective semiosis: Philosophical links to a cultural psychology. In J. Valsiner, G. Marsico, et al. (Eds.), Psychology as the science of human being. Annals of Theoretical Psychology (Vol. 13, pp. 87–103). Cham: Springer Verlag. Innis, R. E. (2016b). Between philosophy and cultural psychology: Pragmatist and semiotic reflections on the thresholds of sense. Culture and Psychology, 22(3), 331–361. Innis, R. E. (2016c). Energies of objects between Dewey and Langer. In H. von Franz Engel & S.  Marienberg (Eds.), Das Entgegenkommende Denken (pp. 21–38). Berlin: de Gruyter. Innis, R.  E. (2017). Dewey’s Peircean aesthetics. Cuadernos de Sistemática Peirceana, 139–160. Polanyi, M. (1958). Personal knowledge; Towards a post-critical philosophy. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Polanyi, M. (1966). The tacit dimension. New Foreword by A. Sen. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 2009. Robert Innis is Professor Emeritus of Philosophy at the University of Massachusetts Lowell and Obel Foundation Visiting Professor at the Niels Bohr Center for Cultural Psychology at Aalborg University. He has published many articles, monographs, and books on the intersections between philosophy and the human sciences, with special focus on p ­ hilosophical semiotics, aesthetics, the philosophy of technology, and the philosophy of religion. His books include Karl Bühler: Semiotic Foundations of Language Theory, Semiotics: An Introductory Anthology, Consciousness and the Play of Signs, Pragmatism and the Forms of Sense, and Susanne Langer in Focus: The Symbolic Mind. He was named University Professor at UMass Lowell and has been Humboldt Fellow at the University of Cologne and Fulbright Professor at the University of Copenhagen.

Part II Image Circulation and Politics

Indigenous Images of Democracy on City Streets: Native Representations in Contemporary Chilean Graffiti and Muralism Guisela Latorre

Introduction An indigenous machi stands twenty feet tall as she meets the gaze of onlookers walking down Departamental Avenue, a busy thoroughfare in a working class neighborhood of Santiago, Chile. Female machis are traditional healers, spiritual leaders, and important political figures in Mapuche culture so her monumental presence in this location has radical and decolonial connotations. This machi on Departamental is the central figure depicted in a mural titled Meli Wuayra (“Four Winds”) (Fig.  1) painted by the Chilean graffiti crew known as Aislap. The mural is just one of thousands of community-driven and non-hegemonic street art projects that have materialized since the end of Augusto Pinochet’s dictatorship in 1990. The advent of democracy coupled with Chile’s powerful history of public protest in urban spaces made the country into a haven for mural and graffiti artists seeking to promote alternative images that challenge state- and corporate-sponsored imagery. The wall paintings G. Latorre (*) The Ohio State University, Columbus, OH, USA © The Author(s) 2017 S.H. Awad, B. Wagoner (eds.), Street Art of Resistance, Palgrave Studies in Creativity and Culture, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-63330-5_5

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Fig. 1  Aislap, Meli Wuayra (2010), graffiti mural, Museo a Cielo Abierto San Miguel, Santiago

that adorn the Chilean urban landscape promote experiences, ideas, and aesthetics often marginalized or silenced in the country’s official history, such as Aislap’s celebration of female-centered Mapuche culture. This chapter will center on works by Aislap and others in the current Chilean street art scene who have turned to Andean native cultures as a

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source of decolonial visions. Indigenous images in murals and graffiti have emerged as significant components of a larger project seeking to democratize public space. These native figures on street walls operate as powerful allegories of greater inclusion within democratic institutions. I will argue not only that these artists, most of whom can be identified as mestiz@s, invoke the iconographies of pueblos originarios (“original peoples”) as a way to redefine their own identities but also that of the nation a whole. Through their work, these artists recognize and celebrate the current and past challenges to colonization posed by native peoples of the Americas, casting them as models for resistance to the Chilean neoliberal state. Images of indigenous peoples and cultures for these artists allegorize a more democratic vision of the state. These artists understand, as Chilean indigenous scholars and activists also do, that “it is important to consider indigenous demands as part of the commitment to democratic reconstruction and to the restoration of essential rights” (Namuncura, 2014).

The Emergence of Street Art in Chile Street art exploded in the country during the early 1990s, precisely after the nation returned to democratic rule. These public artworks included, but were not limited to, murals, graffiti, and wall paintings that combined the aesthetics and techniques of both muralism and graffiti.1 Moreover, this wall imagery was created by both older and younger generations of street artists who could now work on city streets without the fear of being apprehended, tortured, and/or even killed. The exhilaration and euphoria that was first expressed in urban spaces after the end of the Pinochet regime provided a fertile atmosphere for the development of a radical and community-driven public art. This initial excitement was soon tempered by the realization that the legacy of the dictatorship would prevail for years to come and by the recognition that democracy had not been won as much as it had been negotiated with the members of the military government, including Pinochet himself, who managed to ­position himself as senator-for-life with full diplomatic immunity after stepping down from power. The street art movement, which included muralists and graffiter@s (graffiti artists,) soon turned a critical eye toward

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democratic processes that were underway in Chile, processes that reflected the nation’s longer history with repression, neocolonization, neoliberalism, and social hierarchies.

Indigenous Activism and Politics Native people in Chile saw the opportunity for positive change with the end of the dictatorship. In the late 1980s representatives for the Mapuche, Aymara, and other first-nation groups met with members of the parties opposed to Pinochet to form an alliance. “Indigenous people, like thousands of Chileans,” Namuncura explained, “were also direct victims of the profound state-sponsored violence [of the dictatorship]” (2014). As a result of this meeting they signed the Nueva Imperial Pact, which made it clear that the new democratic government would prioritize the rights of indigenous people in times of democracy. Though post-dictatorship governments took many steps forward as a result of these agreements, they also took an equal or greater number of steps backwards when it came to the implementation of pro-indigenous policies. Whenever these policies seemed to come up against other pieces of legislation that benefitted power structures such as private industry and corporations, the demands of firstnation populations were either put on the back burner or defeated altogether. Chilean native scholars and activists also point out that indigenous issues were dealt with in woefully reductive and myopic ways; for many politicians of the post-dictatorship, the problem with indigenous Chileans was merely an issue of poverty and lack of opportunities concentrated in the southern region of Araucania, nothing more (Namuncura, 2014). Discourses about the importance of space and territory ran across indigenous demands for greater autonomy while also emerging prominently in the urban practices of street artists. Among the most contentious and polarizing issues Mapuche and other native groups in the country have raised is the recuperation of ancestral lands. The end of the dictatorship opened the door for national conversations about what constituted indigenous lands and why these were important for native people’s true citizenship. These conversations were seriously compromised, however, when, in 2004, Endesa Chile, a private company, built the

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Ralco Hydroelectric Plant on ancestral lands of the Bío Bío Region. The government’s decision to allow the plant’s construction was a bitter reminder of the prolonged colonial legacy of subordination practiced in Chile (Namuncura, 2014). Space, place, and territory have thus become both physical and discursive sites of indigenous resistance. For the street artists who became conscious of the plight of the pueblos originarios in their country, the liberation of space became broadly symptomatic and indirectly symbolic of the need for recuperation of territory among Chile’s most disenfranchised communities, including its first-nation populations. The murals and graffiti works depicting indigenous imagery also function as counter discourses to those often presented by the Chilean media and by conservative politicians. The demands for greater justice and inclusion on the part of Mapuche activists, for example, have been cast as criminal and terrorist acts through the application of the Anti-Terrorist Law originally created under Pinochet’s regime. This law imposes harsher penalties for actions deemed to be terrorist in nature and Mapuche demonstrators from the southern territories of the country have been charged with these “crimes” at disproportionally higher rates. Though the Chilean government has made attempts to modify or “soften” this legislation, Mapuche activist and lawyer Lautaro Loncon Antileo has argued that these initiatives are utterly inadequate: “[…] just like Pinochet’s Constitution [of 1980], the problem rests with [the law’s] essence; it is its architecture that contains repressive elements that go beyond what is lawfully permitted” (2014). News outlets and media pundits have also contributed to the criminalization of Mapuche activism, as Namuncura observes: […] the conservative press constructed a very hegemonic communication strategy to convince the country and the state that they were facing a terrorist escalation of a major magnitude, that the peace in the south was compromised and that their investments would emigrate outside of Chile with grave consequences to the national GDP and to employment.2

We can regard the indigenous imagery created by Chilean street artists as an alternative or even antidote to the neocolonial and neoliberal rhetoric of the press. These artists legitimize the grievances of indigenous people

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in Chile while proclaiming their right to greater sovereignty and democratic inclusion. While space and territory have been central to the political demands by first-nation communities, education has also been critically important to Mapuche activists in Chile. They not only call for greater access to educational opportunities for indigenous children and young adults, but they also argue in favor of a school curriculum that includes the cultural, historical, and social contributions they have made to Chile’s national identity. “Chilean society holds great ignorance about indigenous history, culture and ancestral knowledges, denying its own roots,” indigenous writer María Hueichaqueo Epulef stated, “[which is] something that affects its capacity to comprehend historic demands” (2014). For many indigenous Chileans, changes in policy and legislation need to come hand in hand with changes in social attitudes given that, in the words of native scholar Elisa Loncon, “the culture of domination and contempt toward original peoples has not changed” (2014). Loncon further contends that young people in Chile need to know that there are different languages, cultures, and worldviews in Chile, as the school system in the country often promotes the idea of a culturally homogeneous nation with a predominantly European heritage. Loncon (2014) proposes the model of interculturality, which some educators use for second language instruction. When communicating in the target language, learners are required to understand the culture of the new language they are acquiring, not just its grammar, pronunciation, syntax, etc. It asks students to place themselves in the space and subjectivity of the other because all knowledge is situated within a cultural context. Interculturality thus encourages experiential and relational forms of learning. I argue that Chilean street artists enact a form of interculturality that uses visual rather than spoken or written language. The murals and graffiti pieces they create operate as learning exercises for them to acquire indigenous cultural knowledge. In the process of adopting this knowledge, they, as non-indigenous people, attempt to situate themselves in the position of indigenous Chileans, to relate to the experience of prolonged colonization and marginalization that they have endured. They have taken to heart the call by indigenous scholars, writers, and activists

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who demand that non-indigenous Chileans learn about the pueblos originarios who first inhabited Chile. In turn, street artists have capitalized on their presence in the public sphere and on their skills to create monumental imagery that compels their audiences to confront the indigenous experience, which has been silenced and rendered invisible by public education. Moreover, as mestiz@s they are patently aware that being indigenous is also part of who they are.

The Unstable Reception of Indigenous Imagery Having laid out some basic tenets behind indigenous activism and street art praxis in Chile, I will now turn to discussions and analyses of the work by a small but representative selection of Chilean street artists who have deployed indigenous iconography as a means of disseminating knowledge about native peoples to a wide population that does not have much knowledge about native culture. This work mirrors many of the decolonial practices enacted and promoted by indigenous activists who insist on a democratic society that prioritizes its pueblos originarios. The analyses and interpretations of the visual imagery I introduce here are my own to be sure. They do not necessarily reflect the perceptions and receptions of such works by the various individuals who see them on a daily basis. Nevertheless, as part of the Chilean diaspora living in the USA and as a former urban dweller of those spaces myself, I am pointing to some potential readings and interpretations that passersby may perceive from such imagery just because I am familiar with the social context of Chilean contemporary society. Moreover, these analyses also partly reflect some of the artists’ own intentions behind the creation of their graffiti murals. The reactions and interpretations of passersby are undoubtedly unstable, unpredictable, and not fully knowable, but I would argue that it would be difficult for viewers to regard this work as something other than wall paintings that seek to celebrate, promote, and uphold indigenous knowledge and worldviews. Thus, my analyses suggest possible meanings and interpretations attached to the native bodies rendered by Chilean street artists.

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Indigenous Iconographies: Meli Wuayra Important figures in the Chilean street art scene, the graffiti/mural crew Aislap, discussed in the introduction to this essay, is composed of Juan Moraga and Pablo Aravena, who began painting and tagging the streets of Santiago in 2001. They were heavily influenced by Mexican muralism, the global graffiti scene, and the emergence of muralist brigades in Chile starting in the 1960s.3 One of their concerns as public artists is to develop imagery that can be easily read by spectators who are on the move, whether they are walking by on foot or using public transport. “The street mural is in the large avenues,” Aravena explains, “so people can be on the move and still see it. It is vision in movement” (Arte Contemporáneo Chileno—AISLAP). For these reasons, Aislap opts for large and bold imagery that can be understood and absorbed in just a few seconds. Moreover, the deployment of indigenous imagery in their work is a characteristic element of their aesthetic, making their work easily recognizable among other street artists and graffiti connoisseurs in Chile. In 2010, the duo participated in a major mural and graffiti initiative called Museo a Cielo Abierto, San Miguel (Open-Sky Museum, San Miguel.) This initiative, coordinated by community organizers Roberto Hernández and David Villarroel, consisted of a series of murals painted on apartment buildings belonging to a low-income housing project. Aislap’s contribution to this museo was the aforementioned graffiti mural, Meli Wuayra (2010), which promoted the greater recognition and legitimization of Chile’s first nations. Using a symmetrical and geometric composition, the artists placed the monumental figure of a Mapuche machi at the very center of the mural. In Mapuche culture, machis are traditional healers who possess great wisdom and knowledge about spirituality, medicine, and society. Though both men and women can fulfill this role in Mapuche society, female machis are more common. The ­figure of the machi in the Chilean national imaginary, however, represents a contested terrain. Anthropologist Ana Mariella Bacigalupo (2007) indicated that machis and Mapuche culture in general have been utilized by the state to promote a non-threatening and hegemonic image of national identity. On August 5, 1999, for example, Chilean president

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Eduardo Frei participated in a televised Mapuche ceremony featuring Machi María Ángela in which he vowed to create a more egalitarian society for indigenous people in the country. In spite of his seeming gesture of legitimization, his government and the one of Ricardo Lagos who succeeded him, as Bacigalupo explained, “built a series of hydroelectric plants along the Bio-Bío River in the Mapuche-Pewenche communities and a highway that ran through other Mapuche communities” while also making use of draconian legislation to suppress resistance to these actions. The machi’s role as healer is significant in Meli Wuayra, for the practice stands as a metaphor for the process of renewal after the urban neglect that was happening in the Población San Miguel where this graffiti mural is located. The organizers of the mural project were seeking to use muralism and graffiti as a means to fighting the deteriorated state of the Población San Miguel by the turn of the millennium. The organizers and the participating artists of the public arts initiative saw the need for a collective process of healing after many years of substandard living conditions.4 For the Mapuche, healing involves “physical, spiritual, and emotional balance as well as good social relationships” (2007). Bacigalupo (2007) has indicated that much of contemporary Mapuche healing and spiritual practices “is tied closely to the history of Spanish colonialism, missionizing by Catholic priests, resistance to Chilean national projects of assimilation and development, and Mapuche people’s incorporation and resignification of Chilean majority discourses.” The existence of evil spirits, for instance, is often equated with the negative results of colonization,5 effects that have endured even after the end of the dictatorship as Mapuche land continues to be threatened by the construction of freeways, dams, and other modernization projects. Thus, processes of healing assisted by machis are often interwoven with direct or indirect strategies of decolonization and resistance. The emancipatory forms of healing connected to these indigenous practices is then highlighted in this mural by Aislap where the machi is clearly shown within her role as healer and sage. The artists depict her wearing her traditional attire adorned by characteristic Mapuche jewelry such as the trarilonco (headpiece) and the trapelacucha (pectoral adornment.) In her hand she holds a potted flower, a reference to the machi’s use of herbs and plants for medicinal purposes.

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Surrounding her hands is a circular motif that resembles a kultrun, the sacred drum played by machis. The healing powers of the machi in this mural have a powerful effect in the specific locale of the Población San Miguel. Knowing that the healing process is not only individual, but also communal, Aislap put the powers of the machi at the service of the residents of the población who have likely shared struggles and hardships in common with the larger Mapuche population. Hers is a healing gesture that is cognizant of the injustices that cause social, physical, and spiritual ailments. The pictorial space representing indigenous worldviews creates a challenge or, at the very least, an alternative view to the neoliberal and colonial distribution of urban space. The spiritual and physical realms depicted in Meli Wuayra provide a window into an organization of the world that is quite distinct from the hierarchical and segregationist distribution of urban space that state and corporate institutions devise. Aislap in Meli Wuayra extend their representation of indigenous cultures to other first-nation people in Chile. In the upper registers of the mural we see figures that correspond to the Aymara populations—originally from the northern Altiplano region of Chile, Peru, and Bolivia— and the Selk’nam people who once populated the Patagonia region of Chile and Argentina before disappearing by the 1970s and 1980s (Chapman, 1982).6 The choice of these two figures was neither coincidental nor random. The Aymaras have a powerful history of resistance and political activism, in particular in Bolivia, where they have been instrumental in organizing the coca farmers’ movement, which helped to elect the country’s first indigenous president, Evo Morales, who is of Aymara descent. Juxtaposing a native population that has been virtually eradicated with one that is hyper-visible in decolonial struggles over self-­ determination gave the residents of the Población San Miguel two polar extremes of the possible effects of colonialism, capitalism, and neoliberalism on native populations. Nevertheless, both figures are afforded the same importance in the mural. In the lower register of Meli Wuayra, Aislap complemented the presence of the machi, the Selk’nam and the Aymara with figures representing the Polynesian Island of Rapa Nui (Easter Island), embodied here by the iconic moai sculptures that allegorized deified ancestors for the native

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people there. Also inhabiting this lower register is an enigmatic male figure that the artists themselves described as “an emerging man from the digital era” (Centro Cultural Mixart, 2010). The inclusion of this “digital man” may seem anachronistic in a mural about native people of Chile yet his presence is nevertheless quite relevant here. Though indigenous people in Chile have had lesser access to digital tools, their worldviews and spiritual knowledge are equated to the power of the digital sphere in this mural. So the tools of the indigenous depicted in this mural—the kultrun, the potted flower, the body paint, the moais—are technologies, too, in some ways not unlike high-speed computers, smartphones, fiber-optic cable, and the like. Both seek enhanced access to knowledge and communication. The fact that the “digital man” is squarely situated within an indigenous realm signifies not only a legitimization of indigenous technologies, but also a leveling effect between digital/science-based and spiritual ways of knowing.

Indigenous Iconographies: Gigi’s Luisas Indigenous imagery for Chilean street artists has become a source of decolonial and democratic world views that not only critically address issues of race and class in the country’s post-dictatorship era, but also point to greater gender inclusion within the nation’s power systems. Graffitera Gigi (Marjorie Peñailillo), who has been active in the seaside cities of Valparaiso and Viña del Mar, is interested in the bodies of women as important sites of feminist agency and empowerment, taking cues from indigenous cultures for her re-thinking on Chilean patriarchal culture. The representation of female figures in her graffiti murals directly referred to her call for women to play active roles in urban spaces. Gigi often turns to pre-conquest Andean imagery as inspiration for much of the female-centered iconography of her graffiti murals. She has long been fascinated with the Pre-Columbian artistic traditions from the Valdivia (Ecuador) and Moche (Peru) cultures. This fascination also included the syncretic traditions of spiritual festivals such as La Tirana from Chile and Oruro from Bolivia.

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Fig. 2  Gigi (Marjorie Peñailillo), Untitled (2011), graffiti mural, Valparaiso, Chile

Part of the artist’s signature style included a recurring graffiti character she called Luisa (Fig.  2). Gigi often rendered Luisa’s body in the nude using warm colors, such as reds, oranges, and yellows. With her rather stubby proportions her body did not conform to patriarchal notions of feminine beauty, yet the various poses, postures, and attitudes she adopted in Gigi’s pieces exuded a sense of self-confidence and even defiance. “Luisa is a multicultural mix, that is born out of [my] contact with the indigenous cultures from Brazil, Peru, and Bolivia,” Gigi explained (Peñailillo Endre, 2010). The vivid coloring of the Luisas reflected the similarly vibrant aesthetics of the of Oruro and La Tirana, while these figures’ stocky and ample bodies are meant to, as Gigi herself articulates, “cite the obesity of the Pre-Columbian Venuses from the Andean plateau” (Peñailillo Endre, 2010). The Luisas’ larger body size were not a detriment to their power, but rather a necessary component of their creative energy. The artist insisted that these monumental women epitomized important concepts from Pre-Columbian worldviews such as “nudity, fertility, religiosity, identity and strength” (Peñailillo Endre, 2010).

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While Luisa has made numerous appearances in the urban sphere, Gigi has also placed her in strategic spots throughout the natural ­topography around the Valparaiso area. In Luisa Playera [Beach Luisa] (2013) and Luisa del Bosque [Luisa of the Forest] (2012) (Figs. 3 and 4)

Fig. 3  Gigi (Marjorie Peñailillo), Luisa Playera (2013), graffiti mural, El Tabo, Valparaiso, Chile

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Fig. 4  Gigi (Marjorie Peñailillo), Luisa del Bosque (2012), graffiti mural, Villa Alemana, Chile

we saw this figure presiding over local landscapes of the region. Luisa’s rather whimsical nude presence on the beach and the forest here likened her to an ocean and/or earth goddess. Gigi’s use of the surroundings cleverly informed our readings of the Luisas who seem to be situated within

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their proper element. Painted on an abandoned building next to a small forest, Luisa del Bosque reclined is an almost pastoral fashion as she blew bubbles from a heart-shaped rim. Luisa de la Playa, for her part, leaned back as she took in the sun and ocean breeze around her. Both figures recalled indigenous nature goddesses whose powers were closely connected to the natural world. Gigi’s interest in Andean goddess figures represented both a continuation and a break with certain artistic traditions. Women artists in the Americas have long embraced ancient and pre-colonial goddess figures in their work. Feminist artists in the USA and Europe during the 1970s, for instance, sought to celebrate women’s empowerment by citing female deities in their visual vocabulary. Around the same period Chicana artists throughout the Southwestern United States celebrated the importance to Aztec goddesses like Coatlicue and Coyolxauhqui with their work. Cuban-American artist Ana Mendieta, for her part, made powerful allusions to Taino deities Guanaroca and Iyaré with her earthworks. In Latin America, famed Mexican painter Frida Kahlo paid homage to Tlazolteotl, Aztec goddess of filth and fertility, in her painting My Birth from 1932, while Peruvian artist Tilsa Tsuchiya, active mostly in the 1960s and 1970s, did a series of paintings depicting mythical women inspired by Andean indigenous cosmology. While feminists have long dismissed this “goddess worship” as essentialist, reductive, and overly idealized, such a phenomenon reflected a desire to seek non-patriarchal forms of spirituality and creative expression on the part of feminist artists and cultural producers.7 For Latin American and US Latina artists in particular, their heightened consciousness about the colonial history of the Americas and the imposition of patriarchal social systems ushered in by the conquest made their interest in indigenous and, in some cases, African-descent spiritualities all the more subversive. Gigi’s updating of the Pre-Columbian goddess through the aesthetics of graffiti and Chilean street art made her Luisa figure more than a mere of artifact from an imagined genderless utopia. Instead, this female-centered iconography was made relevant and pertinent to the twenty-first century realities of women who lay claims to the Chilean urban sphere.

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Indigenous Iconographies: Inti’s Ekeko and Ekeka Like Gigi, Valparaiso-born Chilean graffitero Inti also taps into the decolonizing and democratizing potential of Andean cultural traditions. Lauded as perhaps the most successful, well-respected, and visible Chilean street artist of his time, Inti has painted in various parts of the world and currently resides in Paris. He has proudly proclaimed that his family raised him with an admiration and respect for pueblos originarios in Latin America, understanding that as a mestizo he is the hybrid progeny of transatlantic and transpacific colonial contacts. Inti’s graffiti murals in Chile and elsewhere often focus on mystical, enigmatic, and seer-like figures who appear to hold unique spiritual knowledge about our universe. In November of 2012, Inti took part in “Hecho en Casa” (“Made at Home”), the first festival of urban intervention taking place in Santiago sponsored by the city of Santiago, the Ministry of Tourism, and the Gabriela Mistral Cultural Center (better known as the GAM). This initiative sought to promote local artistic talent by encouraging various types of cultural practitioners to engage the public sphere with their work. Inti’s contribution to this festival consisted of untitled “twin” graffiti murals located immediately outside of the subway exit for the Bellas Artes station (Fig. 5). The visual effect of these wall pieces is quite striking; as passersby ascend the stairs of this underground subway station, they find themselves almost enveloped by Inti’s distinct imagery. The location was a significant one as it is in the middle of a bustling art, restaurant, and café scene in Santiago thus encompassing the intersection between commerce, leisure, art, and tourism. For his two murals in Bellas Artes, Inti drew inspiration from his travels to Bolivia and contact with Aymara populations. “When I see Bolivian [indigenous] communities doing marvelous, creative, never monotonous and dynamic work with an incredible technique,” the artist has explained, “I say those are the real artists and they are not part of the arts circuit.”8 Painted over two very large walls that are situated perpendicularly to one another, the artist here deployed the enigmatic figure of Ekeko on both

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Fig. 5  Inti, untitled graffiti mural (“Ekeko”) (2012), Bellas Artes, Santiago

surfaces. Often referred to as the Aymara demigod of abundance and good fortune, Ekeko has Pre-Columbian roots in the Andean region. According to Federico Arnillas (1996), this deity was originally depicted as an “anthropomorphic and hunchbacked figure with a prominent virile member, linked to abundance and fertility.” These figures—often sold in the Fiesta de la Alasita (literally “buy me” in Aymara)—are commonly depicted with numerous objects and commodities attached to his body such as money, food, cigarettes, musical instruments, and others. The symbolism and postcolonial significance of Ekeko was not lost on Inti who mined the multiple meanings of this demigod in Bellas Artes: I came to the idea of doing Ekeko in relation to the theme of desires. All of Chile was beginning to move according to their desires, to ask for what was basic and necessary such as education, health and all those things. That is what Ekeko symbolizes to me. It is not the person who wants things just for the sake of it but it is person who demands basic needs.9

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These double murals Inti created in Bellas Artes are composed of two large figures that take up most of the walls’ pictorial space, namely a male Ekeko and a female Ekeka. The two figures are similar in terms of size and pose, making clear that these characters are complimentary doubles of one another. The artist borrowed the iconography from traditional representations of Ekeko and depicted them with various objects attached to their bodies. The male Ekeko sports a taupe winter coat and matching bowler hat placed on top of a knit chullo cap, a common attire of Aymara populations from the Andean Plateau. His face is covered with a bandana of sorts embossed with the Chilean flag. This bandana codes him as a radical revolutionary as these face coverings are common among street protesters throughout Latin America, including Chile. The objects appended to his body represent his desire not for wealth and fortune, but rather for greater access to artifacts that can enhance the quality of his life and that of others. Among the many objects appended to his body, we find an open book, a reference to this Ekeko’s demand for an education, an issue that resonates with many Chileans who had witnessed the mass student and teacher political mobilizations of the last decade. The pan flute he also sports is a traditional Andean instrument that speaks of indigenous peoples’ important contributions to the musical traditions in the region. In his left hand he holds a smartphone, demonstrating at the same time that he commands twenty-first century media technologies thus undercutting the notion that indigenous people are inherently “primitive” and “naturally” disinclined toward the tools of the digital, as Chilean indigenous activist and writer María Francisca Collipal Huanqui (2014) articulates: “In many cases, indigenous people are considered to be in permanent opposition to what the rest of the [Chilean] population regards as the correct path toward development, without being able to distinguish the difference [between modernity and tradition.]” But Ekeko here also has access to non-manufactured and traditional objects. He carries a bag of yellow and blue maize, as well as a large jug of chicha, a fermented corn alcoholic drink consumed in South America and parts of Central America. Clearly, his technology savvy does not preclude his access to the natural world and the riches of the earth. While many of the objects attached to his body are broadly Andean in origin, the flag covering his face connect

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him more specifically to Chile. Moreover, the pick axe on his back and the bag of copper nuggets under his right arm, communicates to the spectator that Ekeko mines Chile’s principal national mineral. The adjacent or “twin” mural Inti created in Bellas Artes represents the female counterpart to the male figure, namely Ekeka. The equivalent size and visibility of this figure underscores the equal standing and importance this figure holds vis à vis the male Ekeko. Though this demigod of good fortune and abundance is almost exclusively represented as a man, in the most normative sense of the word, Inti found that in the course of his research feminist activists in Bolivia had devised Ekeka as a way to challenge the male-centeredness of contemporary Aymara ritual and cultural practices: Why is it always men? I began to do research and it turns out that the [female] Ekeka already existed. She was created about 4–5 years ago by a women’s collective in Bolivia who are quite the warriors. Their name is Mujeres Creando [Women Creating]. They are cholitas [Aymara women] and very creative. They are doing their feminist movement to change Bolivian society. They had already created this woman, Ekeka.10

Mujeres Creando was formed in the 1980s by Bolivian activists María Galindo and Julieta Paredes. The group emerged as a result of the growing disdain for the inherent machismo, racism, colonialism, neoliberalism, and heteronormativity of the political right and left in Bolivia (García-Pabón, 2003). Though the group is led primarily by middleclass mestizas in Bolivia, their vision of oppression and equality is an intersectional one that pays close attention to the multiple forms marginalization endured by indigenous women who are also active in the group. Another characteristic of Mujeres Creando is their use of creative expression in public spaces, including theatrical performance and graffiti tagging (García-Pabón, 2003). The group created Ekeka to challenge the notion that Ekeko is, in Raykha Flores Cossío words, “a father provider” (2013). In workshops the group carried out in 2009 and 2012, the collective worked with artists, college students, and victims of domestic violence to re-­imagine this figure using clay, paint, and an ­unapologetically feminist lens.

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While Inti’s Ekeka in Bellas Artes does not look much like the figures authored by Mujeres Creando, he does replicate some of the feminist impetus and ethos behind them. In this graffiti mural, she is clearly Ekeko’s equal in all respects, including in the revolutionary and rebellious aspects. She wears a red shawl with a small bowler hat; her vibrant red hair is styled in a pair of loose braids. A box chest appears to float in front of her prompting viewers to wonder what kinds of treasures, secrets, and wonders might be inside. We can’t possibly know, but what we can determine is that she has access to these mysteries as she holds the key to this box on her right hand. Other similarly enigmatic objects are attached to her torso, namely a television set, an apple, a sheep, paper money, and a charango, a ukulele-type instrument commonly used among Inca and Aymara populations. All these elements straddle the fine line between different realms of women’s lives, especially for those women who deploy various forms of creativity, resourcefulness, intelligence, and spiritual resilience to meet all the demands and expectations placed upon them. For indigenous women in particular—be they Aymara, Mapuche, or otherwise—these demands and expectations occur at the same time that they endure racialized and gendered forms of invisibility, denigration, and subordination. Through the enormous scale of Inti’s mural, Ekeka here demands visibility and recognition. Moreover, by the mere fact that a feminist Bolivian image is situated on Chilean soil, Inti is making a powerful transnational statement about women’s rights, a timely one in Chile where pay inequality, domestic violence, and limitations on reproductive rights are unfortunate realities in spite of the two-term presidency of Michelle Bachelet, South America’s first woman president. The revolutionary iconography with which Inti endows Ekeko is also present in Ekeka’s side of this double mural. Though she is represented in a mothering role, as made evident by the two children she carries on her back, she also sports a bandolier or bullet belt across her chest that alludes to her feminist warrior status. The mother/feminist role of this Ekeka may seem contradictory, as Jocelyn Fenton Stitt and Pegeen Reichert Powell (2010) explain: “Feminism’s difficulty reconciling the practice of mothering with the politics of women’s liberation is a complex issue.” Moreover, this image actively challenges the notion that indigenous women are, in the words of Margaret Jacobs (2009), “deficient mothers

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and homemakers” who are “the degraded chattel of their men who failed to measure up to white, middle-class, Christian ideals […]” Rachel Hullum-Montes (2012) has observed that Latin America has a long history of indigenous women mobilizing “around their identities as mothers and caregivers” whereby their activism becomes a way for them to care for “both their families and the indigenous community.” Hullum-Montes further explains that “motherist politics” has been an important means by which women have entered into social movements and political activism in the continent.11 Thus, Ekeka here embodies the convergence between indigenous mothering and decolonial activism.

Conclusion The deployment of indigenous iconography by the likes of Aislap, Gigi, and Inti provides us with a powerful means of communicating to the Chilean public that indigenous people deserve greater visibility in public discourses. This visibility, however, sharply contrasts with more common depictions in the media of native peoples as terrorists, domestic workers, and/or “primitive” and undesirable sectors of Chilean society. Though it is difficult to fully ascertain what effect these wall images have on the individuals who see them on the street, their effectiveness can be assessed by the nature of the iconography itself and by the ways in which these graffiti murals transform the space where they are located. These are images that depict indigenous people in complex, humane, non-­ objectifying, and culturally specific ways, even when the artists take ­artistic license with their representation. These alternative visions are then coupled with the radical intervention they make into the space where their work is located. Without Aislap’s Meli Wuayra (and other murals in that locale), the Población San Miguel would be just another drab and marginalized housing project that more affluent Chileans would avoid. Without Gigi’s Luisas in the beaches and forests around Valparaiso and Viña del Mar, these locales would just be places of leisure without the playfulness and pro-woman messages that these figures embody. Without Inti’s Ekeka and Ekeko, the area around the Bellas Artes subway station would just be a space that caters to tourists, restaurant goers, and

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c­ ommuters. These spaces come to life as a result of this powerful imagery and they do so because these artists tap into decolonial indigenous knowledge to make meaningful interventions into the public sphere. As such, city streets thus become a spaces where people can reflect on the country’s indigenous past and present. These artists thus provide us with meaningful ways to introduce national dialogues about indigeneity to the Chilean public, ones that are often ignored by the nation-state. In sum, the presence of indigenous iconography in Chile’s city streets signals a liberation of public space, one that is enacted by a generation of artists who came of age after the official end of a long era of overt repression and who were and continue to be hungry for egalitarian visions for a better world. What street artists and indigenous activists alike underscore in different ways is the precariousness of democratic social practices not only in Chile, but in the Americas as a whole. After more than five centuries since the initial phases of the conquest, native populations are still actively engaged in decolonial projects with the purposes of transforming the social hierarchies that prevail in their ancestral lands and sacred territories. Thus, the public artists discussed in this essay aspire to place the worldviews and cosmovisions of the Mapuche, Aymara, Selk’nam, Diaguitas, Rapa Nui, and other first nations at the center of public dialogues about national identity and belonging.

Notes 1. In Chile, murals are generally created with paint brushes, rollers, and acrylic paint. Many of these works exhibit a highly figural and social realist style. By contrast, graffiti is generally created with the use of spray paint and exhibits an aesthetic that tends to be more abstract with an emphasis on highly stylized lettering (wildstyle) and bright colors. Though muralism and graffiti have very different histories and aesthetics, the two art forms in Chile often merge, thus leading to the creation of many hybrid wall paintings. 2. Namuncura also indicated that the political right in Chile has conjured fantastical stories and conspiracy theories claiming possible links between Mapuche activists in the south of the country and international terrorist

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groups such as ETA in Spain and FARC in Colombia (Namuncura, 2014). 3. Among the Chilean muralist brigades that emerged in the late 1960s, the Brigada Ramona Parra (BRP) was the most visible and visually recognizable of all. This collective came together from the ranks of the Communist Party in Chile and in support of Salvador Allende’s presidential campaign. For information on the BRP, see Palmer (2014). 4. The presence of the murals in the Población San Miguel went well beyond the mere beautification of the urban space. The creation of this mural initiative lead to real and tangible improvements to the living conditions of its residents. Given that the ambitious mural project there was entirely community driven thus demonstrating the resourcefulness and commitment of the residents within the población, local city officials responded in kind. The regional director of the Ministry of Culture and the mayor of San Miguel both visited the población; both committed to improving the surrounding areas of the apartment blocks. They established a permanent system of trash collection for the residents thus preventing the health and environmental risk of microbasurales, improvised trash heaps that emerge in neglected and marginalized sectors of the city where basic services are lacking. They improved the sidewalks, planted grassy areas, improved lighting, and installed various seating benches. The municipality also set up more public lighting, including fixtures that would illuminate the murals themselves at night. “We forced the hand of big brother,” Roberto Hernández remarked, “the municipality understood that they could not remain idle before what was happening here.” Information obtained during an interview between Roberto Hernández and the author, Santiago, Chile, March 23, 2015. 5. Bacigalupo (2007) has explained that many evil spirits in Mapuche cosmology take the form of European colonizers who rob indigenous people their identity and humanity: “The witranalwe is a spirit in the form of a tall, thin Spanish man mounted on a horse. He is the image of the feudal criollo landlord who took Mapuche land, exploited his Mapuche workers, and raped Mapuche women. His wife is the añchümalleñ, a small, white, luminescent being with iridescent eyes, who is often associated with urban models of femininity. Her lips are red from sucking her victims’ blood; she cries like a baby, not like an adult; and her blonde hair marks the devouring power of foreignness.”

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6. Anne Chapman (1982) who has written one of the few books on the Selk’nam published in the USA indicated that in 1980 “only one or two of these people remain.” She did recognize, however, that Selk’nam ancestry most likely still endures among the largely mestizo/a population of Chile. 7. For more information on women artists’ use of “goddess” figures and deployment of “feminist spirituality,” see Klein, 2005. 8. “INTI…EKEKOS—METRO BELLAS ARTES.” 9. “INTI…EKEKOS—METRO BELLAS ARTES.” 10. “INTI…EKEKOS—METRO BELLAS ARTES.” 11. Ibid., 120.

References Arnillas, L. F. (1996, January–June). Ekeko, Alacitas y Calvario La fiesta de la Santa Cruz en Juliaca. Allpanchis: Revista del Instituto de Pastoral Andina, 28(47), 119–135. Arte Contemporáneo Chileno—AISLAP. (n.d.). Arte Contemporáneo Chileno, Serie Documental, ROJIZO comunicaciones & Novasur (CNTV Chile). Online Documentary. Retrieved from https://vimeo.com/77634369 Bacigalupo, A.  M. (2007). Shaman of the foye tree: Gender, power and healing among Chilean Mapuche. Austin, TX: University of Texas Press. Centro Cultural Mixart. (2010). Museo a Cielo Abierto en San Miguel. Santiago: Fondart. Chapman, A. (1982). Drama and power in a hunting society: The Selk’nam of Tierra del Fuego. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Collipal Huanqui, M. F. (2014). Indígenas rurales y urbanos: Realidades y desfíos. In Equipo El Desconcierto (Ed.), ¿Chile Indígena? Desafios y oportunidades para un Nuevo trato (pp. 136–149). Santiago: Chile Veinti Uno. Fenton Stitt, J., & Reichert Powell, P. (2010). Mothers who deliver: Feminist interventions in public and interpersonal discourse. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press. Flores Cossío, R. (2013). La Ekeka, resignificación del traidor, la víctima y la justiciera en el feria popular boliviana de la Alasita. Essay published in the official website for Mujeres Creando. Retrived from www.mujerescreando. org/pag/articulos/2013/ekeka/26-05-2013-ekeka.html

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García-Pabón, L. (2003). Sensibilidades callejeras: El trabajo estético y politico de ‘Mujeres Creando’. Revista de Crítica Literaria, 29(58), 239–254. Hallum-Montes, R. (2012). ‘Para el Bien Común’ indigenous Women’s Environmental Activism and Community Care Work in Guatemala. Gender & Class, 19(1/2), 104–130. Hueichaqueo Epulef, M. (2014). Mirada crítica de la institucionalidad indígena en Chile y propuestas desde una perspectiva de base. In Equipo El Desconcierto (Ed.), ¿Chile Indígena? Desafios y oportunidades para un Nuevo trato (pp. 103–108). Santiago: Chile Veinti Uno. Jacobs, M.  D. (2009). White Mother to a Dark Race: Settler Colonialism, Maternalism, and the Removal of Indigenous Children in the American West and Australia, 1880–1940. Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press. Klein, J. (2005, Fall). Goddess: Feminist art and spirituality. Feminist Studies, 35(3), 575–602. Locon Antileo, L. (2014). ¿Qué esperan los pueblos indígenas que ocurra en este quincenio? In Equipo El Desconcierto (Ed.), ¿Chile Indígena? Desafios y oportunidades para un Nuevo trato (pp. 37–51). Santiago: Chile Veinti Uno. Loncon, E. (2014). Educación y Cultura: ¿podremos llegar as ser una sociedad intercultural? In Equipo El Desconcierto (Ed.), ¿Chile Indígena? Desafios y oportunidades para un Nuevo trato (pp.  109–120). Santiago: Chile Veinti Uno. Namuncura, D. (2014). Dilemas, desafíos y oportunidades para una política indígena de Nuevo Trato. In Equipo El Desconcierto (Ed.), ¿Chile Indígena? Desafios y oportunidades para un Nuevo trato (pp.  7–36). Santiago: Chile Veinti Uno. Palmer, R. (2014). Arte callejero en Chile. Santiago: Ocho Libros. Peñailillo Endre, M. (2010). Graffiti-mural y Cultura Urbana: Construcción dialógica-social a través de imaginarios urbanos para y con la comunidad. Thesis. Viña del Mar, Chile: Universidad de Viña del Mar. Guisela Latorre  specializes in modern and contemporary US Latina/o and Latin American art with a special emphasis on gender and women artists. Her first book, titled Walls of Empowerment: Chicana/o Indigenist Murals from California (University of Texas Press 2008), explored the recurrence of indigenist motifs in Chicana/o community murals from the 1970s to the turn of the millennium. Her other publications include “Border Consciousness and Artivist Aesthetics: Richard Lou’s Performance and Multimedia Artwork” in the

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American Studies Journal (2012), “New Approaches to Chicana/o Art: The Visual and the Political as Cognitive Process” in Image & Narrative (2010), and “Icons of Love and Devotion: Alma López’s Art” in Feminist Studies (Spring/ Summer 2008). Latorre’s recent research activities include the co-editorship of the feminist journal Frontiers: A Journal of Women Studies and work on a second book project on the graffiti and mural movement in Chile during the post-dictatorship era.

The Resistance Passed Through Here: Arabic Graffiti of Resistance, Before and After the Arab Uprisings ‫املقاومة مرت من هنا‬ Rana Jarbou

(٢٠١٧-١٩٨٤( ‫ املقاومة جدوى م�سمتره” –ابسل أالعرج‬...‫ �ستحصل عىل مقابهل‬...‫” لك مثن تدفعه يف املقاومة‬ “Resistance is never in vain. The continuous sacrifices of those who resist will always pay off.” –Basil al-Araj (1984–2017).

Introduction Graffiti as Counter-Narrative We must begin with the disclaimer that writing about graffiti of resistance in the Arab world is bound to be incomplete and unfair, as we know the Arab world and its manifestations of resistance are not monolithic. But in such attempt we may begin to note the interrelation between visual production and political struggle(s) in a regional entity that has undergone an identity struggle since the signing of the British–French

R. Jarbou (*) University of California, Oakland, CA, USA © The Author(s) 2017 S.H. Awad, B. Wagoner (eds.), Street Art of Resistance, Palgrave Studies in Creativity and Culture, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-63330-5_6

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Sykes–Picot agreement nearly 100 years ago. It is because of this identity crisis, an “Arab World” needs to be redefined and reframed in a context that subverts the official and mainstream narrative(s), rendering them outdated and ineffective. The ramifications of the systems of knowledge, its production, and circulation have created and reaffirmed identities, borders, and terms such as the “Arab world,” “The West,” “The Middle East,” and, of course, the misnomer “The Arab Spring.” We may resist using these terms because they draw lines around fluid concepts; however, the real challenge is to resist these definitions by redefining them. To work with and navigate through the systems of knowledge and propaganda to highlight what is invisible and on the margins is a resistance. That is, to resist narratives by countering them. While it is not certain what has changed following the Arab uprisings, we can be certain of a media revolution that is shaping knowledge production and how we consume media in the Arab world. From the ground to the virtual street, new systems and iconic forms of language are created to keep up with the pace of resistance in a world where the conversation and the hash tag are out in the open. More dots are connecting unsystematically to create new systems of meaning and to make the foreign and unknown relevant. In our media-saturated world, context is content. Yet conceptualization of Arabic graffiti, or graffiti and street art in the “Arab World,” or an “Arab” country or city is still messy. In this chapter, we will take snapshots of various graffiti scenes in the Arab world, in which graffiti play a significant role in the visual materializations of the socio-­political discourse. However, we will situate our discourse analysis in language and aesthetic practices, context of production, and mode of reception, following Stuart Hall’s methodical approach of Encoding/Decoding (Hall, 1980). The underlying notion of this approach is the understanding that representation is complex and that meanings are produced through systems of representation, which include the denotative, what is literal, and the connotative, how one identifies with an image and/or text on a cultural or individual level. Thus, in deconstructing the possible connotations of representation, we consider how the cultural, social, and historical factors can influence how meanings are constructed. For example, seeing graffiti concentrated in green, red, white, and black colors in a Palestinian refugee camp presumably connotes to the Palestinian flag, thus suggesting

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expressions of nationhood, belonging, and aspiration to return to their homeland. Still, it is not assumed that messages will always be received in the ways they are intended, because knowledge and communication are intimately linked with power and how it operates. More than the content, design, and semiotic analysis of graffiti, its production and reception contextualizes the struggle over meaning. Accordingly, we will begin by addressing the macro picture of Arabic graffiti practices “Historical communal practices and Arab cultural identity,” from which we link identity and community to resistance. We will take snapshots of graffiti captured through scattered archives bound by time, place, and articulation of social and power relations in Palestine, Lebanon, and Bahrain. Decoding the graffiti practices will be grounded in “spaces” and “counter-spaces” of resistance. We turn the page when the Arab uprisings of 2011 came about, when graffiti movements echoed popular uprisings and popular uprisings legitimized the graffiti movements as important discourse worthy of our attention. While there is a splurge of data about graffiti of the uprisings, it does not spare us the ambitious task of contextualizing and theorizing the ensuing visible trends, let alone the preceding ones. Our concluding vantage point will address the discursive formations and heterotopias in the graffiti of the uprisings and what followed. (In his essay “Of Other Spaces” French philosopher Michel Foucault coined the postmodern human geography notion of heterotopias to describe differentiated social spaces that operate in isolation from dominant circumstances. They are both physical and mental “other” spaces, not here or there.) Graffiti circulation has created online and offline social spaces in which expressions of resistance are shared beyond physical communal borders, highlighting new networks of knowledge production and sharing and solidarity, while constructing new layers of meanings and relationships.

 istorical Communal Practices H and Arab Cultural Identity Dating back to the seventh century, Arabic calligraphy was formulated in line with the writing of the Quran (see also Hamdy, this volume). Turning the prophet’s oral revelations into script, other styles developed and calligraphy became a major form of artistic expression, seen on decorative

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ornaments and architecture in the Islamic world. Today, many rural towns and village communities have their walls beautified with calligraphy, as is common in Palestine, Lebanon, Bahrain, and elsewhere. Similarly, ancient Pharaonic art has continued to be depicted in rural Egyptian towns and Nubian villages. Drawings of holy sites such as the Al Aqsa mosque in Jerusalem and the Ka’ba, house of God in Makkah, along with airplanes, ships, and other visual depictions of travel for pilgrimage are painted in much of the small towns of the Levant, al-Mashriq in Arabic meaning “the rising sun,” also known as Bilad al-Sham, the historical geographical area that lies east of the Mediterranean: Syria, Lebanon, Palestine, Jordan, and the Sinai Peninsula. “Sanctified pilgrimage, forgiven sins” and “welcome, dear pilgrims” are written by people in the neighborhood to welcome back their neighbors from the pilgrimage. Popular culture featured in chants, sayings, jokes, popular art, myths, stories, folklore, and/or riddles are manifested on walls as a result of cultural and communal graffiti practices over time. Fast forward to the early 1900s, when the yafta, the public calligraphic banner used to voice political commentary during popular uprising and political campaigning, became an intrinsic component of the street vernacular of major Arab cities (Maasri, 2009, p. 37). The yafta inspired the calligraphic style and mode of communiqué of the political poster, which became widely used in times of conflict. From artistic craft to public discourse of rising conflicts, the Arabic script has left its aesthetic and communicative mark in the public domain. Sociologist and professor at Fes University and author of Arabic texts on graffiti, Dr. Cherrak both complicates and simplifies the question of culture and its relationship to graffiti. He claims that while a sociological definition of culture is caught between a society and its ideas, such ­definition is both generalized and characterized by point of view (Cherrak, 2009, p. 125). Research of the types of relationship(s) between culture(s) and graffiti needs to be specific. Identity is metaphysical by nature; However, identity is not a given a priori (Cherrak, 2009); rather it is created by connecting culture and society through relationships and sociological formulations to which an individual belongs. For instance, the dialectical relationship between language and ideology is part and parcel of a society’s cultural identity, as “language constitutes the essence of the

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social being, not merely the modality for expression” (Cherrak, 2009, p.  343). This includes traditions, customs, religion, cultural localities, and so on to which a social group feels a sense of a belonging. Thus, the existence of a language such as Arabic, is “predicated upon the existence of a community of speakers who guarantee they can understand one another” (Rajagopalan, 2001, p. 19). The Arabic linguistic identity is also “a function of prevailing political climate in given societies at specific historic moments” (p.  23). Hence, while Iraqi and Syrian Kurds may share the Arab linguistic identity, they sprayed Kurdish graffiti when marking their territorial conquests in their resistance against Daesh, or the so-called Islamic state. The theme of Arab cultural identity is an important and fundamental question in the graffiti writer’s imaginary in terms of an isomorphic identity and its conformity with a personal belonging with the local, the national, the Arab and/or the Islamic, so that his/her graffiti reflects this identity—while it focuses on the anthology of the ego and self as a function to mark one’s existence (Cherrak, 2009, p.  359). With prevailing graffiti drifts and aesthetics also come resistance graffiti in the margins. Capturing these fleeting trends is challenging, particularly in cases of instantaneous erasure. There are, however, spaces of sanctioned resistance, where collective struggles are routinely expressed on the walls and left uncensored. We will observe few notable modes of resistance graffiti in the Arab world, addressing how spatiality and identity politics contribute to the artistic production in the respective media landscapes. Finally, we will take a look at the turning point of the Arab Spring and how it paved the way for a new media landscape in the Arab world.

Spaces of Resistance According to French philosopher Michel Foucault, power is not absolute because the possibility of resistance always exists, and as long as there is power, there is resistance to it. There isn’t one model of Resistance that are conceivable—solitary, spontaneous, concerted. Resistance can be possible, improbable, violent, savage or necessary.

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The form they take cannot be absolutely defined due to their transitory and changing nature, but the enduring characteristics of resistances is that they are intricately connected to exercises of power. (Hearn, 2012, p. 39)

A name tag, for example, does not immediately qualify as resistance, but an “I am here” declaration in certain contexts may be regarded as a resistance. Take the New York Subways graffiti movement in the 1970s, for instance. Young kids from impoverished neighborhoods and housing projects resisted the conditions in which they were living by making themselves visible in the city and beyond. Their writings on the subway were a way to make them visible to the rest of the city. This is what is meant by “going all city” in the city of New  York (Chaflant & Silver, 1983). Visibility is a form of resistance, in the context of resisting spatial arrangements that marginalize communities. To write in confined communal spaces is no less an act of resistance, as communities are reaffirmed and their relevant values perpetuated. The question of visibility and site specificity is not only in terms of geographic location, but rather the network of social and power relations embodied therein (see also Latorre, this volume; Smith, this volume).

Palestine We cannot talk about resistance in the Arab world without the Palestinian resistance being at the forefront, particularly in the context of the aftermath of the 1967 defeat. Occupied Palestine and refugee camps in neighboring countries are rich in various and colorful graffiti expressions ranging from drawings of the pre-1948 map of Palestine to political party logos to calligraphy of religious texts and poetry. Rich in form, ranging from murals to stencils to calligraphy, as well as the free hand-written slogans, Palestinian resistance aesthetics influenced the neighboring rural towns in the Levant. Some of the most common motifs are drawings of the iconic Al Aqsa Mosque in Jerusalem and the Al Kaaba in Mecca alongside welcoming pilgrims back from the Hajj (Zoghbi & Karl, 2013). Newly wed couples are also congratulated on walls, and an overall sense of community is manifest on the walls of Palestinian homes and residential

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areas. Commemorating murals of Palestinian leader Yasser Arafat and other revolutionary figures maintain a collective memory visible in Palestinians’ everyday life. Naji Al-Ali, the most influential Arab cartoonist who was assassinated in 1987 in London, featured on every cartoon “the famous hand-made character-the bare-foot boy ‘Hanthalah’ who turned his back to the world” (El Fassed, 2004) (see Fig.  1). Hanthalah became a trademark throughout al-Ali’s career, as well as symbolic image for the Palestinian struggle, often drawn and stenciled by others all around the world. This child, as you can see is neither beautiful, spoiled, nor even well-fed. He is barefoot like many children in refugee camps. Those who came to know ‘Hanthalah,’ as I discovered later, adopted him because he is affectionate, honest, outspoken, and a bum. He is an icon that stands to watch me from slipping. And his hands behind his back are a symbol of rejection of all the present negative tides in our region. (El Fassed, 2004)

Fig. 1  Hanthalah in Amman, Beirut, Cairo, Riyadh, Bahrain, and refugee camps in Lebanon

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Symbolically, Hanthalah also represents the hope that one day he will turn around and show us his face, when Palestine becomes liberated. Famous Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish’s 1964 poem, “Identity Card” is a poem of resistance against dispossession and exile faced by many Palestinians fleeing from occupation. (Remembering Mahmoud Darwish, 2008). Write down! I am an Arab I have a name without a title Patient in a country Where people are enraged My roots Were entrenched before the birth of time And before the opening of the eras Before the pines, and the olive trees And before the grass grew

The Palestinian Liberation Organization’s song, “Palestine is Arab” is often graffitied on walls, resisting the Zionist narrative that Palestine was a land without a people, before the forming of the Israel nation. In different cities in the Arab world, it is not uncommon to read the phrase “Palestine is Arab” in solidarity with the cause, and often times this phrase is accompanied by a map of historic Palestine connoting to the annexation of land that once belonged to the Palestinian Arabs. Along with the Palestinian Liberation Organization’s (PLO) establishment in 1964 came a Palestinian art movement in which Ghassan Kanafani’s literature, Mahmoud Darwish’s poems, and Suleiman Mansour’s paintings became “classical” characteristic features of Palestinian resistance art during the 1960s and 1970s (Salih & Richter-Devroe, 2014,  p. 9). A lot of resistance and aspirations for Palestinian nationhood were expressed through cultural and artistic production during this period, and their influence is marked in Palestinians’ existence and in their streets. The classic paintings, murals, and texts graffitied on the walls of occupied Palestine attest to this culture of resistance.

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You cannot walk in a Palestinian neighborhood or refugee camp without reading the words, “Fatah” and “Hamas,” the two main political parties in Palestine. Fatah is an Arabic reverse-acronym for “Palestinian National Liberation Movement,” which also means “opening,” historically used to mean Islamic expansion. Founded in 1959 by Palestinian leader Yasser Arafat and joined with the PLO in 1967, Fatah became the dominant force in Palestinian politics, particularly after the defeat, the 1967 Six-Day Arab–Israeli War. “Fatah” is often also graffitied with “Intifada” (Arabic for uprising, and in the Palestinian context it refers specifically to the first and second intifadas of 1987–1993 and 2000–2005, respectively). Hamas (Arabic acronym for Islamic Resistance Movement), originally founded in 1987 as a branch of the Egyptian Muslim Brotherhood, was democratically elected in the 2006 Palestinian municipal elections and has become the authority of the Gaza Strip. Their graffiti had already existed but caught up even more after their victory, as their slogans and names of martyrs quickly spread across Palestinian towns (Zoghbi & Karl, 2013). Their presence in Gaza is notable in seeing multiplying murals of sacred religious texts in calligraphy painted by local artists, who got their training by their respective political or religious factions (Zoghbi & Karl, 2013, p. 66). It is a collective effort and communal activity, as artists gather and passersby stop and look. Together they recreate their neighborhoods with Palestinian nationhood, with the colors green, red, black, and white pertaining to the Palestinian flag overpowering the walls. Year dates are often written on the walls of the refugee camps, as seen in Burj al-Barajneh in Lebanon, to remind Palestinian refugees of the different events of land partitioning, mass exodus and war. Names of different massacres and posters of the martyrs lost in those events are on display to keep them in their memory and collective struggle. Deep into the camp, in its small and wired alleyways, more graffiti reads: “all people have a homeland where they live, except for us, a homeland lives in us.” As you carry on walking through the camp, there are writings, stencils, drawings, and posters everywhere. A ripped poster of Yasser Arafat still stands beside a stencil that reads “Fatah, 11–11,” referring to the date of Arafat’s death and “Shabiba” (Fatah’s youth movement) hand-sprayed in

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light orange. “Hamas, all Palestine” is drawn with a map of Palestine painted in the flag’s colors. The face of Imad Mughniyah, a senior member of Hizballah who was assassinated in 2008 is stenciled on a wall filled with bullet holes. A banner reads “yes to adopting civil, social and human rights for our enduring people.” In the camp’s outskirts and under an overpass, calligraffiti in bright colors and name tags of local hip-hop artists pronounce a younger, alternative, and more critical voice of resistance. “No to settlements” and “No to the separation wall” are written in large yellow bubbly fonts outlined in red and black, respectively, and signed by the hip-hop band Katiba 5; and “I-Voice” (referring to the hip-­ hop duo “invincible voice”, yeah-seen and TNT) is written in English and Arabic with drawings of a microphone, a spray can, and a V hand peace sign. Palestinian hip-hop artists rap about their struggle, daily life in the camps, and also the failure of Palestinian political parties and their Arab allies. In Yarmouk, a Palestinian refugee camp in Syria, a wall reads, “my homeland is Palestine and I won’t remain a refugee.” Resembling other Palestinian towns and refugee camps, there are stencils of Yasser Arafat and posters of religious and political leaders and martyrs. “Al Quds (Jerusalem) is one and united and we will not accept it east or west, Fatah Intifada,” “We die standing and we will not kneel,” and “Right of return” are graffitied on the walls of this camp. The voice of the Palestinian resistance is echoed elsewhere in Jordan and Egypt, regionally and internationally. Solidarity is expressed in universal and simple images and slogans as mentioned above: Hanthalah, the map of Palestine, “Free Palestine,” “Save Gaza,” “Gaza the symbol of glory,” and just “Palestine” or just “Gaza.” The writing of the mere words of “Palestine” and “Gaza” in different cities, particularly in European and American cities, gives them visibility, despite having the blockade on Gaza and realities of the occupation being concealed in the mainstream Western media. In 2007, renowned UK-based street artist Banksy and fourteen international street artists painted on the Israeli apartheid wall with Palestinian artists in protest of the wall and as an act of solidarity with the Palestinians living behind it. Banksy and the London-based organization “Pictures on Walls” moved their “Santa’s Ghetto” squat art concept store project from London to Bethlehem bringing worldwide attention to the wall, with

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Fig. 2  (a) Leila Khaled is a member of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine, who became notorious as an airline hijacker in 1969. Her family fled during the 1948 Palestinian exodus. Photo by William Parry; (b) Al Mubadara (Palestinian National Initiative) is a Palestinian political party, itself a resistance to both Fatah and Hamas, led by Mustafa Barghouti. Photo by Ameer Al Qaimari

many of the street artists’ acclaimed illustrious pieces having a far reach beyond the context of Israeli apartheid. Banksy’s dove with flak jacket and cross-hairs, Ron English’s “Pardon our Oppression” piece, and Blu’s gigantic baby blowing soldiers made of US dollars are some of the countless images of resistance created in Palestine by international street artists. UK and Palestine-based photojournalist William Parry published “Against The Wall,” which documents the graffiti on the West Bank side of the separation wall (Fig. 2). The artists also used the opportunity to utilize the Wall as a giant billboard for their own political messages…with work that challenged or subverted understandings about the reality faced by Palestinians under occupation. Within a few short weeks, Santa’s Ghetto had raised over $1 million from art sales for local…and engaged millions who wouldn’t ordinarily take an interest in Israel’s illegal occupation of Palestine. Just as important, it sent a message to the people of Palestine: you are not alone in your struggle. (Parry, 2010, p. 9)

Banksy had already made his mark in Bethlehem with some of his most famous iconic works such as the protestor throwing a flower b­ ouquet instead of a rock and the young girl frisking an Israeli soldier. But not all artworks are received well by the local communities. For instance, some locals took offense to Banksy’s piece showing two donkeys walking in

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opposite directions, as donkeys have a derogatory connotation in Arab culture, and so it was defaced. Banksy expressed some of the irony in making a site of oppression a tourist attraction for artists. In his book Wall and Piece he wrote an account of an old Palestinian man’s objection to his artistic intervention saying “We don’t want it to be beautiful, we hate this wall. Go home” (Banksy, 2005, p. 142). Having international artists beautify the apartheid and the occupation may have touched on the sensitivities of the local communities; nonetheless, it started a (controversial) conversation, collaboration, and solidarity between occupied Palestinians and the international community. Influence of the Palestinian struggle and its aesthetics traveled to neighboring countries and beyond, preserving Palestinian identity and narratives of the occupation. Maria Chakhtoura’s “La Guerre des Graffiti” chronicles graffiti of the Lebanese civil war from 1975 to 1977 (Chakhtoura, 1978). In this impressive collection, the polarities in the Lebanese political and sociopolitical landscape can be observed, also exposing extreme views with respect to the Palestinian struggle and in some cases the unwanted presence of Palestinian refugees in Lebanon. One wall in the vibrant west Beirut Hamra district reads “Lebanese, Palestinian, write it down I am Arab,” a reference to tge earlier mentioned Mahmoud Darwish poem, showing an aspect of Lebanese patriotism to be coupled with a strong commitment to Arab nationalism and the Palestinian struggle. Chakhtoura’s extraordinary archive exposes the role the Palestinian resistance played in the Lebanese urban discourse and thus the power relations attributed to the struggle. It illustrates more words, whether stenciled or handwritten and fewer drawings, a graffiti warfare corresponding to the civil war. Among the scrawls of war, political posters commemorate icons ranging from leaders to writers to martyrs, suggesting that the political poster played a significant role in the iconography and commemorative practices in graffiti stencils and murals that later came into shape.

Icons, Commemoration, and Belonging Zeina Maasri’s “Off the wall: Political posters of the Lebanese civil war 1975–1990” provides a conceptualization of political posters as symbolic

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sites of struggle over meaning and political discourse (Maasri, 2009). In the chapter “Agents, Aesthetics, Genres and Localities,” Maasri (2009) outlines that discourses and iconography are undeniably linked to the rising conflicts and constructions of political identities, which are linked with the Palestinian resistance of the 1960s (p. 37). Lebanese left-wing organizations and Arab nationalists affiliated with Palestinian organizations had shared anti-imperialist and anti-Zionist views (Maasri, 2009). With this political alignment came networks of artistic exchange extending to global networks employing a shared revolutionary discourse related to armed struggle and popular resistance. Lebanese artists expressed solidarity with the Latin American struggle by combining notable images of Nasser with Castro and Che Guevara. Solidarity with the Palestinians and Lebanese Left was reciprocated in graphics created by Cuban artists, depicting resistance through shared iconography such as the AK47, guerillas, imperial powers, and the clenched fist. Maasri (2009) explicates that particularly after the 1967 defeat and the events of May 1968, the artistic climate and heightened politicization in Beirut along with relative intellectual freedom that neighboring Arab countries lacked, had fostered the development of the political posters in Lebanon. Politically engaged artists saw in the poster a public platform to voice their positions and an expansion of their artistic practice from the confines of the galleries to the openness of the city walls. (Maasri, 2009, p. 39)

While they adopted graphic design and modern western trends in political poster design, young Arab artists, from Lebanon, Syria, Egypt, Iraq, and elsewhere, still resisted assimilating the international standards and aesthetics by creating “visually complex” and “highly interpretive” political posters that expressed their own subjectivity, distinctive style, and cultural localities (Maasri, 2009, p. 42). As these politically engaged artists continued to acquire the tools to advance their work in graphic communication, they were contributing to creating “aesthetic genres of contemporary anti-imperialist struggles and revolutionary movements’ posters” (Maasri, 2009, p. 44). Meanwhile right-wing Christian militias were developing their own expressive illustrations and political posters. Following the assassination

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of Lebanese Forces (LF) military commander Bashir Gemayel in 1982, Kataeb and LF posters took on a more direct approach to designing their political posters, with the aim of accessible and wide reach. During this period, the 1980s, popular realism and politico-religious imaginings dominated the depictions of leaders’ portraits, the latter adopted by Hizballah’s media office (Maasri, 2009). Romanticized images of Shi’ite historical and mythical stories exhibited blessedness and martyrdom, constructing a collective imagination, not merely memory. The organized effort, shared ideologies, and religious convictions within the party’s discourse facilitated an effective and independent process of communication (Maasri, 2009). Influenced by Iranian iconography and Iranian modern political art, Hizballah adopted the official Iranian politico-religious discourse, the cultural and religious practices and symbolic representations pertaining to Shi’ism, into the Lebanese context (Maasri, 2009). The Amal movement, founded by disappeared Musa al-Sadr, adopted similar themes of oppression, struggle, and martyrdom in their representations. Their colors, red, green, and white, were to symbolize sacrifice, Islam, and martyrdom, respectively. Throughout this period, the rise in sectarian consciousness was undoubtedly facilitated by the sustaining of collective memory. As the late Edward Said wrote: Collective memory is not an inert and passive thing, but a field of activity in which past events are selected, reconstructed, maintained, modified and endowed with political meaning. (Said, 2002, p. 251)

While collective memories were being reconstructed within different Lebanese communities’ political discourses, Lebanese national identity and narratives of the civil war were contested (Maasri, 2009, p. 71). The ramifications of these conflicting discourses are felt today, beyond Lebanon and its internal politics. As we perceive the dominant themes and aesthetics of resistance, we note that location is context. The spatial configuration of Beirut is a prime example, where fallen leaders are commemorated in their respective hometowns. You will not come across a stencil of Bachir al-Gemayel, assassinated president and supreme commander of the LF Christian militia, in the predominantly Muslim west Beirut. Likewise, on the other side of the green

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line, one is unlikely to find a stencil of Hassan Nasrallah, secretary general of the paramilitary party Hizballah in Ashrafiyeh. Narratives are contested in postwar Beirut, where memory, history, and political imagination continue to be inscribed and re-inscribed. Beyond Beirut, identity politics and the sectarian and political nature of its spatial configuration is manifested on the walls of Lebanon, and likewise in other countries where sectarian and regional battles are fought, such as Bahrain, Iraq, and now Syria and Yemen, where territorial divides are vivid through graffiti.

Bahrain (Fig. 3) “The uprising is coming in the name of the prisoners” –a wall in Bahrain

Let us look at the specific case, where local, national, regional, and ideological narratives are contested, and how identity and its affiliations are emphasized to assure a sense of belonging and continued struggle.

Fig. 3  Calligraphy in Bahrain’s villages (2007–2010)

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In the desert island of Bahrain, village communities are cordoned off, often by significantly Bahraini naturalized riot police, away from the main roads and commercial areas. These spaces are decorated in calligraphic writings, images of the battle of Karbala,1 and glorifications of Hussain, “martyr of martyrs” and symbol of resistance. They are also filled up by the dissenting graffiti, characterized by the anger and destructiveness visible in its written vivid form (Jarbou, 2013a, p. 48). Protestors spray their slogans at night and the police cross them by day, but the deeper you go into the village, the more these expressions are left uncensored. The barely visible word, “parliament” can still be spotted alongside other references to a past uprising calling for the reinstatement of the 1973 constitution (Jarbou, 2013a). “The Parliament is the Solution,” “Release our political prisoners,” and “We will not kneel except for god,” are some of the most common slogans in a past uprising, long before the 14 February uprising of 2011. While regional and sectarian inspiration can be read on the walls of a marginalized Shi’ite majority ruled by a Sunni elite minority, there is a local nature to their style, language, and aesthetics. Demands for social justice, political reform, and preservation of collective memory have formed a shared discourse in the villages. Hearts and the phrase “in our hearts” are commonly sprayed next to stenciled prisoners, martyrs, and political icons. The stencils are created in an interestingly uncommon way, quite different from the laser-cutting printing machines. Photos of icons are projected on to a wall, usually in mechanic shops, where large sheets of paper are hung up to trace the images before they are cut out for stenciling. Abdul Amir al-Jamri, who was the spiritual leader of the Bahraini Shi’ite population and key figure of the uprising of the 1990s is visible across the island, with his face stenciled along with the phrase, “we will not forget you, oh Abu Jamil.” They are multiplied in his own hometown Bani Jamra. More stencils of Isa Qassim, now stripped of his Bahraini citizenship, are abundant in his hometown Diraz. Qassim was a Shia cleric and leader of the now-dissolved opposition party al-Wefaq, greatly admired and respected by the Bahraini village communities and known to be one of the more peaceful voices of the opposition. From spiritual leaders to prisoners and martyrs, iconic figures are continuously celebrated and remembered in their villages. Faces of

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prisoners and martyrs are also often printed in black and white and displayed side by side on a wall. “We will not forget our symbols,” “in the hearts,” and “our martyrs are the source of our dignity” are among countless slogans pertaining to commemoration and collective memory. The visibility of martyrdom signifies bravery and self-sacrifice for their beliefs, and a reminder that, as Benedict Anderson wrote in Imagined Communities, “the great wars of this century are extraordinary not so much in the unprecedented scale on which they permitted people to kill, as in the colossal numbers persuaded to lay down their lives” (Maasri, 2009, p. 87). Martyr posters and stencils, often alongside dates and references to tragic events, proclaim that such narratives were very real to those who died in their cause, including adolescents (p. 89). While Martyrdom is a universal concept, there is a sectarian connotation and aesthetics attached to expressions of martyrdom in Bahrain. “We will never be humiliated” is a fourteen-century-old slogan of Imam Hussein bin Ali, prophet Muhammad’s grandson, while resisting Umayyad rule’s Yazid in the battle of Karbala. “We are a people who love martyrdom,” “I am the next martyr,” “We will not kneel except for god.” The seminal event of Karbala, narrated and commemorated yearly through collective acts of remembrance during the first ten days of the month of Muharram, culminating in public communal rituals in the Ashura processions on the tenth, has deeply embedded in the Shi’ite collective consciousness a whole repertory of symbols laden with Shi’ite politico-religious meaning pertaining to oppression, struggle and martyrdom. (Maasri, 2009, p. 98)

These customs and aesthetics of expression are shared by Shi’ite communities in neighboring countries. An important aspect of this type of resistance is communal practice expressing a collective plight, inaccessible to other communities, suggesting messages are discursively encoded and decoded from and to these communities’ frameworks of knowledge. In the case of Bahrain, in particular, the inhabitants in the other residential and commercial areas away from these impoverished villages may never read the outcries of their fellow Bahraini residents, and hence they can go on with their daily lives without observing their struggle.

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Counter-Spaces of Resistance/Contesting Space “Where’s the state?” –a wall in Beirut

We suggest the term counter-spaces, in terms of transcendence of existing visible and invisible boundaries, the social, political, and religious/sectarian. Spatiality is an important aspect of resistance, and after the Arab uprisings of 2011, many borders were contested. Lebanon, however, has witnessed a long history of spatial contestation. After the Lebanese Civil War ended in 1990, the country started to build again. A new generation (the millennials) that was apolitical and resented the war and its conflicting narratives started to become visible through its graffiti. Undoubtedly influenced by global hip hop and street-­art movements, namely the NY Subway movement, these young artists “bombed” Beirut with Arabized, bubbly, and wildstyle fonts. Particularly after the July War of 2006, when political groups reaffirmed their presence and marked their territories, these young artists were resisting politics, beautifying the walls with phrases such as, “Beirut never dies,” “Save your Leb,” “You made us hungry,” “The street is yours,” and so on. “Ya Lebnani wake up,” was a warning of getting into another civil war following political instability following the July war of 2006. Street artists Ashekman, Siska, M3allim, Pak, Kabrit, Oras, Fish, and many others were part of a younger politically disengaged generation, even though the act of doing graffiti is in itself political. Their quest for visibility was their own means of resisting the territorial divisions of the city. They also aimed to cover the bullet holes that remained from the war. While these artists were open to outside influences and aesthetics, they also innovated Arabic graffiti fonts that would embellish some of the war-torn spots with hope for a better future for the country. During a period of political tension and car-bombings that targeted high-ranking politicians, these street artists sought the opportunity to spray on the empty streets freely while most people stayed home (Zoghbi & Karl, 2013, p. 102). “Beirut never dies,” they reminded us.

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In 2005, the assassination of Rafiq Hariri on 14 February drove massive demonstrations that was to be dubbed as the Cedar Revolution, Intifadat al-Istiqlal (Independence Uprising), and Lebanon Independence. During their protests, protestors wrote graffiti on a large petition and the temporary wooden walls surrounding Martyr Square (Zoghbi & Karl, 2013, p. 9). “We want Lebanon,” “resign!” “enough blood enough loss enough oppression, we want Lebanon!” “wake up, Beirut!” and so on. The demonstrations lasted until 27 April 2005 when Syrian troops withdrew. What followed was a period of political deadlock, especially following the July war of 2006 when Israel invaded south of Lebanon, reigniting the political factions. The 8 March and 14 March alliances, both consisting of different political parties, fought a visual war through graffiti and billboards. The pro-Western 14 March alliance started the “I love life” campaign erecting billboards that read, “We want to live.” The 8 March alliance responded with subversive billboards that read with the same 14 March slogan “We want to live” adding catchphrases in white chalkboard font, such as “with dignity,” “without debt,” and “with safety.” For the following few years, new national unity governments would form and collapse repeatedly, and in the midst of political instability, the battle for narratives continued; however, in 2011 a new political, yet non-sectarian dimension was incorporated into the urban discourse. While many Arab countries, inspired by Tunisia and Egypt’s ousting of Ben Ali and Mubarak, respectively, called for “days of rage” and uttered the slogan “the people demand the fall of the regime,” tens of thousands of Lebanese protestors called for the fall of, specifically, the “sectarian regime.” Shortly after beginning their movement, they mended the slogans calling for the fall of the sectarian regime incorporating, “and its symbols,” implying sectarian leaders and politicians. This movement came with new graffiti. One impressive graffiti campaign that had a massive reach across the country was a series of questions about why electricity continues to get cut or why poverty has risen, to which the answer always read, “because of the sectarian regime.” As the uprisings continued, and when Syria’s, in particular, began, another wave of graffiti in solidarity with other uprisings and reflections on regional events was seen in the streets of Beirut. Paste-ups of Muammar Gaddafi holding an umbrella, a stenciled blue bra (referring to a woman

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protestor’s blue bra, which was exposed while getting attacked by the military), and Bashar al-Assad depicted as Hitler were some of the iconic images produced during the first year of the uprisings. Beirut was revived as a cultural hub and became a canvas for the revolution. Artistic collaboration and quick production and circulation of stencils was visually evident in the streets, as was the reality that there was a turning point in the region. A new history was being written on the walls, and it is just as much about the past as it was about the present. People were no longer afraid to reflect on their lack of freedoms or to protest their living conditions. The Syrian uprising graffiti is most striking, given the absolute absence of political graffiti in the streets of Syria prior to 2011, with the exception of the recognized resistance in the Palestinian refugee camps. The only political content to be found in Syria’s streets entailed either glorifications of the Assad regime, Bashar, and Hafez, and other nationalist representations. It was not until fifteen kids wrote antiregime graffiti in al-Banin school in Dara’a. The kids were imprisoned and tortured by the regime, driving their communities out in protest and the public space across from Omari mosque in Dara’a was quickly renamed “Dignity Square” (Abouzeid, 2011). Protests quickly spread to other towns, including Banias, Qamishli, Douma, Deir ez-Zor and the capital, Damascus (2011), and could not be contained as people started writing on the walls of fear. With this mobilization came an abundance of graffiti. Battles were fought between the opposition and pro-regime in Syrian towns. “Assad or we burn the country” is one of the most notable slogans sprayed by the Syrian Army in Syria (also pro-Assad factions in Beirut). The Free Syrian Army responded, “We burn Assad, and we build the country.” These slogans rhyme, which was common in political and protest graffiti of the uprisings. Cherrak (2013) refers to this as “writing with voice,” as annunciation becomes attached to the meaning and rhetoric of the text (p. 147). Pro-Assad graffiti were mostly tenacious and unyielding, reflecting the stamina of the Assad regime. While nearby Beirut certainly has a rich political graffiti culture, some areas echo the censorship and loyalty to the Assad regime, making it difficult for Syrian revolutionary graffiti to last more than a day. Ardent Assad loyalists instantaneously and consistently cross out graffiti that

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Fig. 4  Pro- and anti-Assad graffiti war. Visible stencil is a play on Hizballah’s logo with the phrase, “and the people will prevail.” Hamra-Beirut, Lebanon. 2013

comments on the events in Syria, and they often also respond. By 2013, anti-Assad graffiti would last longer in those same areas harboring Assad loyalists, suggesting that spatial boundaries may be negotiated, or simply inability to keep up with anti-Assad graffiti (an acceptance of it) (Fig. 4). The Beirut streets continued to reverberate voices from Egypt, Syria, Bahrain, and Libya. The most notable graffiti collective during this period was Beirut Walls, who were active in their resistance, addressing both the local issues and the transnational ones, and expressed solidarity with the Syrian uprising. Beirut Walls aimed to reflect on repression, the limits of freedom, self-censorship, and the apprehensions associated with their everyday life (Beirut Walls, 2011). They disrupted the typical polarities in the Beirut discourse by spraying phrases such as “No to repression in Syria and Bahrain” and “Salute to the revolutionaries of Syria and Bahrain.” Equating the legitimacy of both uprisings in Syria and Bahrain was their approach in depoliticizing civilian struggles and being consistent in

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expressing ideals for achieving democracy. They also transcended the territorial divides of Beirut, experimenting with different spaces and imagery. In a polarized city and region for that matter, Beirut Walls’s street interventions stood out and invited the public to reclaim its political imagination. It was not enough to write on and about the walls, for Beirut Walls also monitored the reception of their graffiti and documented the censored walls, which is, in fact, more telling than a mere archive.

 eterotopias: Graffiti of the Arab Uprisings H and the Aftermath “The wall typifies the social barometer, the more the temperature rises, the more the wall gets covered by graffiti.” –Brassai

Without disclaimers, the Arab uprisings of 2011 and their aftermath legitimized graffiti as knowledge production and critical discourse, whether in its power to mobilize the masses through virtual communication or its tangible function on the ground. In some cases, it even stirred an uprising, as was the case with the kids in Dara’a. It was merely an empowered impulse when one of those kids, Naief Abazid, wrote “Your turn has come doctor” following the ousting of Mubarak on the historic day of 11 February 2011. “Al-sha’b yureed isqat al-nitham” (the people demand the fall of the regime), “Irhal” (leave), and “yasqut…” (down with) were graffitied on the walls of numerous Arab cities, echoing the revolutionary mantra that was chanted in the streets. A year prior, Ahmed Maher, an activist from the Egyptian 6 April movement was arrested for writing “No to power inheritance” on a wall in Cairo. It was “just graffiti,” but during the uprisings, the implication of these words had changed. When a historic battle of ideas is happening, words become weapons. The writing on the wall was also read, heard, and consumed in other mediums. Dr. Ahmed Cherrak (2013) updated his sociological analysis outlining graffiti’s discursive formations in the Arab uprisings ranging from online incitement to interactive dialogue that invites participation as part of the collective. We will highlight how two main elements, (1) the Internet and (2) language and iconography, have shaped the production, circulation, and reception of graffiti of the uprisings.

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Dr. Cherrak (2013) claimed that online communications that took part in mass mobilization were also considered “graffiti,” since they shared the same communicative function (p.  142). While we understand the stakes are completely different, we can recognize the relationship between virtual and physical walls as outlets for self-expression. Mubarak’s decision to shut off communication at the press of a button on 28 January 2011 was clear evidence of the interrelatedness between virtual and street walls. At the end of the day, they are both tools, and human expression (or rage) will use whichever is available. Dr. Cherrak (2013) maintained that the origins of inciting the 25 January movement began online, with the creation of the page “We are all Khaled Said” as an example of a space that harbored an important event, conversation, and organization. What was expressed on that digital wall may very well be expressed in the street. Nevertheless, it took unmediated risk to ignite the movement, which relied on people’s reclamation of Tahrir square as a unifying space for demanding regime change. In fact, the regime, threatened by and admitting to the physical power of the square, had built walls on the roads leading up to Tahrir, which was followed by an act of resistance by artists with their “mafeesh gedar” (there is no wall) campaign, when they painted different objects on the walls to blend in with the streets. There are many differences between digital and real graffiti, such as vulnerability and risk of the physical street act and the mere reclamation of public space by putting people’s voices out there. “Reception, circulation and influence” of digital graffiti, however, surpasses time and space (Cherrak, 2013, p.  143). Freedom, or freedom of expression, is at the rendezvous of both. They meet in secrecy and anonymity too. To ignite a revolution, secrecy is a security condition in order to protect identities so that only content that typifies an issue can be traced in the discourse (Cherrak, 2013). This can be exemplified in the different graffiti ­movements of the Arab uprisings, in which trends and aesthetics were organically forming as part of a collective: Syria’s “Spray Men” marked their existence and adopted a shared identity through peaceful activism to go in line with the demonstrations, manifesting “Unity of Combat.” In Libya, the copious caricatures mocking Gaddafi exposed a need to use humor to compensate for the decades of intense horror in which

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the Libyans were living. The Yemenis were driven to be more innovative given their limited tools, and so managed to fight with the words “Leave you butcher” written on their hands and sunglasses. And in Bahrain, a country very accustomed to the graffiti medium, new slogans, symbols and icons have been incorporated into the urban landscape. (Jarbou, 2013b, p. 44)

Even in countries that did not witness uprisings, resistance wore its costume and spoke in its dialect. In Sudan, the word “Girifna” (Arabic for “we’re fed up”) is written in orange and black together with phrases such as “from corruption,” “from unemployment” and “from amnajiya,” (Arabic derogatory term to describe loyalists to the security forces) on walls, posters, and banners in Khartoum and rural towns. Girifina was founded in 2009 as a non-violent resistance movement calling for democracy, political freedom, and to defeat the National Congress Party in Sudan’s 2010 elections (Girifna, 2009). Their activities persist today and they have created and maintained different modes of media (print and online magazines and newsletters, Facebook page, Twitter, YouTube, and live communication in public spaces) in an effort to raise political awareness to the public and calls for the release of political prisoners. In a blog post they wrote, “they confiscated our newspapers so we graffiti on the walls” (Nile, 2012). In orange, posters, pamphlets, graffiti, and public addresses that gather crowds in a circle, and the hand peace sign to reinforce peaceful resistance, has earned the movement an identity and attendance in the public Sudanese culture and everyday life. In Saudi Arabia, Maddat Jeddah (2011), a short-lived graffiti initiative of simple and short stenciled two-to-three word phrases with the same font that specifically addressed issues regarding the urban space, developed an identity and presence that subsists today. They addressed Jeddah’s poor road infrastructure, pollution of the environment, and, most ­notable, the privatization of North Obhur’s seacoast. “This Is God’s Sea” in a Jeddawi accent was sprayed around thirteen or fourteen times on the walls of the private properties that stretched along one of the world’s famous diving spots. The stencils were often placed in proximity to a sign that read “private properties” or the name of the property owner, and in some instances “private properties” with a palm tree was also stenciled next to “this is god’s sea” to reinforce the juxtaposition. Some of these

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were smeared or painted over, and some remain. Certainly the repetition of the phrase played a role in having it remain imprinted in Jeddah’s critical urban discourse. And “Queers Were Here,” or literally “passed through here,” usually hand sprayed with face stencils of two young men or two young women kissing, started showing up in Ramallah in 2014 (Gay Falasteni, 2014). “Passed through here” is an old Arabic literature idiom often used poetically, philosophically, and rhetorically to mark existence, memory, and also history repeating itself. “Queers Were Here” was spotted in Beirut during 2015 and 2016, where a LGBTQ community and its various graffiti had already existed prior to the Arab uprisings. The regional LGBTQ community, however, is still absent from the streets, and is trying to claim its safe spaces online and offline. The idiom, “Queers Were Here” is being circulated in the blogosphere and arguably engendering a safe haven and network for ostracized LGBTQs in the region, when it began as one person’s simple graffiti act. In his essay “Of Other Spaces,” Michel Foucault (1986) preoccupies us with the notion of space: “Our epoch is one in which space takes for us the form of relations among sites,” (p. 2). By identifying a set of relations we are able to define the sites. Foucault (1986) introduces the concept of “heterotopia” as real places that exist in every society, but rather function as counter-sites, “a kind of effectively enacted utopia in which the real sites, all other real sites that can be found within the culture, are simultaneously represented, contested, and inverted.” (p. 3) They lie outside of place despite their detectible location. Foucault (1986) demonstrates this with the example of a mirror, a physical object that exists in reality and through which he can see himself, or rather a reflection of him that is more virtual than real. In our graffiti snapshots, we highlighted the localities and spatial configuration of resistance. We also noted the possibilities of contesting space through resistance graffiti, as well as its rejection and erasure, and thus lack of reception. It is in those fleeting moments when resistance is expressed that it has the power to disrupt the social and political order. The transitory nature of resistance is also what complicates our understanding of the power relations to which resistance is directly connected.

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The Internet has greatly influenced the circulation and reception of graffiti, so much that it harbors infinite space in which the viewer can enter bypassing the social and political order. Based on Foucault’s (1986) concept of heterotopia, we can see how much of the graffiti of the Arab uprisings was received virtually, opening up possibilities for social and power relations that are more definite in the physical world. We can demonstrate how the heterotopias of revolutionary graffiti influenced dissemination of events and created new channels and networks. Egypt’s Mad Graffiti Weeks, a campaign initiated by street artists encouraged people to go out to the streets, with stencil designs offered online to encourage participation. This played a significant role in getting new iconography multiplied on the streets. Beyond Cairo, neighboring countries took note. Syria had its Freedom Graffiti Week, launched during the week of 14–21 April 2012, urging artists to come out and express their thoughts and ideas of the revolution. Transnational solidarity in the Arab uprisings also operated this way. Few notable stencil designs traveled across different cities. We could not only see a physical stencil of Syrian activist Fadwa Suleiman in Cairo, but we can also see that stencil virtually and try to discern its meaning. In this process of graffiti reception and comprehension, voices from the ground reached new audiences. It was a new phase of cultural and knowledge production in which the unofficial was meaningful and errors were allowed. We can take a walk through the rubble of war-torn Syria and read the writing on the walls from our screen. It is not the same as the physical experience; however, we do familiarize with the language and aesthetics.

Discursive Formations: Language and Iconography As graffiti artists played an important role in creating alternative discourses, beyond the official and mainstream reporting on the events, their use of language was cunning, witty, and inventive. Dr. Cherrak (2013) signifies graffiti’s use of language in delivering an idea or message by any means possible and away from the logical, such as not using proper grammar, mixing languages, and using accents and dialects. It is a creative means of resisting language itself, much like poetry and literature.

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Figurative imagery was also an important tool to communicate ideas quickly and effectively. This technique has resonance in graphic design, advertising, digital protest art, and political posters. Street artists used this visual language of branding, playing with and on words, and mixing and matching images to creating new meanings, and notably repeating them too, an effective tactic in advertising. The provocative disruption is the first step in delivering their message. The next step, making out its meaning, was dependent on effectiveness of the provocation. An image of Bashar that resembled Hitler can be instantly spotted and likely understood along with the phrase, “king of the jungle riding a tank.” Assad, the Syrian leader’s family name, is the Arabic word for lion, king of the jungle. The rhythmic phrase along with the powerful image comment on the Syrian uprising in a witty way. It was first sprayed in Cairo’s Tahrir square though had gained more attention when it traveled in abundance to many spots in Beirut, and is said to have been sprayed in Gaza. The stencil design was by Egyptian street artist El Teneen and the phrase was coined by an anonymous collaborator in Beirut. Graffiti and street artists’ creation and circulation of new symbols and language were illustrative of the events, cathartic for their audiences, and educational for outsiders. Another cunning example is an image created by the collective “The Syrian People Know Their Way,” a group of activists that worked online and offline to promote social change and participate in the Syrian uprising in peaceful and non-violent means. They published articles and artworks and sprayed graffiti. Their work had a presence in Beirut, too, and they had a strong online network of cultural activism. One image they produced during 2014 was replacing the words on the Daesh (Isis) flag with the Arab nationalist slogan “One Arab nation, with an eternal message.” In this very simple figurative language, the image had a powerful way of commenting a complex idea about the similarities of the Assad regime and the Islamic state. This image had more circulation online than on the street, and as Alaa Khanjar, a founding member of the group claimed, this symbiotic relationship between art and the street is what leads each to influence the other and the society ultimately (Dawlaty, n.d.). Let us revisit Bahrain’s resistance and examine what has changed in its discourse following the 14 February 2011 movement. Additional to the

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radical dissent characterized by anger and sectarian plight were peaceful slogans that challenged the official Bahraini media narrative about the sectarian motivations behind the movement. “Peaceful, peaceful,” sometimes accompanied by a flower, was graffitied on the walls, reference to when the protestors handed flowers to the security forces. Another manifestation of their message of peaceful protest was a stenciled hand peace sign. “Brothers, Sunni and Shi’ite, we will not sell this country” was a powerful slogan that defied the typical slogans that spoke of a “we” in a sectarian sense. In fact, this slogan had also traveled to Baghdad, where another non-violent movement was refusing to fall into sectarian narratives by the government (Alwabnet, 2011). It became a powerful mantra that took the resistance movement in Bahrain to a new dimension, in which the motivations for preserving collective memory, iconography, and account of the events went beyond the villages to address the outside world. It was not until the regional uprising fervor ignited the Bahraini opposition movement which called for their ‘day of rage’ and marched to Pearl Roundabout on 14 February 2011, that the Bahraini resistance reached new audiences. A far more steadfast opposition was evident, as the graffiti surpassed the walls of the villages and became more visible on the main roads, although immediately crossed off. One new and symbolic icon was the Pearl, which symbolized the pearl structure at the Pearl Roundabout, the space of the sit-in between 14 and 17 February, before the protestors were raided by security forces and the Peninsula Shield, a group of armies from the neighboring Gulf countries. A month of violence between the protestors and the security forces was ended by the devastating demolition of the pearl structure on 18 May 2011, where protestors initially sat-in on 14 February. The regime claimed it was to erase a bad memory; however, the pearl icon continued to be sprayed throughout the island, whether stenciled or hand-written along with the attached phrase, “we will return,” and became an immortalized symbol in defiance (Jarbou, 2013a, p. 48). Graffiti became more radical in response to the brutal crushing of the protests, and in protest of the presence of the Peninsula Shield. They created more stencils in English, in the hopes of appealing to the international community.

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The Bahraini resistance did, in fact, appeal to the international community. The pearl structure was stenciled in Beirut in solidarity. An old slogan often used in Bahrain long before the Arab uprisings was, “let their castles hear…we don’t fear their prisons.” In the summer of 2014, this slogan was spotted on a wall in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia. This is one of many examples of how graffitied slogans traveled following the Arab uprisings. “We Will Not Kneel, Except for God” –walls in Syria and Bahrain

Islamic graffiti and calligraphy, in particular, as mentioned earlier is a tradition in many Arab towns and villages where a sense of community is greatly visible in the streets. It is more conventional in places where there are social relations amongst neighbors and a pedestrian life is commonplace. In Moroccan, Algerian, and Tunisian cities calligraphy is embedded in the architecture, perhaps why murals are less common where there already exist beautified walls. There are commissioned street-art projects in these cities, as in other cities in the Levant and the Arabian Gulf. A culture of religious slogans and advice is abundant in many Arab cities, whether stenciled and written beautifully or sprayed quickly, including the new and more modern cities. “Allahu Akbar,” “Don’t forget Allah,” “Glory be to Allah,” and the shahada, “There is no God but Allah, and Mohammed is the messenger of Allah,” are commonly graffitied, also far into the desert on highway overpasses. In Alexandria, Egypt, plenty of religious guidance stretched on the corniche (seaside), where the Muslim Brotherhood have a strong presence. “Life is an hour, make it obedient” (in rhyme) read one block. Also noted earlier, resistance was often marked by Islamic social and sociopolitical movements that were present in Lebanon, Palestine and Palestinian refugee camps, and in Qatif and Bahrain, even if also allied with secular resistance. In Lebanon, blending in with slogans pertaining to the class struggle, Che Guevara’s stenciled face and hammer and sickle, were religious expressions of resistance. Christian militias’ slogans and the stenciled cross were also in view alongside expressions of nationalist ideals. Lebanon was both a battlefield for domestic civil war and sectarianism and that for regional political conflict, and the visual discourse was territorial by sectarian political affiliations. Religious graffiti in Gaza, the

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West Bank, and Palestinian refugee camps were making their resistance against occupation anywhere to be seen. As for Bahrain’s villages, where the marginalized majority Shia population lives, the resistance was manifested in expressions that were either religious or pertaining to the Shia struggle. Snippets of Islamic resistance from Iraq were barely in sight on the sectarian walls as the war took a devastating toll. “No occupation, no Saddam, yes yes Islam” was one of the more peaceful expressions of Islamic resistance caught in a violent guerilla war. The sectarian graffiti wars in Iraq after the US occupation later intensified with Daesh’s rise to power in 2014. During the Arab uprisings of 2011, an opening of freedom allowed silenced Islamic social and sociopolitical movements in the region to question the legitimacy of their governments and consider the possibility of seeking democracy. New and old voices of Islamic resistance emerged in Tunisia, Egypt, and Syria. Though some Sunni scholars saw it as unfavorable to resist the ruler in Islam, as it would likely lead to chaos, this quickly changed when the  uprisings began (Alahmad, 2016). As there was dissonance within Islamic groups and debates between the scholars went on, people, including many devout Muslims, took to the streets. In Syria, one very famous slogan was “we will not kneel except for god,” a slogan that was popular in Bahrain. It was chanted in the Syrian towns, written on protest banners and graffitied on the walls. This is documented by many opposition groups, including the Free Syrian Army. If we pay attention to the graffiti coming out of Syria, particularly the religious graffiti, we would recognize the role Islamic movements played in contemporary Arab politics, beyond the Sunni-versus-Shia vernacular. There is much to say about Syria’s graffiti wars, between the pro- and anti-­Assad slogans, the “Spray Men” and the illustrious peaceful revolutionary slogans shown in Kafranbel, Darayya, and Saraqeb. Religious expressions, the violent and the tolerant, are also noteworthy, as they reflect the richness in diversity of the Syrian communities and how expressions of Islam in their resistance were part of the new political discourse in a country that had no room for self-expression under the Assads. It is most noteworthy to juxtapose the same slogan in two completely different and perhaps opposite political landscapes, Syria and Bahrain. While it may seem as though there is a sectarian reality to reckon

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with in both countries, there is a mutual religious refusal to submit to the oppressor be it a military dictatorship or monarchy, whom in both cases, and by no coincidence, attributed the conflicts to conspiracy or outside influence.

Women in Graffiti: A Transnational Movement? “One day a woman left her house and her virginity was tested” –a wall in Cairo

The wide spectrum of motivations to write graffiti from identity to support for football teams has changed after the Arab uprisings to include more political and social commentary. What was deemed as vandalism done by marginalized adolescents has become recognized as protest art and activism. One important theme and motivation that found its presence and voice on the streets of some Arab cities was women. Prior to the Arab uprisings, feminist graffiti were not uncommon in Beirut, where there was an abundance of political and social commentary about the limits of women’s freedoms. From Jinsiyati, a campaign to pass down a woman’s nationality to her child, to a general critique on the objectification of women, women had somewhat of an attendance on the walls of Beirut. The Alexandria seaside we pointed to earlier that had religious guidance and graffiti dialogue that stretched on the concrete blocks is also a common meeting point for couples. In response to religious advice against pre-marital relationships, some women have responded in female voice. One frequently stenciled question directed to the young men that meet their lovers at the “love shore” was, “do you allow it for your sister?” and to which a hand-sprayed graffiti once answered, “aywa, ana hurra” (yes, I am free). Perhaps there were similarly sporadic female voices expressed on walls of other cities in the region; we may never know without having an archive. But we know for certain that women’s voices have made their mark more palpable in the region after the Arab uprisings, both in local and regional contexts. This can be attributed to the events of Egypt and the fervor it ignited in the region. During the eighteen-day protest leading up to the fall of Mubarak, women played a meaningful role in creating a utopic society in Tahrir

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square. After that, however, there was an aggressive campaign to silence and alarm the women protestors. Under both the SCAF (Supreme Council of the Armed Forces) and the Muslim Brotherhood’s rule, sexual harassment and public intimidation and humiliation were epidemic, tactics to deter dissenting women (Abaza, 2013). With this came a massive response, both in protest and graffiti. Samira Ibrahim, one the victims subjected to beatings and virginity tests imposed on female protestors by the military, fought back and filed a lawsuit against the army doctor responsible. Though the military court exonerated Ahmed Adel, the army medic responsible for the incident, Samira Ibrahim had become a symbolic figure of resistance against the violence against women. The blue bra in Egypt, a reference to an incident when a woman protestor’s blue bra was exposed while getting attacked by the military, became one powerful symbol stenciled in abundance in Cairo. It came in many forms, shapes, and slogans against patriarchy and the military regime. Some stencils and drawings were more complex and replicated the close-up image of the video (RT, 2011). The woman was given a name, “the blue bra girl,” and sitt el banat in Arabic. Bahia Shehab, an Egyptian artist and historian accounts her decision to capture that specific incident: Painting the blue bra on the streets of Cairo reminds us of the shame that we felt as a society when that woman was humiliated, and this video when it was seen and shared, a lot of mass protests by women went down to the streets, one of the lines they were chanting was the girls of Egypt are a red line, this has gone too far. (Nicholas, 2014)

The blue bra icon was stenciled in other Arab cities in solidarity with Egyptian women, and also as a borrowed symbol to express local manifestations of violence against women. Graffiti denouncing the sexual harassments in Tahrir were widely circulated and became regional iconic symbols. One such popular image was a woman spraying men along with the words, “no to sexual harassment” by artist Mira Shihadeh. More images were coming out from graffiti artists and activists. Noon El Neswa, an Egyptian feminist collective, campaigned with graffiti using depicting iconic women in Egyptian cinema along with words demanding equality

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with their male counterparts (Suzee in the City, 2013). Bahia Shehab’s “No” stencils could not go unnoticed: “no to dictators,” “no to military rule,” “no to violence,” “no to burning books,” “no to sectarian divisions,” “no to infantilizing the people,” “no to stripping the people,” “no to a new pharaoh,” and so on (Nicholas, 2014). Shehab also created the stencil of a cat (which has a sexual connotation in Arabic when a man calls a woman a cat in the streets) and the words “rebel, cat!” along with it to encourage women to keep going down the street and “keep owning the streets” (2014). While feminist graffiti were significant in Egypt, they were gaining presence elsewhere, as there was a recognition that women protestors are demanding their rights on the streets. An online activist campaign, “The Uprising of Women in the Arab World,” (2011) raised awareness on women’s issues in the Arab worlds by calling for participation and knowledge sharing. A campaign calling for photo submissions stating reasons for supporting “the uprising of women in the Arab world” went viral and gained them a wide online audience. As the group acquired more than 100,000 members, it gained more audiences and participation in its campaigns. The group’s logo, designed by Hassan El Teibi, resembling the profile of a woman fitting into a map of the Arab world was stenciled in numerous Arab cities. Both online and offline manifestations of feminist activities were in flux with varying momentums depending on the events and how people engage with these events. There were numerous antirape and antiharassment graffiti campaigns in Beirut and like much of the political and social commentary in Lebanon, they are still traceable. In January, 2012 the advocacy group KAFA (Enough Violence and Exploitation) called for the parliament’s criminalization of marital rape, an otherwise domestic issue to be settled under religious authorities, using social media, TV, and street announcements. The feminist collective Nasawiya organized a call for demonstration against rape on 14 January 2012 and ignited the #fightrape campaign and raised awareness ahead of the event by creating graffiti stencils that read “Fight Rape” in both Arabic and English. An emphatic image of a woman protestor seemingly “speaking up” with her clenched fist in the air accompanied the text, and even five years later when it can be spotted it is still evocative in its withered state. Beirut Walls created images of—in one instant a Mufti

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and the other an MP—with the same gesture raising a clenched fist and the words “Support Rape” to reinforce and shame those who are responsible for the absence of laws to protect women against rape and sexual harassment. Such images have an enormous, though subtle, impact on social memory as they become visual associations with issues of domestic violence, not merely for the advocacy groups, their networks and audiences, but also for the people that come across them in the city. In other countries, where protesting and organizing is practically impossible, such as Saudi Arabia, virtual images and online campaigning play a more significant role in creating, and most often compensating for the lack of, social memory. It is not that social and collective memory of women in the Saudi kingdom is non-existent, rather it being frail and often contested. This is owing to strict policing of public spaces by the CPVPV (the Committee for the Promotion of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice), who are also known as the religious police. Social and public life for women was thus very private over the past few decades, thus limiting women’s representation and attendance in public. Even with gender segregation, there are shortcomings in networks of solidarity. In 2012, Saffaa, an artist from Makkah, Saudi Arabia, created an image of a woman wearing the shemagh (the male garment), essentially reversing the symbol of patriarchy to resist it with the words “I am my own guardian,” which had spread online and reached the streets of Jeddah, Riyadh and Manama through stickers and paste-ups. She was unaware that her artwork would become more significant and relevant when a campaign to demand the fall of the male guardianship law in Saudi Arabia came four years later in 2016. “We demand the fall of the guardianship for Saudi women” is being repeatedly hand sprayed in Riyadh, along with other occasional and isolated expressions of women claiming their independence. (Women in Saudi Arabia are not allowed to study, work, travel, marry/divorce, open a bank account, or have surgery— to carry on basic daily tasks—without the permission of a legal male guardian). Other expression asserting female voice and representation in word and image, respectively, are scarce and scattered, and only likely in the major cities. Granted they get crossed over quickly, but the mere fact of having Saudi women’s bodies in public to perform such an act as writing graffiti is in itself significant and marks a major development in how these women reclaim public space, apart from the Saudi “Women 2 Drive”

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c­ ampaign.2 In fact, the few voices of resistance found in the streets give weight to the virtual walls that are flooded with conversations with questionable tangible impact. The alignment of both spaces of resistance gains women more presence in the public discourse. The universal motif behind the pronouncements in the streets with respect to women is to take control over their bodies, physically and figuratively. “Our bodies are ours,” “fight rape,” and “harassment is a crime” are instances of articulations that are relevant in different contexts, not just in the Arab worlds. Stencils of women’s faces, or even faceless, with or without scarves, famed or not, and of their bodies whether in the context of being violated or performing ritual as in Alaa Awad’s pharaonic women, reclaim their otherwise objectified image in the overall mainstream media landscape. “Don’t categorize me,” with three faceless women in a niqab, a headscarf, and without was stenciled in Egypt. Fai Ahmed’s comparable design of three faceless women in similar contrasting ways in which they wear their hair or head garments was stenciled in Riyadh without text. These different contexts adhere to a bigger picture and aesthetic that depicts how women are named and categorized, if not faceless and nameless. With the exception of Beirut, graffiti for advocating women’s rights is still not prominent and noticeable in major Arab cities, but it is increasingly becoming a method being used politically and aesthetically for giving voice to women in public (Fig. 5).

Conclusion “Freedom is a daily practice” –a wall in Tunis

In the spirit of resistance, we resisted addressing resistance in Arabic graffiti without going back in time and space to mark the struggle between the symbolic and sociopolitical forces, through which meanings are materialized and negotiated. Evidently, the expressions of resistance in the Arab world are either official or non-official, depending on who is telling the story and to whom one is telling it. There is a clear disconnect, visible lines that separate communities and their respective communica-

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Fig. 5  (L-R): “It doesn’t matter what she’s wearing, harassment is a crime,” “women are a red line,” Bahia Shehab’s “No” stencils, “you can’t break me” with face of Samira Ibrahim, “I am free” in a woman’s voice, jinsiyati campaign for women’s right to pass nationality on to children, “no matter how much it does or doesn’t show, my body is free,” “fight rape,” “no to harassment,” “I am demonstrating on July 8th,” “against the regime,” “she will not be forgotten, sitt el banat” (reference to the blue bra incident), “the uprising of women in the Arab world” logo, juxtaposition of media attention towards Aliaa Elmahdy and Samira Ibrahim, Alaa Awad’s pharaonic women mural, stencil of a woman driving, “salute to the woman fighter,” “the street is also ours,” “I support the uprising of women in the Arab world so that no child is raped in the name of marriage,” “don’t silence me,” clenched fist in female symbol, “Nefertiti” by Zeft, “I don’t have a car, I have a camel, #women2drive,” group sexual harassment,” “I am my own guardian.”

tions and representational systems. Memory is at the fore of our analysis of resistance. From the Palestinian refugee camps to Tahrir square, the stories of resistance are written in space and time, as both space and dominant mainstream narratives are contested. These stories afford layers of symbolic meanings with their capacity to cross physical, political and cultural boundaries in their creation of new systems of knowledge

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simultaneously being created outside the structures of power. Meanings are also subverted by reusing visual iconography of propaganda and advertising to create alternate meanings. Recycling the Hizballah and Daesh flags are examples of how new meanings can be claimed by coopting and thus at the same time resisting the language of power. A stencil of the blue bra along with the phrase “against the regime” in Beirut is a symbol of solidarity, and it also situates a certain event and conflict (in Cairo) in a broader context and struggle against state violence and patriarchy. New icons immortalized and events commemorated signify new projections of power in public space, in contrast to the previous projections such as billboards of Hosni Mubarak, Zine El Abidine Ben Ali and Muammar Gaddafi. The nationalist projections of the Assad regime with photos and murals of Bashar Al-Assad, Syria’s 1980 flag of red, white, and black with two green stars and the slogan “God protects Syria” are replaced by new images and names of revolutionary figures and martyrs, the 1932 “independence flag” of green, white and black with three red stars and the slogan “We will not kneel except for God.” Constructing new collective memories in public, and defacing older ones, exhibits the transitory nature of resistance and its prevailing impact in challenging systems of power. Graffiti of resistance in Arab worlds act as counter-narrative and counter-­memory, and as they are withered or whitewashed they are rewritten in other spaces. Knowledge, culture and networks of solidarity are simultaneously produced beyond the spectacle, allowing communities that produce and consume alternative media to reclaim their political imagination, reimagine and restructure their relations to one another, and broadens the conversation about their values and freedoms. The point of departure bears in mind that the expressions of resistance prior to the Arab uprisings were not the limit of what was possible, and consequently the graffiti of the uprisings and what followed are not the limit of what is possible in the future. It is the essence of graffiti of resistance to interrogate the imposed narratives in the official and mainstream media. In spite of the trends and censorship, graffiti on the margins manages to challenge notions of both social and physical space. Monitoring this scene raises our awareness in the politics of space and the archaeology of knowledge and culture that goes beyond graffiti, illustrating how space

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and power are intimately related and how social space is claimed by people and communities through their activities and cultural expressions. And yet space, power, and thus resistance are always in constant motion. “How large the revolution, how narrow the journey, how grand the idea, how small the state!” These words graffitied in Tunisia by the art collective Ahl Al Kahf (Arabic for “people of the cave”) were originally written in 1982 by Mahmoud Darwish (Ammous, 2008). In their manifesto, the Ahl Al Kahf movement refers to Mohamed Bouazizi, the Tunisian street vendor who lit himself on fire and sparked the Arab uprisings that began in Sidi Bouzid, as Tunisia’s first visual artist, fitting to their vision of “aesthetic terrorism” (2012). Not ironically, they are “against the spectacle,” with the hype of the “contemporary art” that sprung out of “the Arab spring,” celebrated prematurely and post-­ revolution administrations forgetting too quickly the lives lost and sacrifices made; not all resistance is romantic, there is the cynical and disruptive agitator in the creation. Words of the late Edward Said “To create is to resist,” are adopted by Ahl Al Kahf as its motto to make visible the invisible and say the unsayable in the effort to scrutinize the public dominant discourse. We acknowledged from the outset that our inquiry of Arabic graffiti will be incomplete, yet it gives voices to those on the margins, whether they rise in prominence or remain anonymous, effectively influencing the overall media landscape, inscribing themselves in history and challenging notions of identity and citizenship.

Notes 1. The battle of Karbala (in present-day Iraq) took place on the 10th of Muharram in the year 61 Hirji (Islamic calendar) in which Hussain, son of the fourth Caliph Ali and grandson of prophet Muhammad was brutally defeated and had his head cut off by Yazid bin Mu’awiyah in a clash over succession of the rule of the Islamic ummah. This event was thus memorialized annually by the Shi’ites, to recall the suffering of the Imam Hussain. 2. A campaign by Saudi women to drive illegally and risk their arrest, often filming themselves and posting their videos in social media in an effort to defy the narrative that Saudis “are not ready” for women to drive.

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Rajagopalan, K. (2001). The politics of language and the concept of linguistic identity. CAUCE, Centro Virtual Cervantes, Núm. 24, 2001. Retrieved from http://cvc.cervantes.es/literatura/cauce/pdf/cauce24/cauce24_03.pdf RT. (2011, December 18). Shocking video: ‘Blue bra’ girl brutally beaten by Egypt military. Retrieved from https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mnFVYewkW EY&bpctr=1471643816 Said, E. (2002). Invention, memory, and place. In W.  J. T.  Mitchell (Ed.), Landscape and power. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Salih, R., & Richter-Devroe, S. (2014). Cultures of resistance in Palestine and beyond: On the politics of art, aesthetics, and affect. Arab Studies Journal, 22(1), 8–27. Retrieved from http://eprints.soas.ac.uk/19081/1/Culturesof Resistanceprintout.pdf Suzee in the City. (2013, January 7). Women in graffiti: A tribute to the women of Egypt. [Web log post]. Retrieved from https://suzeeinthecity.wordpress. com/2013/01/07/women-in-graffiti-a-tribute-to-the-women-of-egypt/ The uprising of women in the Arab world. (2011, October). In Facebook [Group page]. Retrieved from https://www.facebook.com/intifadat.almar2a/?fref=ts Zoghbi, P., & Karl, D. S. (2013). Arabic graffiti. Berlin: From Here To Fame Publishing. Rana Jarbou  is a researcher and documenter of graffiti and street art in Arab worlds since 2007. Her graffiti documentation, which has spanned twelve countries so far, aims to create counter-narratives, highlighting issues of censorship and the politics of space. She has published essays in Arabic Graffiti and Walls of Freedom, and written about graffiti for various online outlets. In June 2015, she received her master of arts in Social Documentation at University of California Santa Cruz. Her ongoing project 1001 Walls tells stories through walls in Arab worlds.

The Arabic Language as Creative Resistance Basma Hamdy

Introduction Arabic is a powerful and complex language bearing an enduring significance on the collective identity of the Middle East. The symbolic attributes of the Arabic language, which are as important as its communicative function, are particularly remarkable in a dissipated globalized world where the weakened connection between culture and place leads to deterritorialization. Like other languages, Arabic contributes to the imagined bond between individuals, uniting them symbolically with a community across borders and nations. This chapter attempts to investigate the Arabic language and its role as a symbol of power and identity, connecting together a number of creative manifestations that utilize Arabic as a tool of resistance. The majority of the projects discussed are fairly recent, created in the years following the Arab Spring. As a result, they cannot be fully appreciated without

B. Hamdy (*) Virginia Commonwealth University School of the Arts, Ar-Rayyan, Qatar © The Author(s) 2017 S.H. Awad, B. Wagoner (eds.), Street Art of Resistance, Palgrave Studies in Creativity and Culture, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-63330-5_7

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highlighting some of the historical conditions and developments that affected the Arabic language in the region and beyond; in particular, Arabic’s association with colonialism, Arab nationalism, and Islamic fundamentalism. Some of the projects discussed include Tunisian street artist eL Seed’s anamorphic piece Perception, created in 2016 in the Manshiyat Nasr area of Cairo, which challenges cultural perceptions in an otherwise ignored community of Christian Egyptians. The Homeland Hack by the Arabian Street Artists, which went viral in October 2015, and involved painting subversive graffiti on the set of the controversial series Homeland to raise awareness about the show’s stereotypical portrayal of Arabs and Muslims. Egyptian author Ahmed Nagi’s Arabic Graphic Novel The Use of Life, which resulted in a highly contested prison sentence for “offending modesty.” By introducing each project with relevant social and political narratives, this chapter aims to illustrate how artists and writers utilize the Arabic script beyond its decorative and aesthetic function and thereby challenge its reduction to a mere accessory to structures of power.

Language as Power What then is truth? A movable host of metaphors, metonymies, and anthropomorphisms: in short, a sum of human relations which have been poetically and rhetorically intensified, transferred, and embellished, and which, after long usage, seem to a people to be fixed, canonical, and binding. (Fiedrich Nietzsche, 1873, p. 19).

In his essay “On Truth and Lies in a Nonmoral Sense,” Nietzsche discusses the contemporary considerations of truth pointing to the genesis of language as a system and symbolic code (Nietzsche, 1873). For Nietzsche, language is more than simply a communication tool, but is an invented system of metaphors and concepts. Looking at a particular culture through the lens of language is certainly a revealing endeavor, for it proves, without a doubt, that language is constructed and created by people, eventually becoming canonical in shaping their experiences, influencing their affiliations and loyalties, heightening their spirituality

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and sometimes even condemning, isolating and demonizing them. The symbolic rather than the communicative function of language makes it a marker of group boundary (Suleiman, 2003) as confirmed by linguistic anthropologists such as Edward Sapir, who explained the relativity of different languages as follows: Language is not merely a more or less systematic inventory of the various items of experience which seem relevant to the individual as is so often naively assumed, but is also a self-contained, creative symbolic organization, which not only refers to experience largely acquired without its help but actually defines experience for us by reason of its formal completeness and because of our unconscious projection of its implicit expectations into the field of experience. [… Meanings] are not so much discovered in experience as imposed upon it; because of the tyrannical hold that linguistic form has upon our orientation in the world. (Sapir, 1931)

This “tyrannical hold” and the defined experience of language is similar to Pierre Bourdieu’s critique of culture and his model of symbolic power based on unconscious dispositions that develop through socialization and shape the understanding of the world and, in turn, dictate a person’s position in society. Language is associated with mental representations that are subjective but eventually become perceived truths. These mental representations or symbols of language become agents of power (Bourdieu 1991). Therefore, we can consider language to be a signifier of identity; once utilized, it reveals a persons affiliations, associations, and loyalties. As the philosopher and linguist Wilhelm von Humboldt (1767–1835) states: “Each tongue draws a circle about the people to whom it belongs, and it is possible to leave this circle only by simultaneously entering that of another people” (Duranti, 2009, p. 12). This circle allows a person to categorize others into subjective classifications. Often times, the accent or dialect of spoken language becomes an indicator of a political ideology or religious affiliation. People outside the circle of language may automatically assume that it is also one of political ideology or religious affiliation and may perceive it as a symbolic threat.

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Textual Authority Arabic is certainly a language that draws a rigid circle around its people. The official language of twenty-three nations, it is considered one of the most complex languages to learn and master. In his book The Arabic language and national identity Yasir Suleiman discusses how the eleventh-­ century critic Ibn Sinan Al-Khafaji isolates a number of features which he believes “justify assigning to Arabic a communicative status higher than that attributed to other languages” in turn, transferring this superiority to the people who speak it. These features include its rich lexicon and synonymy; its communicative economy; its rhetorical superiority; and its “light” phonological structure. Many of these features may not be proven scientifically but reflect the strong bond between language, religion, and people in the Arabic intellectual tradition and its significance as an attribute of national identity in the modern period (Suleiman, 2003). An illustration of the powerful complexity of the Arabic language and its significance as a symbol of identity is the Cairene cleric and historian Abd-El- Rahman Al-Jabarti’s response to a printed proclamation issued by the French colonizers upon their arrival in Egypt in 1798. Al-Jabarti was a prominent historian who chronicled the French occupation leaving behind a comprehensive record of how Egyptians perceived the French colonizers. Upon arriving in Egypt, Napoleon distributed several printed proclamations serving as messages of propaganda to gain the support of the Egyptian population. The first set of proclamations were translated by French Orientalists with limited knowledge of the Arabic language, resulting in a document filled with massive linguistic and grammatical errors. Even though printed messages were a new mode of communication in Egypt at the time, they were still met with outrage and ridicule by Muslim clerics. In his historical account of the events Al-Jabarti reproduces the text in its entirety, and then proceeds to deconstruct and analyze it, listing the morphological, syntactic, semantic, and stylistic mistakes it contains. Clearly Al-Jabarti’s goal transgressed that of neutral historian as articulated by Timothy Mitchel: Phrase by phrase [al-Jabarti] pointed out the colloquialisms, misspellings, ellipses, inconsistencies, morphological inaccuracies and errors of syntax of the French Orientalists, drawing from these incorrect usages a picture of

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the corruptions, deceptions, misunderstandings and ignorance of the French. (Suleiman, 2013a, 2013b quoting Mitchel)

In this instance, critiquing the incorrect use of Arabic becomes an act of political critique allowing Al-Jabarti to reclaim textual authority over the Arabic language as a measure of resistance to the French occupiers, substituting political victory with linguistic superiority. In highlighting the failure of the French occupiers in mastering the Arabic language used in the proclamation, Al-Jabarti argues for the negation of its content making it unreliable and untrustworthy.

Change to the Arabic Language Language is that factor which makes a people a nation by enabling them to imagine themselves as a community that is internally bonded and externally bounded, both synchronically and diachronically. Language is also the carrier of a nation’s culture, as this is expressed through its literature and other modes of linguistic production. (Suleiman, 2003)

Arabic has played a fundamental role as the basis of identity and an important component of the ‘imaginary community’ of the Arab world. In the seventh-century Islamic Conquests expanded from the Arabian Peninsula through the Middle East, North Africa, and the Iberian Peninsula spreading the Arabic language and Islam. In a few decades, it became a leading world language and the intellectual medium, which united most of the civilized world. The Arabic language has remained phonologically and syntactically unchanged in its literary form even though neighboring languages have been transformed based on contemporary speech patterns. This allowed it to transcend local and national boundaries serving as a symbolic and instrumental unifier of identity in the Middle East and North Africa. Islam and the Arabic language are considered inseparable components of the identity of Arab Muslims. The sacred text of Islam, the Quran, is in Arabic, and  is seen as the untranslatable  word of God. Arabic is particularly crucial to this argument since prophethood in Islam is based on a miracle whose main vehicle is language. Here the

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means, or the communication, is also the miracle itself. Even though Arabic is one of the more resistant and persistent languages to modifications and change, contrary to popular belief, it is not a completely pure and unmodified language, and its standardization and modernization have shaped it into what it is today. According to Yasir Suleiman, the myth of the immutability of language hides its evolution, and gives the impression that it was the result of an almost “miraculous birth.” This view of Arabic reinforces the “imagined community” (a term coined by Benedict Anderson) of nationalism connecting people together through a common primordial bond. It is not surprising that challenges to Arabic’s purity can sometimes be considered threats against the values of society, which are passed on through generations (Suleiman, 2003). One of the main periods where Arabic was subject to significant change was at the beginning of the nineteenth century during the Nahda (renaissance) in the Arab world. Nationhood determined by non-religious criteria became rapidly popular in Europe, which exposed the shortcomings of Arabic and this led to extensive changes in the indigenous political vocabulary. As a result, Arabic was subject to the phenomenon of “interference,” which refers to the effect of contact between various cultures and idioms and occurs when a language is not equipped to express the current ideas of another society (Ayalon, 1987). However, interference during the Nahda was not a purely additive phenomenon, since, as cultural concepts were exchanged, foreign values (such as Victorian ideals or, later, Wahhabi Islam) were adopted, affecting and subtracting from the Arabic language. An example of how language was affected by societal morals occurred in 2014, when the writer Egyptian Ahmed Naji was handed a two-year sentence for violating “public modesty” with sexually explicit passages in his experimental novel The Use of Life. Freedom of speech deteriorated rapidly in the beginning of 2014 in Egypt and Nagi’s case is one of many violations of free speech targeting artists and writers, particularly in the aftermath of the Egyptian Revolution. However, the main reason for Nagi’s jail sentence was most likely his use of language in a way that challenges the status quo. Translator Richard Jacquemond explains how Nagi revives a classical Arabic word in his novel (rahaztu-ha, which means “To move, shake a woman during

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sexual intercourse”), which is no longer listed in modern Arabic dictionaries but can be traced to Lisan al-‘Arab, Jacquemond states: What matters is that there was a time when the poets, writers, theologians, and many more who wrote in Arabic could write such words. And when their colleagues, who compiled the dictionaries of “pure Arabic” (al‘arabiyya al-fusha), did not blush when they inserted them into their lexicons with their masader (word roots), derivations and meanings. (Jacquemond, 2016)

Nagi is accused of violating public morals implying that those morals are fixed and binding, denying a rich heritage and discursive vocabulary that was stripped away of the Arabic language as a form of societal control. Nagi’s novel in this instance becomes much more than a novel that uses a word that “violates public morality” but is an act of symbolic resistance against a form of social domination. Modern nationalism emerging from Pan-Arabism coupled with the rise of Islamism produces a dangerous mix of patriarchy, patriotism, and imposed religious morality. An emerging trend in Egyptian creative production intentionally aims to provoke and violate the so-called public morality in order to expose it as a form of social control and also to challenge the regulatory or dominant structures of society. Nagi’s novel is an attempt to detach the Arabic language from religion or morality and release it as a medium of radical ideas and to restore forgotten forms of expression to the Arabic language.

Arabic Beyond Islam The Nahda or cultural renaissance (late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries) in Egypt, Lebanon, Syria, and other Ottoman-ruled Arabic-­ speaking regions was a period of modernization, and intellectual and political progress. In pursuit of a national identity that rejected foreign occupation and colonialism intellectuals promoted the development of a form of nationalism modeled on European concepts, which focuses less on the tribal or primordial connectedness of a nation and more on the connection towards a common interest. Some proponents of territorial

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Arab nationalism emphasize the centrality of language in Arab identity, others consider visual heritage, such as Pharaonism in Egypt, as representative of a true identity denying that the Arabs or Arabic had any formative effect on the Egyptian national character in the modern period. In some cases, the significance of standard Arabic is undermined for the sake of promoting a more colloquial language as the true mother tongue of the people of a particular nation. Some perspectives even view Arabic as a Bedouin language symbolizing cultural backwardness not suitable for modern concepts and sciences. Many intellectuals in the twentieth century supported the decoupling of Arabic from Islam emphasizing the role it plays in the life of the Christian Arabs. Examples include Sati’ Al-Husri and Taha Hussein, key figures in the Arab Nahda, who both believed in the relevance of Islam to the development of Arab nationalism but highlighted the Arabic language in relation to Christian Arabs. Al-Husri highlights the role of Christian Arabs of the Levant and their important participation in the literary renaissance of the nineteenth century. Hussein critiqued Al-Azhar’s position of opposing the modernization and grammatical reforms of the Arabic language. A demonstration of his strong position supporting language over religion as symbol of national identity is his regretful commentary on the low standards of Arabic translations of the Bible in Coptic churches. Some accounts state that he would “have offered to help in rewriting [the liturgies] so that the Arab Christians could worship in good Arabic” (Hourani, 1983; Sumeiman, 2003). However, this recognition of the role of Christians in societal development has declined in Arab nations, particularly in Egypt where the rise of Islamism widened the gap between Muslims and Christians. One project that seeks to narrow this gap is Tunisian graffiti artist eL Seed’s “Perception,” which was created in the neighborhood of Manshiyat Nasr in Cairo, the Coptic community of Zaraeeb. This community, known as Zabaleen (garbage people), has been collecting the trash of the city for decades and developing an efficient and highly profitable globally competent recycling system amounting to 14,000 tons of solid waste daily. Despite their efficiency and the vital service they provide to the city, this community is perceived as dirty and insignificant. To highlight how this stereotype and misconception can play a role in the perception of an

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entire community, eL Seed created an anamorphic piece covering fifty buildings, yet only visible from a certain point of the Moqattam Mountain. The piece spells out the words of Saint Athanasius of Alexandria, a Coptic Bishop from the third century, who said: “Anyone who wants to see the sunlight clearly needs to open his eyes first.” Commenting on the piece eL Seed states: They don’t live in the garbage but from the garbage; and not their garbage, but the garbage of the whole city. They are the ones who clean the city of Cairo. For this reason the people of Zaraeeb don’t see themselves as the dirty ones—the real mess is Greater Cairo. It’s a matter of perception. (Brooks, 2016).

El Seed uses the Arabic script to comment on a Coptic Christian community, recognizing their role in the development of the city. Perception is symbolic both in form and content, its linguistic message is one of “seeing clearly” and its structural message illustrates the concept of multiperspectivity since it can only be viewed in its entirety from one perspective. Yet even one holistic perspective hides the rich and nuanced lives that comprise the Zaraeeb community. Zooming in on one component of the mural reveals one angle or a single story, and looking at it as a whole invites the audience to ponder an alternative point of view, to question their assumptions, and to take a step back to see a bigger picture (Fig. 1).

Islam and Arabic in Egypt Even though Arab intellectuals seeking to promote nationalism in the Arab world have tried to decouple or delink Arabic from only being associated with Islam, it is an obviously near impossible task. The motivation behind this decoupling is not so much an attempt to secularize or de-­ emphasize Islam as a religion or Arabic’s importance as the language of the Quran, but instead it is an attempt to highlight that not all speakers of Arabic are Muslim and that the unity of Arabs should not be linked to one religion. However, even with territorial nationalism and Pan-Arabism

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Fig. 1  ‘Perception’, Photo Courtesy of eLSeed, 2016

there were those who called for the unity of Muslims through an Umma (community), one that was connected by religion and not heritage. While Nationalism and Pan-Arabism were movements that sought to unite people under a common interest, in its post-utopian context it became a force of exclusion and oppression that created dictators who dealt with opposition harshly. As a reaction to modern nationalism’s utopian decline, exemplified by the fall of the USSR, Islamist groups were either revived or formed as a reaction to the social and economic situations of their countries. One such group was the Muslim Brotherhood founded in Ismailia, by Hassan al-Banna in 1928. It focused on developing a political platform built on an economic and social infrastructure. In the late 1990s, using a language of activism, it called for political reform, increased freedom, and fair elections directly competing with the Mubarak regime. In the 2011 revolution, it sought to fill a political void that was a result of a lack of revolutionary leadership. It was resilient and organized and had established itself in almost all cities across Egypt. The Muslim Brotherhood

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achieved its goal after winning the parliamentary elections, which paved the way for Mohamed Morsi winning the presidential elections in 2012. Over the course of the parliamentary elections the streets and avenues of Cairo were filled with posters of bearded parliament candidates using falsely interpreted or altered Quranic verses designed to support specific political interests. These texts and posters encouraged people to vote for Islamists warning them that if they if they didn’t Egypt would become a secular state. During the parliamentary election of 2012 Ammar Abo Bakr created a number of graffiti pieces featuring verses from the Quran. This genre of graffiti was crucial as it invoked the sanctity of the holy Quran as a means to absolve the passerby from the confusion and manipulation of the elections. It was important for Ammar Abo Bakr, an artist and faculty member from Luxor to highlight the Muslim Brotherhood, as well as the Salafist agenda, during the Egyptian revolution. A clear example was a verse painted on the wall of the American University in Cairo’s (AUC) library on Mohamed Mahmoud Street, which was six meters high and fifteen meters wide. The text was written alongside a portrait of Sheikh Emad Effat, who is depicted pointing to the following two verses of Surat Al-Ahzab 33: 67–68: [And they would say:] Our Lord! We obeyed our chiefs and our great ones, but they led us astray. Our Lord! Give them double the punishment and send upon them a mighty curse.

Sheikh Emad Effat was a senior cleric at Al-Azhar killed during the “Occupy Cabinet” clashes on 16 December 2011, and was considered a revolutionary symbol even before his death. He was a teacher who inspired many people and his death had a huge impact on the Egyptian streets. At the start of his career, he followed the conservative Salafist teachings, but soon changed his approach and favored a moderate, non-­ literal Islam. He was known as the Revolution’s Sheikh because he had always opposed Mubarak’s dictatorship. He fought injustice and even confronted Al-Azahr and Dar al-Iftaa’s (House of Fatwas) support of the regime.

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Fig. 2  ‘Sheikh Emad Effat’ by Ammar Abo Bakr, Mohamed Mahmoud Street, Cairo, 2012. Photo, Hassan Emad Hassan

The verse is painted with Persian and Egyptian motifs that adorned old Qurans before the expansion of Wahhabism, which forbids the use of ornamental lettering in Qurans. Abo  Bakr painted a number of other Quranic verses on the walls of Mohamed Mahmoud street (the epicenter of revolutionary graffiti in Egypt) all with a similar goal, to highlight that the Quran does not belong to one faction or one religious group with a particular ideology. The use of motifs was an attempt to remind Egyptians of the diverse nature of Egyptian Islam (Hamdy & Karl, 2014) (Fig. 2).

Terrorism and Arabic in the West Similar situations led to the rise of many other Islamic militant groups, the most prominent of which are al-Qaeda, which developed out of the soviet war in Afghanistan funded by a CIA operation to defeat the soviet union and its allies. One of its offshoots, ISIS, was founded by Abu Musab Al Zarqawi who initially pledged allegiance to Osama Bin Laden in 2004 forming the group known as AQI or al-Qaeda in Iraq. Following

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Al Zarqawi’s death in 2006, AQI created an umbrella organization known as the Islamic State in Iraq (ISI); it was later renamed “The Islamic State in Iraq and the Levant” seizing large areas of Syria and Iraq. ISIL stands out among current and previous forms of militant Islamism groups in its organization and effective use of visual propaganda. ISIL is known for it extreme brutality, abductions, mass killings, and beheadings, and many of its brutal acts are filmed, edited, and executed professionally with modern directing skills and Hollywood flair. The Islamic State’s videos are very different from al-Qaeda’s, which were lengthier and involved more preaching and lecturing. Instead, ISIL videos are dramatized, cinematic, and often employ special effects. ISIL established the Al-Hayat Media Center in mid-2014, primarily targeting Western audiences producing media in English, German, Russian, and French. The Washington Post quotes a comprehensive examination of the terrorist group’s media releases by Charlie Winter, listing as many as 36 separate media offices that answer to the Islamic State’s headquarters in Raqqat. On 19 July, Winter noticed that every office had simultaneously shifted to a new logo with the same stylized Arabic script, which appeared in the same location on every image and in the initial frame of every video release (Miller & Mekhennet, 2015). Arabic calligraphy is a natural component of the ISIL propaganda machine creating an unconscious association between Arabic and Islamic extremism. This association is contributing to a growing number of incidents of hostility towards spoken and written Arabic in the West. Because Arabic is the language of Islam, and because  ISIL declares Islam as its guiding principle, an inevitable link between Arabic and violence is unavoidable. Examples include an incident in 2015 when a number of schools in Virginia shut down after a teacher handed out an Arabic calligraphic composition for students to copy. The outrage by parents and the general public illustrate both a lack of understanding and a deep mistrust of Arabic as a language and script. Other incidents involving Islamophobia and the Arabic language include the following. On 2 December 2015, a 23-year-old Palestinian–American artist and author Leila Abdelrazaq was detained and interrogated in Arizona,

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near the Mexican border, because of notebook sketches and Arabic writing.1 On 6 April 2016, Khairuldeen Makhzoomi, a 26-year-old Muslim student at UC Berkeley, was reportedly escorted off a Southwest Airlines flight after another passenger reported him for speaking Arabic and using “jihadist language.” Makhzoomi said he was chatting on the phone with his uncle in Arabic before the plane took off, and he used the term “inshallah,” which means “if God is willing” when he hung up.2 On 3 August 2016, Faizah Shaheen, a 27-year-old Muslim NHS worker was detained at a UK airport and questioned under terror laws after a cabin crew member spotted her reading a Syrian culture book on board her honeymoon flight.3 In 2014 the United Nations acknowledged, for the first time, the need for communications strategies to counter extremist narratives, but experts agree that counter-strategies are not necessarily sufficient or successful in countering the systematic highly stylized terror production of ISIL. But individual efforts by artists and designers that attempt to dispel some of the myths surrounding Arabic are gaining popularity and demonstrate a powerful resistance to this complex problem. An example is when two Palestinian designers created a tote bag silkscreened with Arabic text stating: “This text has no other purpose than to terrify those who are afraid of the Arabic language.” The design duo of “Rock Paper Scissors” are based in Haifa, Israel, and they claim that their goal was to highlight the absurdity of the fear of Arabic and attempt to dispel some of the stereotypes its associated with. In recent years, particularly following the rise of ISIL, paranoia towards the Arabic language increased dramatically, calling into question how and why a language, a tool for communication and expression, can be reduced to a symbol of threat, its semantic qualities dislocated from its function, producing fear and paranoia. Another related incident occurred close to Valentine’s Day 2016, when a black flag depicting a red heart with the Arabic words “love all” appeared, mysteriously hanging from a building in Lubbock, Texas. The “Arabic flag,” as referred to by the mayor of Lubbock, was taken down by Texan authorities and caused a wave of mass hysteria and calls for the Department of Homeland Security to investigate the incident. “Even though the message

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seems to be innocuous and well-meaning,” Councilman Victor Hernandez told Lubbock Online, “that was not the best way to go about spreading the message.” Whoever put up the flag may have been attempting to counter the extremely violent propaganda of ISIL by using similar symbolism to spread a message of love on Valentine’s Day, hoping that their message would undo some of associations between violence and the Arabic language. Unfortunately, the media had been so oversaturated with terrorist propaganda that the message was perceived as insidious and threatening. Another similar intervention that received worldwide media attention, was the “Homeland Hack,” which was announced by the Arabian Street Artists on October 2016. They had been hired to “lend graffiti authenticity” to the set of Emmy Award-winning US series Homeland; the set was the site of a refugee camp on the Syrian/Lebanese border. The artists were given instructions to paint Arabic graffiti phrases on the walls of the fake refugee camp but instead they added subversive messages that criticized and poked fun at the series. The graffiti, ​which made it into season five, episode two, which aired in the US on 11 October 2016, included the phrases “Homeland is racist” and “Homeland is a joke, and it didn’t make us laugh,” (Fig. 3). The show is based on the Israeli series Hatufim (Prisoners of War). According to John Carlos Rowe, Homeland draws explicitly from Hatufim but transforms the complexity of the nuanced narrative of conflict between Israel, the Palestinians, and Lebanon into the monolithic issue of US national security (Rowe, 2013). As a result, Homeland illustrates a longstanding form of ‘American orientalism’ that seeks to transform complex and multifaceted historical issues of conflict, occupation, and invasion into one Orient. This phenomenon is further exasperated by media myths that collapse into fictional, highly rated popular culture. In American Orientalism After Said, John Carlos Rowe discusses how Homeland works through the importation of international problems as part of a broader form of US “nationalization” of the Orient—which he distinguishes from the homogeneity of Americanization—as a new level of orientalism than Edward Said brilliantly identified. Where Said’s orientalism is based on exaggerating the difference between East and West using clichéd cultural representations in order to emphasize Western superiority, Rowe argues that American orientalism instead presents conflict in the Orient only in its relationship to American interests. The issue

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Fig. 3  A still from ‘The Homeland Hack’, photo courtesy of Arabian Street Artists, 2015

with this, he argues, is more of an American national identity issue than economic or political military power: But today, US neo-imperialism depends upon rendering familiar the distant and exotic, especially their imaginary qualities, incorporating them into that powerful US myth of assimilation. We must add to this formula the equally powerful myth of the US as a “settler society”, whose social values have been shaped by immigrants…The difference is how the uniqueness of US settler society has been used not only to ignore indigenous rights and history but also to treat other sovereign nations and peoples in this era of globalization. That old British fantasy of “the English world” in which everyone within the British Empire would speak English and behave according to the British standard of civil society has metamorphosed into the US imaginary of an “end of history” when everyone will come to America to realize his or her destiny. And, of course, by implication, “America” will be everywhere. (Rowe, 2013)

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In his article “Fictions of terror: Complexity, complicity and insecurity in homeland”, James Castonguay observes the comparisons made by news outlets between Homeland and the actual release of US Army Sergeant Bowe Bergdahl ​in May 2014—including a CNN segment titled “‘Brody’ vs. Bergdahl”—bolstered the program’s cultural legitimacy and the plausibility of its main theme. He states “shows like these locate international problems squarely within the domestic space of the US” allowing their producers to “substitute foreign policy discussions for any genuine historical discussion” (Castonguay, 2015). This is similar to what Said Faiq labels as “cultural antipathy”—in relation to translation— where only works that reinforce stereotypes of Arabs and Muslims are translated from Arabic. He goes on to state that “cultural antipathy” works to reinforce static and timeless representations of Arabs and Muslims since works are promoted only if they fit within Western grand narratives and portray the “West’s own fears and desires masqueraded as objective knowledge” (Faiq, 2004). Castonguay cites a national poll released shortly before Homeland’s premiere found that forty-seven percent of Americans believed the values of Islam are at odds with American values, and Muslims were the only religious group to receive an overall unfavorable rating. Given that sixty percent of respondents claimed to not know any Arab Americans or Muslims, Homeland’s representations become especially important, since versions of the “real” or “truth” about these groups and individuals are not grounded in viewers’ actual experiences (Castonguay, 2015). Acts like the Homeland hack do not exist only in the space they occupy in the moment of broadcast, but are sustained in the consequent media frenzy that follows the sensationalized depiction of the Arabic script side by side with a show like Homeland. Whether or not the viewer could read the script is irrelevant since the undecipherable script that once r­ epresented a threat is presented as a form of resistance to the grand American narrative. The viewer is reminded of the fact that content, rather than the medium, is the message. In the same way that Al-Jabarti assumed textual authority of Arabic from Napoleon’s Orientalists, the Arabian Street Artists also assumed textual authority from Homeland’s producers, freeing Arabic from being a vehicle of false narratives.

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Conclusion In eL Seed’s words, his goal with his project ‘Perception’ is to help the people of Egypt see the “bigger picture” and understand the people of Manshiyat Nasr. The goal of revealing a bigger picture can be considered the common thread between the creative projects discussed in this chapter. In Al Jabarti’s analysis of Napoleon’s proclamation, the big picture was that a colonizer couldn’t fool the colonized. The lack of respect for the Arabic script and grammar reflects a perception of the Egyptians as unintelligent or easily manipulated by French Orientalists. Ahmed Nagi’s novel aims to show that cultural production should not be restrained by a paternalistic and authoritarian society. And that Arabic novelists should transcend restricted versions of language reaching within the rich historical legacy of Arabic literature to continue to create work that pushes against political and social limitations. Ammar Abo Bakr’s goal was to demonstrate that the Quran is not the sole property of one or two religious political parties and that Islam in Egypt possesses an alternative history and heritage that should not be dismissed. Finally, the goal of the Homeland hack was to prove that the  Arabic language is more than a mere prop on a Western TV show and that audiences watching such shows must be alerted to a new form of orientalism masked beneath expertly crafted story-telling and well-researched facts. The Arabic language was manifested in various forms of resistance in the projects discussed: as a method of subversion of Western narratives of the East, as a tool for resisting fanatic religious ideologies, as an act of challenging social hegemony, as form of colonial resistance and as a vessel for promoting social dialogue. This chapter has highlighted that Arabic is powerful in its survival yet vulnerable to manipulation, but above all, Arabic is, like any other language, a reflection of the people who speak it, who write it, who paint it, evident in this powerful description by the poet Hafez Ibrahim (1871–1932): (Classical Arabic Lamenting itself ) Standard Arabic speaking: They have accused me of barrenness in the prime of my youth. I would that I were barren, so that I should not suffer the words of my enemies. I have encompassed the book of God in word and meaning. And have not fallen short in any of its verses and exaltations.

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I am the sea; in its depths pearls are hidden. Have they asked the diver for my shells? I see the people of the west full of power and might. And many a people have risen to power through the power of their language. (Bassiouney, 2014, p. 111)

Notes 1. http://www.salon.com/2015/12/22/palestinian_american_artist_ detained_for_sketching_in_arabic_falsely_accused_of_terrorism_by_ right_wing_media/ 2. http://www.dailycal.org/2016/04/14/uc-berkeley-student-questionedrefused-service-speaking-arabic-flight/ 3. https://www.theguardian.com/books/2016/aug/04/british-woman-heldafter-being-seen-reading-book-about-syria-on-plane

References Ayalon, A. (1987). Language and change in the Arab Middle East: The evolution of modern Arabic political discourse. Oxford University Press. Bassiouney, R. (2014). Language and identity in modern Egypt. Edinburgh University Press. Bourdieu, P. (1991). Language and symbolic power. Harvard University Press. Brooks, K. (2016). Stunning mural in Cairo’s ‘Garbage City’ stretches across 50 buildings. Retrieved October 2016, from http://www.huffingtonpost.com/ entry/el-seed-mural cairo_us_56e82ccae4b065e2e3d74d39 Castonguay, J. (2015). Fictions of terror: Complexity, complicity and insecurity in homeland. Cinema Journal, 54(4), 139–145. Duranti, A. (2009). Linguistic anthropology: A reader (Vol. 1). John Wiley & Sons. Faiq, S. (Ed.). (2004). Cultural encounters in translation from Arabic (Vol. 26). Multilingual Matters. Hamdy, B., & Karl, D. (2014). Walls of freedom: Street art of the Egyptian revolution. From Here To Fame Publishing. Hourani, A. (1983). Arabic thought in the liberal age 1798–1939. Cambridge University Press.

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Jacquemond, R. (2016). Ahmed Naji, the use of life and the zombies. Retrieved October 2016, from http://www.madamasr.com/opinion/culture/ahmednaji-use-life-and-zombies Miller, G., & Mekhennet, S. (2015). Inside the surreal world of the Islamic State’s propaganda machine. Retrieved October 2016, from https://www. washingtonpost.com/world/national-security/inside-the-islamic-states-propaganda-machine/2015/11/20/051e997a-8ce6-11e5-acff-673ae92ddd2b_ story.html Nietzsche, F. (1873). On truth and lies in a nonmoral sense. In Truth: Engagements across philosophical traditions (pp.  14–25). CreateSpace Independent Publishing. Rowe, J. C. (2013). American orientalism after said. In Popular culture in the Middle East and North Africa: A postcolonial outlook (Vol. 46, p.  183). Routledge. Sapir, E. (1931). Conceptual categories in primitive languages. Science, 74(1927), 578. Suleiman, Y. (2003). The Arabic language and national identity: A study in ideology. Edinburgh University Press. Suleiman, Y. (2013a). Arabic in the fray: Language ideology and cultural politics. Edinburgh University Press. Suleiman, Y. (2013b). Language and identity in the Middle East and North Africa. Routledge. Basma Hamdy  is a research-based designer, author, and educator producing work that bridges historical, political, and social issues with archival, documentarian, participatory, and critical mechanisms. She has collaborated with historians, photographers, designers, activists, and cultural organizations to create work that reformulates or challenges established norms or conventions. Since 2011, she has been researching and documenting the creative output of the Egyptian Revolution, culminating in the book Walls of Freedom: Street Art of the Egyptian Revolution in collaboration with Don Karl, published in March 2014 by From Here To Fame (Berlin). She is currently working on her second book Found Khatt in collaboration with Noha Zayed, documenting found typography across Egypt. She has been interviewed and featured extensively in prominent international media—such as The New  York Times, Fast Company, Jadaliyya, Huck, Der Spiegel, and Print—and has exhibited and spoken at several art-and-design festivals and conferences around the world, such as Duke University’s Arts of the Revolution, Spielart Festival Munich, and The Graphic

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Design Festival Breda, among others. In 2016, Basma Hamdy was recognized for excellence in research by a panel of distinguished jurors as part of the Communication Design Educators Awards by Design Incubation. Hamdy earned an MFA from MICA in 2003, a Post-Baccalaureate Certificate from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago in 2000, and a BA from the American University in Cairo. She is currently a candidate at PhDArts: Leiden University and The Royal Academy of Art (KABK), the Netherlands. She has extensive experience teaching in the Middle East and is currently Associate Professor of Graphic Design at Virginia Commonwealth University Qatar.

Part III Urban Space: The City as an Extension of Self

Speaking Walls: Contentious Memories in Belfast’s Murals Daniela Vicherat Mattar

If there is a place in Europe where the distinction between the urban and the rural is visible is Ireland. In spite of the role Dublin and Belfast played as major urban hubs since the beginning of the twentieth century, the island has been traditionally portrayed as an eminently rural territory. Not surprisingly, in the city of Belfast cars and horse carriages coexisted in the streets until well into the 1960s. This prosaic example shows how Belfast grew and developed out of a contradicting condition: while struggling to become a modern industrialized city, it was until very recently described as a peasants’ city (Kelly, 2001). This contradicting condition also underpins the deep-rooted ethnonational and ethno-religious divisions experienced in Northern Ireland, sectarian divisions that have radically shaped the city of Belfast. Located at the mouth of the River Lagan, in the north east of the island of Ireland, Belfast is the capital of the Northern Irish territory under the sovereignty of the UK. The struggle for independence and Irish self-determination in relation to the British crown is old, and in some ways familiar D. Vicherat Mattar (*) Global Challenges Programme, LUC, The Hague, Netherlands Faculty of Governance and Global Affairs, Leiden University, The Hague, Netherlands © The Author(s) 2017 S.H. Awad, B. Wagoner (eds.), Street Art of Resistance, Palgrave Studies in Creativity and Culture, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-63330-5_8

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to other struggles of recognition and self-determination. This is because the history in Ireland is also rooted in a colonial past: the occupation of Scottish and British settlers of the island of Ireland since 1609, with the so-called Plantation of Ulster (or colonization of Ulster, an area hitherto largely Gaelic). As most processes of colonization, the Plantation was legitimized as a civilizing process, defined in terms of the pacification and reformation of the Irish people, which evidently involved various wars, land confiscation, and their occupation by the foreign Scottish and English settlers (Morgan, 1985), illustrated up until today with the victorious image of King William of Orange as one of the murals motifs (see Photo 1). The history of Belfast dates back to this period, when it was the birthplace and battleground of two contending communities: separatists Irish nationalists (Catholics) and loyalist British unionist (Protestants). This brief reference to the British occupation of Ulster in the seventeenth century is not the direct object of this chapter, but it is a useful context to frame the central issue I propose to discuss here, that is to what extent the urban territory operates as politic ally in the reproduction of historical memory.1 Through the murals existing today in Belfast we can still see how the ethno-nationalist and ethno-religious contention is ­recreated daily by narratives that are, on each side, univocal and closed. The fragmentation of the urban territory affords these narratives to be conceived as authentic claims each community has over the past, purified claims that legitimizes and actualize the divisions between them. Belfast is, in this sense, a paradigmatic example of a divided city. Contested memories about its contemporary history shape the nature of the sociopolitical, cultural, and economic interactions happening there, and their manifestation in the fabric of the city. Indeed, today it seems obvious our interactions are determinant in shaping the cities we inhabit. What is less obvious, and seldom inquired about, is how urban infrastructures shape our social interactions and define the rhythm of our daily life. For instance, walls tend to be considered a dumb urban form; mere structure. Yet, murals afford walls a voice, to tell stories.2 Through these stories, murals keep historical memories alive. Belfast’s walls speak, they endure a sectarian recollection of the past and present political identities, which define, in turn, the possibilities, or impossibilities, of the contending communities, to coexist in the same territory. In this regard,

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the role of urban infrastructure like walls, and their aesthetic expression, the murals, work as a key to understand how material and symbolic narratives of division are reproduced in the city. As it has been described by the Haitian anthropologist Michel-Rolph Truillot (1995), our “real” relationship with the past exists only in those battles we waged in the present daily life. Today the battles over the colonial and troubled past in Northern Ireland are still played through the murals in Belfast’s walls. Even if, as the popular motto asserts, “[h]istory is written by the winner,” in Belfast history is never completely sealed. The past, and the contentions over it, are very much alive in the streets’ murals and in the traditions practiced in the city up until today. Most of the murals in the city make explicit monolithic identity claims for each respective community. These claims stress the “pure” and “authentic” identity of each group; identity claims that are by definition different and opposed to one another. Both though make legitimate claims over the same city-space. As Lowenthal (1985) reminds us, history is always made of what we choose to remember and forget. In Belfast, the walls are one of the mechanisms through which its residents make visible certain historical ­narratives, while hiding others. The murals in Belfast are a battleground where this selective selection process operates in continuous ways. Decades after the institutionalization of the 1998 peace agreement, the walls and their murals, keep alive the history of a common, but divided and violent, past. They are the living presence of a memory that is apparently irreconcilable with a peaceful coexistence, despite the inevitability of this coexistence (see Photos 2 and 3).3 In what follows, my aim is to present and discuss the relevance of Belfast’s murals as expression of the historical (im)possibilities of non-violent coexistence for the city’s ­residents. I start by describing how the murals represent and shape a sense of sealed and autochthonous identity in both communities. However, this pure identity tends to be reinforced by the increasing presence of outsiders, namely tourists, and the increasing influx of the “conflict tourism” industry in the city (see Photo 4). The murals thus fix particular antagonistic historical narratives; they institute the past and the present in terms of sectarian divisions. This, in turn jeopardizes the possibilities of a joined future, and the possibility murals also have to become spaces of negotiation and connection (see Photo 5).

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History and Stories on the Wall Inspired by Mikhail Bakhtin in an essay entitled “How do buildings mean?” (2006), William White suggests architecture is, like language, a constant work of interpretation: from the design to the construction, to its habitability and daily usage, the interpretation of the structure is in constant motion. Thus, it is possible to use the architectural form (buildings, walls, roads, etc.) as a historiographical source, as evidence of the transpositions of meaning resulting from an ongoing work of interpretation users and inhabitants make of the urban forms and the sociopolitical possibilities opened by them. Belfast’s murals tell stories, and therefore are in constant struggle for the definition of the history of the city and its residents. The stories told by the murals are relevant in their figurative format (by the situations, actors, and events evoked in the painting), but they are also telling in their absence, when a mural dies or is left to disappear as the result of sociopolitical dynamics between the two communities and within each of them (McCormick & Jarman, 2005). Although the murals can be found across the city, they are highly prevalent in the north, in the interface neighborhoods between Catholic and Protestant populations, mostly of a lowermiddle working-class background.4 The murals have played a crucial role in the material definition of the territory for each community, along with other structures, such as the dividing walls and intra-urban highways. A brief description of these divisive walls is worth mentioning here. Since 1969, what are ironically known as peace lines or peace walls have been placed in the most conflictive interface areas of the city. Namely, the north-west districts of the city, with high incidences of working-class Catholic and Protestant groups.5 Even if these peace lines were built by the British Army as provisional measures of security and conflict resolution, they became fixed in the city fabric, defining the conditions and type of interactions between the two communities. In fact, whereas religious, ethnic, and nationalist identification operate as symbolic borders between the contending communities, the peace lines make these borders hard, materializing sectarian identities and their opposition. Ironically, even decades after the 1994 ceasefire, the 1998 Peace Agreement, and countless civil society and government initiatives to strengthen inter-community relations, a peaceful coexistence between the two sides in contest has been

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only conceivable by the construction and permanent presence of these peace lines. In fact, between 2003 and 2012 the number of peace lines identified in Belfast grew from 27 to 99 (Jarman, 2005, 2012).6 A slow process to dismantle these walls has been initiated as recently as 2016. It seems paradoxical, but social segregation has been the cost of peace. A divisive device, like the peace lines, was one of the instruments used to provide the glue that holds the city together. The presence of sectarian murals is also more prevalent in these interface areas (Boal, 2002; Bryan, 2003; Carter, 2003; Patterson, 2004). The murals, painted on the walls of both communities, are material objects and historical artefacts defined by their territoriality (Jarman, 1997, 1998); they are able, in turn, to define the communities and shape their positionality in the city (Morris, 2005; Rolston, 2003). The murals are also a clear expression of power dynamics underpinning the reproduction of sectarian narratives: Protestant or Catholic, republican or unionist, nationalist or loyalist to the British crown. All these are different categories, pointing to different dimensions of each group’s identity. Although they might be used in an interchangeable way, these categories are never unrelated to the situation and place in which they are expressed and the identity they demarcate and actualize. The murals “represent the interests of a faction of the diverse populations living within the estates and areas in which they appear. Although it may be suggested (and implied) otherwise, they do not represent the views of a homogenous community” (McCormick & Jarman, 2005, p. 50). In this sense, the murals display a particular powerful way of categorizing each community, defining each of them as a discrete group in ethnic, religious, or political terms. Especially important is their capacity to refer to each community as independent of each other, in conflict with one another over the common territory, but not within (Bryan, 2000; McCormick & Jarman, 2005). This means that through the murals only one version of each ethno-­national-­religious narrative is actualized. They act as homogeneous and homogenizing claims over each community. Between the two contending communities, the murals are the material visual, semiotic, and spatial evidence of the historical struggles between the two communities. In what follows, I  broadly present the different historical narratives that have been predominant in the muralist practice of both communities.7

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Photo 1  Shankill road, Belfast, DVM 2009

Protestant–unionist–loyalist murals have been instrumental in the commemoration of their victory as settlers. According to Bill Rolston (2004), the first murals emerged in the early twentieth century in popular areas, particularly commemorating the Battle of the Boyne, as can be seen in Photo 1, with the victory of the Protestant William of Orange over his stepfather, the Catholic James II in 1690. The victory of the latter assured the Protestant supremacy in the island and the rest of the UK. As a result, most of the native Catholic population was excluded from the city and lived outside its walls, in the rural surrounding villages, which served the stereotype of the rural Irish idiosyncrasy I mentioned at the beginning of the chapter. To date, 12 July is the commemorative date of this event. The Orange community organizes marches, bonfires, and processions celebrating the victory of King William, which granted the legal possibility to own land and give religious freedom to Protestant settlers, grounding their political identity in their affiliation to the British crown. Since the nineteenth-century industrialization, Belfast had a high demand for a working population. Most of the workers came as rural migrants from the Catholic hinterlands. Like in many urban centers,

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these groups settled in the margins, under conditions of high vulnerability and poverty. This generated a palpable contradiction: unlike other dynamics of similar processes of industrialization, and later European reconstruction after World War II, in Belfast, the presence of these migrant workers, defined as “others,” did not refer to a foreign or foreign-­ born population but to the local population of the island. For a long time, Irish nationals were excluded from the political and socioeconomic dynamics, as well as from the possibility to culturally define their identity at the level of the state and the territory they inhabit. They were subjected to the loyalist state, who exercised a strong police control regarding the public display of any form of identification that would be divergent from the one officially defined by the British state (McCartney & Bryson, 1994; Jarman, 1997).8 Nevertheless, the areas with a high concentration of Catholic–nationalist–republican population were easily recognizable, not because of the public display of symbols, rituals, or practices alluding to their own cultural, religious, or political identity, but precisely because of the absence of them. They were identifiable by the absence of any public display of their identity markers. In contrast, after the Irish partition in 1921, the Protestant murals helped to define symbolically the political–cultural parameters that differentiated and defined this community. As Photo 1 illustrates, the muralist practice served a specific purpose: it allowed the definition of neighborhoods as “areas where loyalist Protestant population lived” or “Protestant areas.” By default, this produced the identification of non-­ Protestant, i.e. “Catholic areas” (Rolston, 2004). Through legal and police measures, Protestant communities retained the prerogative over mural paintings (Jarman, 1997). As we will see later, it was only in the early 1980s when the Catholic–nationalist–republican population managed to define their territory by their own muralists’ practices (Jarman, 1997; Rolston, 2004). In the 1960s the Northern Irish Movement for Civil Rights (NICRA) began a process of resistance vindicating the right of Catholics to housing, labor rights, the abolition of census vote, and the consequent symbolic exclusivity of the Orange hegemony (Protestant) in the definition of public space (Jarman, 1998). The protesters rejected the “traditional” Protestant right to march through any area of the city to commemorate

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and assert their supremacy. “The Troubles” is the name attributed to the period of decades of violent political confrontations that resulted from inter-communitarian, inter-ethnic, and inter-religious conflicts. “The Troubles” were, in practice, decades of civil war or paramilitary warfare. During this time, the war was waged not only with arms, but also in the struggles to assert each side’s identity in the city fabric (see Photos 2 and 3). Behind the barricades, communities were transformed into sanctuaries, areas where the nationalist community, and to a lesser extent the

Photo 2  Republican mural on Beechmount Avenue, Belfast 2009, DVM

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unionist, could define themselves in their own terms as “pure” spaces and homogenous communities (Feldman, 1991; Jarman, 2007, 2008; Shirlow & Murtagh, 2006). It was not until the early 1980s that the murals were also part of the iconography of the Catholic–nationalist–republican communities. In 1981, the dramatic and well-known hunger strike held by republican political prisoners was the event that triggered the muralist practice (Rolston, 2004). Among the political consequences of the hunger strike, which ended with the death of the strikers, was not only the intensification of the civil war, but the active appropriation of public spaces in the Catholic–nationalist–republican areas. Initially, the murals in this community focused their motifs in the support of the strikers’ demand for political status. The image of Bobby Sands, one of the main figures of the strike, was a recurrent muralist theme. Yet, the murals rapidly became a window for broader claims of nationalist identity and self-­determination struggles as shown in Photo 2. They motifs range from the references to the Gaelic past traditions to future electoral support for the Sinn Féin political party (Jarman, 1998; Rolston, 2004). According to Jarman (1997) and Rolston (2004), the increased militarization of the conflict during “The Troubles” manifested in the murals on both sides through recurrent themes: on the one hand, as Photos 2 and 3 show, the murals served as promotion and open call to support the paramilitary groups defending the loyalist (either by the Ulster Defence Force [UDF], the Ulster Defence Association [UDA], or the Ulster Volunteer Force [UVF]) or republican ideals (the Irish Republican Army [IRA] and respective later splits in the Official IRA [OIRA], Provisional IRA [PIRA], Continuity IRA [CIRA], and the Real IRA [RIRA]). During the 1990s, and in some areas of the city up until today, the prevalence of murals focuses on a paramilitary iconography, with masked fighters on the loyalist side, as is shown in Photo 3, and militia fighters on the republican side, as Photo 2 illustrates. Even after more than two decades since the official disarmament statements and the peace agreement, the message on each side is still “not to surrender.” On the other hand, the murals call for in-group solidarity and the apparent unified homogeneity of each community. This is an attempt to wage the constant tension provoked by the contradictions, internal fragmentation, and heterogeneity affecting each side. In both communities

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Photo 3  Loyalist mural on Sandy Row, Belfast 2009, DVM

the murals display power, the ability to control the space, allowing for the definition of that area as a homogenous community (McCormick & Jarman, 2005). The murals provide a platform to represent each side as unified along one single and “pure” narrative, as Photo 3 demonstrates. This is also done by claiming victimhood and remembering the suffering and sacrifices each community has endured. Through the murals each group claims a status of victim, deserving support and comprehension, especially in the presence of a “victimizing other” (Carter, 2003; Jarman, 1997; Rolston, 2004). While in Protestant Belfast the murals speak about the long history of a British defense over Ulster and the military sacrifice of the defenders; murals in Catholic districts stress a less univocal memorialization of past events, ranging back to the war of independence and notoriously the struggles occurring from “The Troubles” onwards. They stress the fight for a legitimate Irish identity as in Photo 2, and the victimhood suffered in their struggle for national liberation (Morris, 2005).

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Meanwhile the murals have become very much part of the city fabric. On both sides of the divide, each community is defined by the murals narratives in terms of their unique and pure identity as monolithic and authentic. The murals offer a univocal historical reconstruction, they make solid and legitimize specific memories and historical narratives that are exclusive and maintain the historical opposition and antagonism between both communities. The murals evoke authentic historical claims over the past of each community, defining their coexistence in terms of an irreconcilable sectarian division.

 he Constitutive Other: Murals as Artifacts T of a Connected History? As illustrated above, in Belfast, the murals tell the story of a troubled and violent past, justifying and actualizing the sectarian divisions in the present. In this sense, they are not only representations of the past, but rather a mechanism of identification that denotes the inability to coexist in any other way than through the division and opposition between the two communities (Jarman, 1997, 1998; Jarman & McCormick, 2005; Rolston, 2003, 2004). According to Bill Roslton (2003, 2004), the major themes that characterize the Protestant–loyalist–unionist murals have been six: the historical celebration of the victory of King William of Orange (Photo 1); the painting of flags and other traditional symbols celebrating the Commonwealth; the celebration of Britain’s imperial image (including the bleeding hand of Ulster—one of the few common symbols used by loyalist and republicans alike); the commemoration of historical events; images that promote paramilitary activities (Photo 3); and, finally, images that lament and victimize the losses during “The Troubles.” On the other side, the major themes that have characterized the Catholic– nationalist–republican murals are those linked to the hunger strike of 1982 and previous forms of protest of political prisoners, military images representing IRA members as challenging fighters or victims, electoral propaganda, and elections results, and historical themes in relation to the independence of Ireland and with reference to the Gaelic mythology

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(Photo 2). The murals often recall the repression and discrimination suffered by the community, as well as their resistance to the British state repressive dynamics. Lastly, these murals equate the republican cause to other struggles for self-determination across the world, including Palestine, the Basque Country, and South Africa (Rolston, 2004). Similarly, both communities activate history through a militarized and victimized past. There is a third way of looking at today’s murals, one that incorporates historical narratives of both groups under the external gaze of an outsider, a foreign other to the conflict, yet its complicit witness: the tourists. According to Jarman (1998) the murals began to appear in the Rough Guide of Belfast in 1992. Today the murals are objects of consumption, instruments of rehabilitation of a conflict that remains present albeit in a commodified form (McDowell, 2008). The murals retain a seductive effect: observing them is a secure way to become familiar with a violent and dangerous trajectory of contending political

Photo 4  Mural of the West Belfast Taxi Association taxi, supported by former IRA members, along the Falls Road, Belfast, DVM, 2009

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identities and projects; an experience otherwise ungraspable in the daily life of the majority of the visiting population. Today, most tourists ­visiting the city will join the seething business of “conflict tourism” (Jarman, 1998; McDowell, 2008). As you can see in Photo 4, black cabs and their guides are promoted as exclusive attractions of the city. Often former paramilitary fighters of both communities acts as specialised city guides, these guides organize a variety of circuits for all possible tastes and political inclinations.9 Any search on the Internet will show you various tour possibilities, and various tourists posing in the streets of Belfast with the black cab and the mural as a unique attraction of the city. In common they offer a sanitized and risk-free history of segregation and the struggle for political identification. The tourists are able to grasp the different parts of the puzzle, all necessary to conform the complex history of Belfast and the inter-community relations in Northern Ireland. Yet, the stories told remain fixed in their fragmentary narrative, very much like the peace lines have remained fixed in the city’s landscape.10 Postcards, posters, and several forms of specific touristy merchandise repeat again the conventional narratives that characterize each side in stark opposition to the other. In fact, Sara McDowell (2008) describes this process as an increased “commodification of physical conflict heritage.” Tourism plays a fundamental role in the economy of the city, but also implicitly in the reproduction of the competing ethno–nationalist– religious mono-narratives in conflict. Tourism works in two ways: on the one hand, it fixes—from the outside gaze of the tourists—the single stories that underpin the segmented topography of the city.11 On the other hand, the same external gaze connects these areas through circuits that show how each community’s single story runs in parallel, opening the possibility for a more complex and intricate common history. Thus, the tourist routes offer the possibility to view the segmented city as a unity, although at the expense of maintaining the fragmentary single identities and univocal stories of each community apart. As described by McDowell, “the consumption of Republican [or Loyalist] places and past, in particular, contributes to isolationists policies and the sustenance of ‘separate’ territory which serves only to exacerbate difference rather than resolve or transform conflict

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and division” (2008, p. 407), as illustrated in Photos 2 and 3. In this way, while the black cabs promoted in Photo 4 transpose the closed loops of each community, opening the possibility of seeing and living the city from another perspective, the political and ethno-religious identities in conflict remain in fixed antagonism. While the murals reflect and symbolize the divergent historical accounts of both communities, the question is whether they can also serve as devices that allow negotiations on a common history. As has been stated by several scholars,12 a peaceful future exists as a possibility not by reinforcing the univocal narratives and single stories of each community, but by opening the dialogue and the mutual understanding of the complex narratives and counter-narratives that are in constant negotiation between and within them. These narratives are palpable and visible through the city walls and its murals. Through the industry of conflict tourism, people’s sufferings and the commemoration and reactivation of a conflictive past become a profitable business in the present. The extent to which this type of tourism can serve the purpose of breaking-up single and monolithic narratives to build a shared future remains a doubtful and open question.

 an the Murals Transcend Existing C Binary Logics? In this chapter, I have illustrated how the murals in Belfast are, on the one hand, an expression of conflicting identities and their respective historical reconstructions by each community. On the other hand, they are also expression of the modernization and increased commodification of these identity claims and their consequential conflict. Instead of being opposite dynamics, I see them as mutually constitutive: the peace lines and murals dividing the city act as a living memory of the alleged inability to coexist on each side. Yet, there is also a clear connection between security measures expressed in the act of walling, the aesthetic expression of the conflict through the murals, and the market dynamics commodifying these bordering experiences and autochthonous identity claims. The emergence of conflict tourism in Belfast demonstrates this. Today, the murals seem to align with an instrumental and profitable use of rising i­ dentitarian

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autochthonous discourses on each community13: the peace lines and murals do not only divide the city, they also unify it for outsiders’ consumption, who seek to see the presumed impossibility of coexistence between the two communities. The spatialization of the distinction between “us” and “them” through the peace lines and murals imply, however, that through the city fabric, Belfast’s residents are continually confronted with the presence of each other and the memory of their recent historical past. The murals are a concrete reminder of the multiple cities, and contentious histories, composing the city of Belfast. The internal heterogeneity of each community confronts these essentialist discourses. Taken together, the murals in the city represent and make concrete a version of a complex past; often they represent mutually exclusive narratives that are connected under the gaze of the tourists. In this sense, rather than the artistic quality of the murals, which has increased over the years, one of the major arguments against them has been to question to what extent such practices have contributed to univocal and exclusionary discourses on each side, reifying the impossibility of reconciliation, given the support and recognition they receive from the state and the tourist industry (Mcdowell, 2008; Byrne & Goormley-Heenan, 2014). In this chapter, I have illustrated how, although walls tend to be considered a mute urban form, a simple structure, the walls in Belfast have a voice. The murals in Belfast tell stories and, most importantly, keep alive a certain dominant narrative over the past and the present identity of each community. This chapter offers a visual and conceptual exercise to make explicit the relational paradox underpinning identity when understood as difference. The awareness of the distinction between “us” and “them” imposed by the walls as structure, and the murals as their aesthetic form, reflect what Jacques Derrida (1988) described as “the constitutive outsider.” Namely, the foundational need of the “other” for the definition of the “self,” a need that is constantly rearticulated anew depending on the context. While in the past Catholic–nationalist– republican narratives have confronted Protestant–loyalist–unionist ones as “others,” today another layer of complexity has been added to the conflict by the presence of the external “other,” the tourist, and the commodification of the identities and historical claims in contest.

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Photo 5  Mural off Shankill Road, Belfast, DVM 2009

“Can it change?” is the pressing question stated on a wall in Photo 5. Archaeological work has shown how the distant past of the Ulster region in Northern Ireland is a product of both peoples, of Irish and British descendants (Mallory & McNeil, 1991). Yet, today the question of a “shared future” product of both communities remains pending (Komarova, 2008). Some argue that, for it to happen, the dismantling of the peace lines, as suggested by a recent policy document (Byrne & Goormley-Heenan, 2014), is imperative,14 as well as the dismantling of mono-identitarian mural practice. Yet, as long as the conflict remains commodified, it is also crucial to incorporate the role tourists play, as foreign and apparently neutral “others,” in reproducing, reifying, and fixing the sectarian divide, the parallel worlds coexisting in the two communities inhabiting the same Belfast. Another possibility to forge a “shared future” lays with the murals and the stories the walls tell and reproduce on daily basis. As the Photo  5 shows, not only there is a desire for change, but the mural itself opens up

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an alternative of hope. A possibility for change, for the production of a different story, not any longer subsidiary of the conflicts in the past. Can a divided past become a non-sectarian present and future? The mural in the image reflects how murals in Belfast offers the possibility to become a space for negotiation and connection. The normative and political definition of this complex conflict certainly exceeds the scope of this chapter, although I think it is relevant to dwell on the potential the murals have to make evident the relational paradox in which closed identity discourses are based. Using an extremely stimulating images, Simmel (1950), Derrida (1988), and Honig (2001) described the stranger, the other, the foreigner, respectively, as a constitutive of the self. This means not external to the community but a crucial component of it. The murals in Belfast are devices of historical and spatial identification; they are also concrete evidence of the inescapable presence of the other community. Hence, they hold the potential to become inviting structures to style a shared future that transcends univocal and closed identities based on a binary and narrow definition of the past. Even if the murals in Belfast are concrete and symbolic devices used to demarcate populations, they also serve to raise awareness on the need to transcend the binary logics that delineate our way of thinking in terms of natives and foreigners, insiders and outsiders, us and them. To what extent can the murals offer a form of aesthetic resistance to this pervasive understanding of identity in terms of binary logic is an open question. Slowly, in Belfast the walls are already speaking to that challenge.

Notes 1. For a discussion on colonial and decolonial forms of street art see the chapters of Gisela Latorre, Jayne Howell, Rana Jarbou, and Matthew Ryan Smith in this volume. 2. In this chapter I assume murals in Belfast are a form of street art in as much as they express the identity and historical claims of both contending communities. In this volume, for more detailed discussion about the definition of street art as a form of resistance see the chapters of Jayne Howell and Vlad Glaveanu; for the explicit connection of street art with democracy see the chapters of Robert Innis and Cecilia Nielsen.

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3. The first Peace Wall to come down did so in February 2016, on Belfast’s Crumlin Road. During September 2017 another emblematic wall was dismantled, the one dividing Springfield Avenue and Springhill Road. However, there are several of them still standing in the city. 4. While approximately 35–40% of the Northern Irish population lives in segregated neighborhoods (Hewstone et al., 2004), the levels of segregation in Belfast are strikingly higher: according to Mary O’Hara (2004) an estimated 98% of the social housing is segregated, which has evident repercussions for the levels of schooling segregation and segregated levels of access to the job market. 5. Two-thirds of Belfast citizens were estimated to live in segregated streets in the 1960s, a figure that raised to four-fifths in the 1980s (Patterson, 2004) and has remained steady despite the peace process initiated more than twenty years ago with the 1994 ceasefire agreements. Based on data from the 2001 census, it is clear that, while the majority of Protestant areas are dominant in the eastern side of River Lagan, the Catholic areas remain concentrated on the south-west sides (CAIN, 2010; Hughes, Campbell, Hewstone, & Cairns, 2007). 6. The number of peace lines in the city is contested. While in 2012 the Department of Justice identifies forty-seven (Byrne & Gormle-Heenan, 2014), the Belfast Interface project identified ninety-nine. What is clear, though, is the high prevalence of peace lines located in the most vulnerable working-class areas of North Belfast (Jarman, 2012). 7. All photographs were taken by the author during fieldwork in Belfast in 2009, funded by a Marie Curie postdoctoral research at Edinburgh University. 8. For instance, the flag and emblems act of 1954 made it explicitly offensive to interfere with the public display of the Union Jack flag (Jarman, 1997). 9. Most tours are the result of conflict transformation projects that are heavily subsidized by the state and/or other interested partners. There have been three inter-Irish peace programs funded by the European Union, to the tune of €1.3 billion. Large parts of these investments aim to set a path for conflict transformation, strengthening dialogue and reconciliation through empowerment and recognition measures, intracommunity confidence, and inter-community dialogue and understanding (Graham & Nash, 2006). The fourth program, Peace IV, is a crossborder initiative, funding activities between 2014–2020 in the

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border regions between Northern Ireland and Ireland. The whole programme is worth €270 million (Haase & Azevedo, 2016). 10. For a discussion on the role the peace lines play in reproducing the conflict despite the modeled peace political process, see Byrne & Gormle-­ Heenan (2014). 11. John Urry (2002) has described the key elements of the tourist gaze, all present in Belfast’s conflict tourism: a leisure activity underpinned by a working industry, a specific set of movements allowed for specific groups of peoples, a specific selection of places to be gazed upon because of what they anticipate, and, finally, a gaze that is continuously constructed through signs taken as token of their culture/place. 12. See the works of Craith (2002), McCormick and Jarman (2005), Graham and Nash (2006), Smyth (2007), Shirlow and McEvoy (2008), Byrne and Goormley-Heenan (2014). 13. This occurs not only in Belfast. Across the world we are witnessing the branding of political identities, vulnerability, and historical conflicts as a commodified form of “identity as difference” (Comaroff & Comaroff, 2009). 14. In May 2014 the government published the document “Together Building a United Community”, where it laid out a strategy to reduce and remove all the peace lines by 2023 (Byrne & Gormle-Heenan, 2014)

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Shirlow, P., & Murtagh, B. (2006). Belfast. Segregation, violence and the city. London: Pluto. Simmel, G. (1950). The stranger. In K. H. Wolff (Ed.), The sociology of Georg Simmel. USA: Free Press. Retrieved from http://www.infoamerica.org/documentos_pdf/simmel01.pdf. Smyth, M. B. (2007). Truth recovery and justice after conflict: Managing violent pasts. London: Routledge. Truillot, M. R. (1995). Silencing the past. Boston, MA: Beacon Press. Urry, J. (2002). The tourist gaze. London: Sage. Daniela Vicherat Mattar is Assistant Professor of Sociology at Leiden University College (LUC), The Hague. Trained academically and professionally as a sociologist in Chile, Daniela completed her PhD at the European University Institute with a thesis focused on the role of public spaces as social underpinnings of democracy. In 2008, she took up a Marie Curie postdoctoral fellowship at the University of Edinburgh to carry out research on another quite prevalent urban form, walls, and the way in which they have been shaping European cities until now. When she started working at LUC The Hague in 2010, Daniela took up the convenership and teaching of courses related to diversity, social and political theory, citizenship, gender, vulnerability and the ethics of care. She is interested in the uses of theory in everyday life and how large sociopolitical processes, such as democratization or migration, affect and shape public spaces in contemporary cities in Europe and Latin America. Her research focuses on the processes of border-making in conceptual terms, and also related to the visible manifestations of identity politics and the challenges of belonging. Ultimately, she is interested in understanding how these processes manifest in the urban landscape affecting our daily lives.

Inventive ReXistence: Notes on Brazil Graffiti and City Tension Andrea Vieira Zanella

The lively and creative graffiti scene in Brazil has been increasingly acknowledged and investigated. In São Paulo and Rio de Janeiro, there exists a large number of internationally acknowledged graffiti artists1 and their artwork illustrates different studies on the theme, including Manco, Art, and Neelon (2005), Gars (2009), Boofkin (2014), and Walde (2015). But graffiti is present not only in those cities: large, medium and small cities serve as backgrounds for graffiti in the country, such as Belo Horizonte (Viegas & Saraiva, 2015), Curitiba (Prosser, 2010), Florianópolis (Almeida, 2013; Furtado, 2012), Campina Grande (Duarte, 2014), and Ivo (2007), among others. In this chapter I present some aspects about this creative scene in Brazil to discuss that graffiti in the city provokes, more or less intensely, what can be seen,

She is a full professor at Universidade Federal de Santa Catarina (UFSC), affiliated with the Graduate Program in Psychology (PPGP/UFSC), and is a senior grantee from Coordination for the Improvement of Higher Education Personnel (CAPES) at New School for Social Research in 2016.

A.V. Zanella (*) UFSC—Universidade Federal de Santa Catarina, Florianópolis, Brazil © The Author(s) 2017 S.H. Awad, B. Wagoner (eds.), Street Art of Resistance, Palgrave Studies in Creativity and Culture, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-63330-5_9

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said, and thought about the city and its territories. They invite to listen other social voices and are, therefore, reXistences2 that affirm the urban polyphony. An expressive range of artists of different ages, both known and anonymous, experts and newcomers, constantly inscribe their art in cities located around this country of continental dimensions. Their aesthetic inscriptions are marked by an abundance of shapes, styles, textures, and colors on the one hand, or by the monochrome of graffiti vandalism, a constant target of public repression policies. The grapixo, a current hybrid variant as the name itself says, witnesses the inventive and pulsing condition of urban art in Brazil: “Brazilian street art—and artful vandalism— were booming practices long before the advent of hip-hop, and the various styles and methods have borrowed freely from one another since then” (Manco et  al., 2005, p.  21). The correct term in Portuguese is “pichação,” but several practitioners use the spelling with X to indicate the intentional nature of their interventions as aesthetical and political inscriptions in the city. In the word itself they affirm the transgressive and subversive nature of their practices. Consequently, the mixture with graffiti results in the hybrid word “grapixo.” One important characteristic of this plural, syncretic, and constantly moving art are the intense relations established with social, cultural, and political issues in the country. These more or less tense relations are visible in their practitioners’ discourse as well as in their productions, considered as reactions in a complex communication chain that considers the different times and spaces that shape them. Besides the tensions with the social conditions and cultural and economic inequality in the country, others should be highlighted owing to the reactions they provoke: tensions with the public power that aims to restrict and criminalize their practices; tensions with the public that interacts with the aesthetic interventions and somehow reacts to them; and tensions among the graffiti artists. All of these tensions are constant and those established among the artists are noteworthy. Mobilized by some artists’ approximation with the institutionalized arts and their market, or with policies that consider graffiti as a strategy to embellish the cities and enhance their touristic appeal, these tensions are marked by criticism against the reduction of graffiti to a consumption object and its

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(possible) distancing from the transgressive and subversive condition that marks its history and connotes it as resistance. The tensions mentioned here are complex and polemic issues analyzed from different horizons, by researchers of urban art in Brazil. In the scope of this text, some of these tensions will be appointed. Following Mikhail Bakhtin’s architectonics of answerability,3 I consider graffiti as a discourse in a complex communication chain, marked by the conditions that permit and motivate its emergence and, at the same time, as opening to different reactions. If, overall, graffiti can be considered as a discourse provocation, an art of contestation, each of its works is, in turn, “a singular, unrepeatable, concretely situated act, emerging from an actively response attitude, that is, an attitude that values a certain state of things” (Faraco, 2003, p. 24). What do the graffiti artists react to? How? What do they value? What are the effects of their aesthetic interventions? What answers do they provoke? In this text, I will focus on a simple analysis, among the countless possibilities that emerge when the graffiti universe is regarded attentively: graffiti as an intervention in the ordering of the cities that provokes and promotes other relationships between its inhabitants and the city; thus, graffiti can be considered a powerful device to reinvent life and, therefore, as reXistence.

About the City What can one say about the city besides the fact that it is the place where we live, a place where life happens? Cities are currently holding the largest population group on the planet, some with larger dimensions than those of many countries, and the trend evidenced in demographic studies is that they continue growing exponentially. Each city, in turn, independently of its territorial extent and number of inhabitants, comprises multiple cities, offering enjoyment possibilities that differ from their historically designed landscape. In accordance with Nogueira, Hissa, and Silva (2015, p. 374, author’s translation), “the city is a set of material, political, symbolic resource production relations at whose heart lies the sphere of politics and power and,

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hence, of alterity, of the encounter with the other, with the different and with the production of the self, conceived during this encounter.” The production and distribution of these resources are unequal and result from the production process of the others and the self. Consequently, life in the city happens in multiple forms, each of which is characterized as a multipli-city. An intense dialogue4 happens in any and all cities. Different times and spaces are in constant tension, living side by side; plural worldviews exist that represent various sensitivities, even if some of these try to affirm themselves as unique. All cities are social and historically constituted, and the same is true for its inhabitants: cognition, feelings, will, subjectivity, and the body itself express the multiple wires that turn it into a complex network. This network enmeshes its inhabitants and allows each person to be at the same time singular and plural, in a constant tension that moves the processes of subjectivity and singularity, of identity and difference. The dialogism in the city is present in the aesthetic variations of the place and landscape, interweaving architecture and urbanism with different shades of green of varying volumes and sizes, with the diversified cultural practices presented and developed there. The (in)tense relations of the people who circulate there and transform it daily configure the social voices-ideas in constant tension that constitute the dialogism of the city and are condensed in the aesthetic variations of the place and landscape. There is plenty to see/hear/feel in the cities, with intense territories and flows. The voices that echo in their streets, in their multifaceted architecture, in the urban design that characterizes it, and in the multiple conditions they offer their inhabitants to fight intense battles daily. That is so because, as Bakhtin (2008) highlights in his reference to Dostoyevsky’s polyphonic novel, different voices-ideas live side by side. There are dominant voices-ideas, intended to control the bodies and homogenize sensitivities; there are voices-ideas from the close or distant past, nostalgically evoked as a prototype of a lost condition one wants to return to; voicesideas to announce times to come, even if it cannot be affirmed yet if this future project will take form. After all, life is an event marked by predictabilities and unpredictabilities, continuities and ruptures.

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In Brazilian cities, the predominant voices-ideas are heritage from a patriarchal logic, going back to the times of the masters and slaves.5 The social inequalities deriving from the brutal income concentration and hardly effective policies to revert this condition are expressed in the cities’ design: small foci with better living conditions contrast with the proliferation of large population concentrations with precarious access to basic infrastructure, like basic sanitation and a suitable garbage-collection system, and absence of leisure and culture equipment. In the large Brazilian cities, the logic of center and outskirts, characteristic of the modern ordering of the public space, got pulverized in designs that multiply the centers and peripheries unequally. These conditions increasingly equipped and guarded centers, sometimes characterized as a neighborhood or a simple cluster of houses and services; and increasingly large outskirts with precarious access conditions to goods and services, which go back a long time. The proliferation of these centers and outskirts and the steep expansion in the latter grants increasing visibility to the inequalities and sharpens the tensions between the different social voices in the cities. The resistances against the dominant voices-ideas are constant and take different forms. The aesthetic interventions the graffiti artists imprint on walls, viaducts, buildings, lampposts, and sidewalks are resistances. Any wall anywhere can serve as support for these artists’ inscriptions, who spread out, using different techniques and inventively hybridized materials, shapes, and contents that, in transforming the cities, constitute other possibilities for relationships between the people and the places they live in. How do these resistances take form in the Brazilian graffiti? The polemics involving graffiti, the differences and similarities between your practices can help to answer this question.

About Graffiti, Pixação and Resistance Considered a negative category, pixação6 refers to a specific type of graffiti characterized as writing in the city (an example of pixação can be seen in Photo 1). These are stylized letters in singular calligraphies, different from tagging. The pixação is made with one only color, quickly, and with letter formats created by their practitioners and senses usually shared

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Photo 1  Pixação in Florianópolis, Santa Catarina, Brazil

only by them. The pixação provoke different reactions: graffiti artists defend it, acknowledging this expression as a legitimate mode of appropriation of the city, aiming to criticize the privatization of its spaces and restriction of its uses; lawmakers and the public in general condemn it, highlighting its practitioners’ lack of limits and disrespect for the buildings they are applied to, for the city itself and its organization. It is an example of tension between different social voices that is frequent in Brazilian cities. The distinction between graffiti and pixação is one of the characteristics of this art in Brazil, in accordance with different researchers (Caldeira, 2012; Ramos, 1994; Tavares, 2010; Teixeira, 2010; Viegas & Saraiva, 2015; among others). Both the particularities and the distinctive aesthetic characteristics are highlighted, as well as the approximation with the visual arts in graffiti and with writing in pixação; some researchers, despite acknowledging the differences, affirm their approximations, highlighting that these are interventions in the city that resist the dominant

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ranking logics of urban communication. The graffiti and pixação artists also formulate their considerations on the theme and their polemics, contributing to move the discourse and graffiti itself.7 Through images elaborated by means of different techniques and materials,8 each graffiti presents the viewpoint of its handicraftsman about some significant issues, whether shared with the general public or with specific social groups. The aesthetic characteristics close to other plastic arts are increasingly frequent in different communication media and can be considered aspects that favor its increasing acceptance. Pixação, in turn, is produced in unauthorized places that are generally hard to access, predominantly using a single color. During the military dictatorship in Brazil, between 1964 and 1985, pixação was an important vehicle of contestation and opposition to the regime that limited the free expression and human rights in force at that time. One of the best known pixações at that time, “Abaixo a Ditadura” (Down with the Dictatorship), took the words silenced by the violence of censorship and the voices muted in the basements of the military regime onto the walls of the cities. The language was direct and easy to understand, making explicit reference to the political situation at that time. But the city roads also displayed other pixações, like the provocative verses of the poet Paulo Leminsky9 registered on the walls of Curitiba. The registers of these aesthetic interventions witness the emergence of an art that gradually developed and disseminated in the following decades throughout the country. After the political opening,10 pixação gained complexity and its understanding currently demands significant analytic efforts, concerning the messages disseminated, as well as their purposes. The lexicon each crew11 adopted is only accessible to the practitioners of pixação or perhaps anyone dedicated to its study. The motivations that make them imprint their marks in the city putting them at risk of being charged with vandalism and depredation of public or private property, in turn, challenge creeping complications.12 The reactions on pixação tend to be negative. As Manco et al. (2005, p. 21) highlight, “Endemic to Brazil and yet ubiquitous within its major cities, pichação is a name-based vandalism movement so prolific and aggressive as to make other graffiti seem a gentle crime. The visceral and typographic beauty of pichação is at times a tough sell even to graffiti

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aficionados, but anyone painting in the streets of Brazil must give it a tip of the hat, for it certainly makes other street artwork, rudely illegal or otherwise, appear a generous community service in comparison.” Perhaps the authors are right and Law 12.408 from 25 May 201113 can be considered an effect of this negative reaction to pixação. The law determines between three months and one year of detention and a fine for its practitioners, further aggravated if they have committed the infraction on monuments or public heritage buildings, due to their artistic value. That law takes another position towards graffiti: in article 6, § 2 (author’s translation), it is established that: The practice of graffiti is not a crime when intending to value public or private property through an artistic manifestation, provided that consent is granted by the owner and, if that is the case, by the lessee or tenant of the private property and, in case of public property, with the authorization of the competent entity and compliance with municipal policies and regulations issued by the governmental entities responsible for the preservation and conservation of the Brazilian historical and artistic property. (http:// www.planalto.gov.br/ccivil_03/_Ato2011-2014/2011/Lei/L12408.htm)

But the strength of the law does not appease the issue—there is no final word, as Bakhtin (1986) highlights. Distinguishing between graffiti and pixação, criminalizing one practice while absolving the other, provided that it adapts to social requirements, arouses other reactions opposed to this logic—after all, for the graffiti artists, there is no consented graffiti. The graffiti artist’s work, according to its practitioners, is on the street, in the city. This is about another voice that adds up to the voices-ideas that make up the urban polyphony and tension the dominant voices-ideas. It is public art accessible to the public in general and which transforms the city into an open-air museum. But the assertion of the city as a prime example of space for graffiti does not mean its restriction to the streets. Some graffiti artists’ works go to museums and art galleries and are included in their collection, side by side works of artists from different countries affiliated with various aesthetic branches. Some works are produced for and in specific exposition areas, among which is the International Graffiti Fine Art Biennial, an event that has been held in São Paulo since 2010.14

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The approaches to the institutionalized arts world provoke, in turn, different reactions: if, on the one hand, they are praised and valued by the arts circuit, on the other, they arouse intense debate amongst the graffiti artists themselves. In the arts circuit, their handicraftsmen describe their graffiti as aesthetic productions that use the languages of graffiti, tensioning their own limits, as well as those of the arts institutionally acknowledged as such. But there are graffiti artists opposed to this approximation, who affirm that graffiti is what is exclusively produced in the streets. Many pixadores, in turn, reject graffiti and accuse it of having been coopted by the hegemonic power, resulting in the loss of their political strength and distancing from their initial proposals. These different perspectives grant visibility to the tense debates on the lively Brazilian graffiti scene. This debate goes on in the streets, academic discussions, in the relations between the graffiti artists and pixadores, and in their relations with the arts circuit. One example of these tensions is the events that happened during the twenty-eighth edition of the São Paulo Biennale, held in 2008 and dubbed the Biennial of the Void. During the opening of the exhibition, approximately fifty young people pixaram the second floor of the exhibition pavilion, intentionally left void by the curators.15 At that time, the response to the pixadores’ actions was police force, which dispersed the pixadores and arrested one young woman. During the following days, the media noticed the event and various people took a stand, mostly against the action and condemning its practitioners. The young woman remained imprisoned for more than thirty  days, which also caused polemics and reignited the debate about justice in Brazil, which is severe in case of minor crimes committed by anonymous people with low purchasing power, but acknowledged as slow and lenient when public figures and economic interests are involved. Two years after the event, during the twenty-ninth edition of the São Paulo Art Biennial, held in 2010, the pixadores’ work was again present, but in another way. In an interview granted to the magazine Cult, one of the curators of the sample, Arnaldo Farias, said the following about the presence of the group Pixação SP in this consecrated space of visual arts (author’s translation): “They came to us and said: ‘The Biennial is going to discuss arts and politics and our work in political, we are going to discuss

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that with you.’ We also find their work political, if it is artistic I don’t know. And I am not concerned with making that judgment. The proposal was to present their work as a document. There is no consented picho. They are going to present slideshows and pictures. They do calligraphic work, and calligraphy goes back to the discussion of individual data. Some of them are brilliant. They are so experienced that they do it well” (http:// revistacult.uol.com.br/home/2010/09/so-a-arte-salva).” The approach between Brazilian graffiti and the arts circuit define the sharpening of the distinctions among different forms of aesthetic expression and the spaces for each of them. But there are voices, it should be highlighted, that are opposed to these distinctions, among which I highlight the graffiti artists’ own voices—several of them practice pixação; grapixo produce graffiti in the streets, as well as works displayed in museums and galleries. They acknowledge the differences deriving from the spaces the works are inserted in but do not disqualify any of them. I agree with this perspective as, after all, these arts are part of life and provoke various reactions. In the streets, they transform the cities by constituting exposition spaces in original sites; graffiti, pichação, and grapixo, in their different forms, provoke the predominant things to be seen, said, and thought in the urban landscapes. These are noises of varying intensities that, through their presence in the public space, call the attention of the passers-by and summon them to dialogue. They introduce other colors, forms, and meanings in the weaving of the cities, provoking the bodies conditioned by the incessant rhythm of the city to briefly stop in order to produce some movement in them. They disturb, provoke, and produce affection. These are certainly resistances that somehow pierce the surveillance and control networks, that oppose the regulations imposed by the dominant voices-ideas. But they do not necessarily do this directly: analytic effort is needed to understand how they operate and the effects they produce. In discussing the daily reality in the cities, Certeau denounces the strength of the surveillance network that became widespread in the contemporary world and at the same time highlights the importance of investigating how “an entire society is not simply that: that popular (also minuscule and daily) procedures play with the mechanisms of the discipline and do not conform to it except to change them: in short, what

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‘ways of doing’ constitute the counterpart, on the consumers’ (or ‘dominated people’s’?) side, of the mute processes that organize the sociopolitical order” (Certeau, 1988, p. 40, author’s translation). Graffiti, in general, independently of what it is called, is, in my opinion, a counterpart, a way of making these mute processes that silence practices talk, a way of granting visibility to their strategies and denaturalizing established processes. It is resistance. It is reXistence.

Graffiti and City, Graffiti and ReXistence There is plenty to resist for those who assume the struggle against social inequalities in Brazil, understanding the need for improvements in most of the population’s living conditions and in the establishment of policies against poverty and misery. The need for this struggle is clear and shared in general, but the understanding that this is a struggle against forms of domination, exploitation, subjectivity, and submission is not shared. As a struggle, its actions are resistances opposed to the regulated, to what is so familiar that it is considered natural, as it is devoid of its historical condition and of the invisibility of the sophisticated strategies that maintain it. The resistances against society under the oversight of capital are characterized by the striking opposition to the supposed harmony that hides the conditions that establish the inequalities. These conditions are the framework of this same society. Guided by a project of becoming defined along the lines of the oppositions to the capitalist logic, these resistances, fundamental to the political struggles that marked the twentieth century, were characterized as catchwords, announcing a specific counterpoint. At the start of the new century, we see resistances proliferate that do not necessarily present future projects: these different actions assume the city as a podium for manifestations of protest and dissatisfaction with the conditions of the present, but without defined directions, without previously outlined perspectives of what society can become. The absence of a clear future project, however, does not mean that these strategies are less important. These are resistances against the hegemonic modes of seeing, hearing, feeling, and thinking that are present in the city and constitute our sensibilities. The concept of “sharing of the

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sensitive,” proposed by Jacques Rancière (see also Garcia, this volume), refers to the common plan that ranks the bodies, discourse, practices, sensitivities, in short, the relations among people, establishing, hierarchizing, and crystallizing distinguished positions and conditions. It refers to the system of forces that acts “determining what is felt. It is an excerpt from the times and spaces, from the visible and the invisible, from the word and noise that defines at the same time the place and what is at stake in politics as a form of experience” (Rancière, 2005, p. 16, author’s translation). Through the concept of sharing of the sensitive, Rancière connects politics with aesthetics, as “politics rests on what one can see and say, about who has the competence to see and the quality to say, about the properties of spaces and the possibilities of time: politics is, more than anything, a sharing of the sensitive of this type” (Jacques Rancière in an interview granted to Pellejero, 2009, p. 25, author’s translation). Considering the game of forces and interests at stake, the approved sharing of the sensitive is marked by inequality, by the delimitation of what can (and what is entitled to) be seen, heard, said, thought, from what should be silenced and omitted. Granting visibility to this policy of the sensitive, provoking the socially established limits as to what can be seen, heard, and said, tensioning the dominant discourse and listening to the voices silenced is fundamental to grant visibility to the interests at the sake and the condition of reality itself, which establishes modes of being in accordance with its logic. It is fundamental to affirm the social plurality the dominant voices-ideas systematically deny, as well as to invest in other possibilities of life. Granting visibility to the forces at stake, tensioning the unequal sharing of the sensitive, opposing the dominant voices-ideas is possible, as highlighted earlier, in different ways. Graffiti is one of them, and the power to attract young people towards its practices approaches them to the city itself, inserting them into important polemics about life in common, about aesthetics and politics, about politics and art. There are graffiti in Brazil whose opposition to the surveillance network and to the practices of subjection is clear, like the graffiti in the mosaic in Fig.  1. Brazilian graffiti artists imprint in the cities’ public streets criticism against important issues like the real-estate exploitation

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Fig. 1  Mosaic of graffiti produced by Brazilian artists in different cities in the country. The mosaics in Figs. 1 and 2 were produced by Laura Kemp de Mattos ([email protected]) and the rights of use of the images granted to the author

and the gentrification practices; the media communication, concentrated in the hands of large conglomerates responsible for the massive diffusion of the dominant voices; the condition of black women; the devastation of the Amazon; the condition of the indigenous population; hunger and misery, pungent issues that contrast with the country’s natural and economic wealth; destination of public resources to large events; the opposition to nuclear energy sources; sexual exploitation of children; and other issues. A general understanding is possible of the artists’ perspective on each of the themes they assume as contents for their art. Critical perspectives, condensed in images that react to important issues based on a specific viewpoint, to problems that emerge in the context these artists are inserted in and which they interact with intensely. What this art can provoke is hard to determine precisely, the feelings that can emerge from the encounter with these works. But it should certainly be acknowledged that

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Fig. 2  Mosaic of graffiti produced by Brazilian artists in different cities

they put on the agenda, in the open air, different viewpoints, other voices, which is fundamental to the dialogue, to the counterword, to the tensioning of the sharing of the sensitive. The matters presented in these images extrapolate space and time limits and, consequently, strengthen graffiti’s condition as art. Through the contemporary information and communication technologies, this art finds readers on different continents who are willing to dialogue with it, acknowledging its power to make what is silenced in other contexts as well available to see, hear, say, and feel. But if the themes are clear in many graffiti, others seem distanced from polemics and the debate on political issues, like those in the mosaic presented in Fig. 2. The graffiti in this mosaic differs from the others that have a specific subject, like gentrification, hunger and misery, environment, etc., because they do not directly summon the public to problematize a social issue. Nevertheless, that does not necessarily mean acquiescence with the dominant voices-ideas; I consider that they still represent resistances, but in

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this case marked by the inventive condition focused on life itself, by the assertion of the difference and the possibilities of differing. They are therefore reXistences (Zanella, 2011, 2013; Zanella, Levitan, Bueno, & Furtado, 2012), with a capital X: a way of outlining their importance in provoking people’s indifferences towards the city. These works insert colors and shapes that permit dislocations in the ways of seeing and living, of hearing and feeling. These dislocations are fundamental to reinvent life itself of each and all persons. The concept of reXistence refers to social practices in which the aesthetic and ethical dimensions are evidenced in relation with political criticism. This inventive dimension characterizes different practices, including graffiti. Their arts are ephemeral interventions that desecrate16 the spaces and times made sacred by the logic of capital, the sharing of the sensitive that restricts the possibilities of seeing, hearing, talking, and feeling. A sharing that establishes and reaffirms the inequalities based on different strategies. Many reXistences can be understood as carnivalization in Bakhtin’s sense (2008), that is, as practices in which the official discourse is confronted in a way that is not necessarily oppositional. These political practices differ from the established practices, but are not less potent, as they can provoke concerns, questions, and counterwords. In the Brazilian cities, large surfaces painted by groups of graffiti artists are increasingly present, sometimes from the same crew, but frequently as partnerships among different crews. This graffiti is increasingly accepted in the social sense, and in many cases receiving official incentives. They are part of governing parties’ political agenda, reigniting the polemic about the loss of its strength of contestation. But this strength still continues, as it is impossible to precisely determine what art is allowed. On the streets, graffiti transforms spaces and times, reinvents the possibilities of the city and its inhabitants. It democratizes the access to art itself, which remains a challenge for the Brazilian reality. On the one hand, it is difficult to affirm what they provoke but, on the other, their power should be acknowledged. After all, The experience of an artwork can truly broaden our conception of some field of phenomena, making us see that field with new eyes, generalizing

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and unifying facts that are often totally dispersed. Like any intense experience, the aesthetic experience creates a highly sensitive attitude for further acts and, obviously, never happens without leaving traits for our behavior. (Vygotski, 2001, p. 341, author’s translation).

Graffiti in the cities are possibilities of aesthetic experiences for everyone. Their effervescence in Brazil imprints another rhythm on the urban dialogue, and different answers emerge in response to their presence. The justifications for their overall criminalization affirm the fact that private properties are disrespected, that laws are broken and that the cities are dirtied. But even when consented, or when they appear in the opposite sense, when they clean instead of dirty, they still provoke tensions. A short video17 registers a creative aesthetic intervention in the city, a graffiti without paint applied to a place that is iconic of the current living conditions, or of the predominant relations among people and between people and the city: a tunnel, a passage where the cars’ speed rules in their movements. The tunnel is an icon of a way of life characteristic of current times, a non-place to see, feel, and think. Accomplished in the middle of the night, the aesthetic intervention is done using a piece of cloth on the blackened surface of one of the tunnel sides. The artist deliberately cleans the tunnel wall and his gestures gradually reveal images that make up a surprising artwork.18 The artist in question is Alexandre Orion. On the website that registers the intervention (http:// www.flickr.com/photos/alexandreorion/sets/72157607294887806/), the artist’s discourse on his own work is available: “Ossario is the name of this reverse graffiti intervention. It is through a process of subtraction, scraping off layers of soot from vehicle exhaust built up on tunnel walls to produce over 300 meters of images with more than 3500 human skulls.” The aesthetic intervention provoked an immediate response: police officers fined the artists and had the place cleaned, making his provocative art disappear. What provoked this prompt answer from police forces to this intervention? The artist was not properly disturbing the movement of the city. His intervention occurred during the dawn, when few cars were circulating in the streets in contrast to the intense movement and daily congested traffic. His work of art did not have a directly political message, did not have a specific subject. Life and death were visualized, but it is possible to

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build different comprehension about the aesthetic intervention considering the place, the people that live there, the conditions of life in that city, as well as others. The velocity of the police answer calls attention to the force of this aesthetic intervention in disturbing, provoking hegemonic voices in the cities, provoking concerns, questions, and counterwords. It was an ephemeral intervention whose focus was life itself and the conditions of life in the city. This work is a reXistence that resists to the police actions and persists in time through communication and information technologies that contribute for its memory not to disappear and for its effects to last.

Final Considerations Graffiti is an ephemeral aesthetic intervention that marks the body of the city and continuously transforms it. With its marginal, unconsented art history, it represents an important tensioning device of the dominant voices-ideas, of resistance to the patriarchy of the masters and slaves and to the different forms of inequality that exist in Brazil. It represents a social voice of resistance to the sharing of the sensitive that show presents other possibilities of seeing, saying, talking and thinking to the urban scene. The graffiti artists’ inscriptions in the cities are opposed to their intense flow. The first reaction it provokes is the reduction, even if momentarily, in the frenetic rhythm each person imposes on him/herself in response to the rhythm of the city itself. And this slowing down, even if briefly, can dislodge, disturb and tension a crystallized condition, revealing the possibility of another rhythm, of dissonance, of the different. Of being different. The graffiti artists do not ask permission to be or affirm themselves in the public spaces and the presence of graffiti in the city provokes, more or less intensely, what can be seen, said, and thought about the city and its territories. They invite to listen to other voices, to affirm the possibility of dissonance that comprises plural voices, noise, and silence. They are reXistences that affirm the urban polyphony, the multipli-city.

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Notes 1. About graffiti in São Paulo and Rio de Janeiro, see Pereira (2010), Caldeira (2012), and Ventura (2009). 2. The concept of reXistence will be presented and discussed in the course of this chapter. 3. “[T]he architectonics is focused on understanding the relationships. The objective is clear: to value the relations that produce meanings. The world of architectonic relationships is the world of man who talks, who questions himself, his environment and, in doing so, articulates interactive relationships that can give answers based on which knowledge is constructed” (Machado, 2010, p. 204, author’s translation) 4. The understanding of dialogism presented as the framework for the discussion proposed here rests on Bakhtin (2008). In his analysis of Dostoyevsky’s work, Bakhtin highlights the polyphony that characterizes his romances, as each social voice, each idea lives in tension with other ideas, composing a plural and unfinished harmony. An incomplete dialogue, and therefore similar to life itself in society. 5. Masters and slaves is an expression that dates back to the age of slavery in Brazil. The big house was the hold of the lords of the sugar cane mill, owners of the slaves, whereas the quarters housed the black men and women after their long workdays. It is also the title of the famous work by Gilberto Freyre (1933), in which the author analyzes the historical and cultural formation of the Brazilian society, marked by the mixture of people and the domination of white people of European origins—the masters of the big house. 6. As Costa clarifies (2007, p. 179, author’s translation) “pixação derives from pitch, which is the residue from the distillation of different tars, particularly coal tar. It is obtained from petrol and is used to pave streets and highways. It was frequently used to write on walls during the military dictatorship. When the color jet cans emerged, pitch left the scene but pixação did not. That is how the interventions using spray were also called pixação, like what happens now.”. 7. Internet videos present graffiti artists in Brazil talking about the characteristic polemics and their arts. For example: https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=b_MB_CmhjUQ; https://vimeo.com/24883852; https://vimeo. com/51609156; https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JjS0653Gsn8

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8. About graffiti materials and techniques in Brazil, see Manco et al. (2005), Souza (2008), and Almeida (2013). 9. Paulo Leminsky was an important Brazilian poet, considered one of the exponents of what was called marginal poetry. His relation with graffiti is expressed in the exhibition held at the Museu do Olho in Curitiba between 2012 and 2013. Images of the exhibition are available at http:// www.museuoscarniemeyer.org.br/exposicoes/exposicoes/realizadas/2012/leminski 10. The political opening in Brazil after the dictatorship (1964–85) was a slow process. In 1985 the presidency was assumed by a politic elect indirectly. In 1989 was the first election for president after this anti-democratic period. 11. Almeida (2013, p. 73) clarifies that, in graffiti, the word crew refers to the “union of two or more graffiti artists, who paint together and sign a common name, the name of their respective crews.” 12. As Manco, Art, and Neelon (2005, p.  10) highlight: “Pichadores, the masters of this art, risk life and limb making their mark on the city, from the tallest buildings to the undersides of motorway flyovers. With an almost blanket coverage of the city, this raw and elongated calligraphy has been developed by many hands over time—a folkloric vandalismo and an urban sport for disenfranchised...Pichação offers young Brazilians a chance at fame, enabling them to publicize their names in a similar way to the brands they see on advertising hoardings.” 13. Available from http://www.planalto.gov.br/ccivil_03/_Ato20112014/2011/Lei/L12408.htm 14. For more about the International Graffiti Fine Art Biennial, consult http://mube.art.br/projetos/graffiti-fine-art/ 15. The intervention can be seen at http://noize.com.br/wp-content/ uploads/2009/10/bienal19.jpg 16. Giorgio Agamben (2007) rescues the concept of profanation. For that author, “consecrating (sacrare) was the term that designated the departure of things from the sphere of human rights, profanation meant restituting them to the free use of men” (p. 65). Profanation “deactivates the power devices and returns the spaces it had confiscated to common use” (p. 68). 17. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5lX-2sP0JFw 18. The picture of the “Reverse Graffiti”, by Alexandre Orion, can be see at http://www.flickr.com/photos/alexandreorion/sets/72157607294887806/

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References Agamben, G. (2007). Profanações. São Paulo: Boitempo. Almeida, G. B. (2013). Política, subjetividade e arte urbana: o graffiti na cidade. 140 f. Dissertação (Mestrado em Psicologia). UFSC, Florianópolis. https:// repositorio.ufsc.br/bitstream/handle/123456789/106968/319164. pdf?sequence=1 Bakhtin, M. (1986). Toward a methodology for the human sciences. In C. Emerson & M. Holquist (Eds.) and V. W. MacGee (Trans.), Speech genres and other late essays. Austin, TX: University of Texas Press. Bakhtin, M. (2008). Problemas da poética de Dostoievski. Rio de Janeiro: Forense Universitária. Bofkin, L. (2014). Global street art: The street artists and trends taking over the world. Buffalo, NY: Firefly Books. Caldeira, T. P. (2012, November). do R. Inscrição e circulação: novas visibilidades e configurações do espaço público em São Paulo. Novos estudos— CEBRAP, São Paulo, 94, 31–67. de Certeau, M. (1988). Invenção do cotidiano: artes de fazer. Petrópolis: Vozes. Costa, L. P. (2007). Grafite e Pixação: institucionalização e transgressão na cena contemporânea. In Anais do III Encontro de História da Arte (Vol. III). IFCH-UNICAMP. Duarte, A.  M. L.  T. (2014). A construção discursiva do grafite em Campina Grande PB. Interfaces Críticas, 2, 27–44. Faraco, C. A. (2003). Linguagem & Diálogo: as idéias lingüísticas do Círculo de Bakhtin. Curitiba/PR: Criar Edições. Freyre, G. (1933). Casa Grande & Senzala: Formação da Família Brasileira sob o Regime da Economia Patriarcal. Rio de Janeiro: José Olímpio. Furtado, J. R. (2012). Tribos urbanas: os processos coletivos de criação no graffiti. Psicologia & Sociedade, 24(1), 217–226. Gars, N. (2009). Graffiti world (updated edition): Street art from five continents. New York: Abrams. http://www.flickr.com/photos/alexandreorion/sets/72157607294887806/ http://mube.art.br/projetos/graffiti-fine-art/ http://www.museuoscarniemeyer.org.br/exposicoes/exposicoes/realizadas/2012/leminski http://noize.com.br/wp-content/uploads/2009/10/bienal19.jpg http://www.planalto.gov.br/ccivil_03/_Ato2011-2014/2011/Lei/L12408.htm http://revistacult.uol.com.br/home/2010/09/so-a-arte-salva

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https://vimeo.com/24883852 https://vimeo.com/51609156 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JjS0653Gsn8 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b_MB_CmhjUQ Ivo, A. B. L. (2007, Abr). Cidade: mídia e arte de rua. Caderno CRH, 20(49), 107–122. Machado, I. (2010). A questão espaço-temporal em Bakhtin: cronotopia e exotopia. In L.  Paula & G.  Stafuzza (org.), Círculo de Bakhtin: teoria inclassificável (Vol. 1, pp. 203–234). Campinas/SP: Mercado das Letras. Manco, T., Art, L., & Neelon, C. (2005). Graffiti Brazil. New York: Thames & Hudson Inc. Nogueira, M. L. M., Hissa, C. E. V., & Sander, J. (2015). O caminhar como recurso metodológico: sobre imagem e discurso. In A.  C. Reis (Org.), Psicologia Social em experimentações: arte, estética e imagem (Vol. 6, 1st ed., pp. 354–378). Florianópolis: ABRAPSO Editora. Pellejero, E. (2009). A lição do aluno: uma introdução à obra de Jacques Rancière. Saberes, 2(3), 18–30. Pereira, A. B. (2010). As marcas da comunicação urbana: pichações, grafites e outras formas de expressão na paisagem paulistana. In Ana Maria de Almeida Camargo (Org.), São Paulo, metrópole em mosaico (Vol. 1, 1st ed., pp. 13–24). São Paulo: CIEE. Prosser, E. S. (2010). Graffiti Curitiba (2004–2010) (1st ed.). Curitiba: Kairós. Ramos, C. (1994). Grafite, Pichação e Cia. São Paulo: Annablume. Rancière, J. (2005). A Partilha do Sensível. Estética e Política. Trad. Mônica Costa Netto. São Paulo, Editora 34, EXO experimental.org Souza, D. C. A. (2008). Graffiti, pichação e outras modalidades de intervenção urbana: caminhos e destinos da arte de rua brasileira. Revista Enfoques (Rio de Janeiro), 7, p. art eletrônico. Tavares, A. (2010). Ficções urbanas: estratégias para a ocupação das cidades. ARS (São Paulo), 8(16), 21–30. Teixeira, P. (2010). [email protected]: um rolê pelas ruas da cultura digital. Florianópolis, UDESC, 184 p. Dissertação (Mestrado). Curso Superior de Pós-graduação Mestrado Acadêmico em Artes Visuais—CEART, Universidade do Estado de Santa Catarina, 2010. Ventura, T. (2009). Grafite, hip hop e reconhecimento: analise comparativa Rio de Janeiro e São Paulo. Análise Social, XLIV, 605–634. Viegas, G. C. F. S., & Saraiva, L. A. S. (2015). Discursos, práticas organizativas e pichação em Belo Horizonte. Revista de Administração Mackenzie, 16(5), 68–94.

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Vygotski, L. S. (2001). A educação estética. In L. S. Vygotski (Ed.), Psicologia pedagógica (pp. 323–363). São Paulo: Martins Fontes. Walde, C. (2015). Graffiti alphabets: Street fonts from around the world. New York: Thomas & Hudson. Zanella, A. V. (2011). Urban “ReXistances”: Profane arts and ways of subjectivity in focus. In Borders: Displacement and creation—Questioning the contemporary, 2011, Porto, Portugal. Borders displacement and creation—Questioning the contemporary: Conference texts. Porto, Portugal—Meio digital, pp. 410–418. Zanella, A. V. (2013). Youth, art and city: Research and political intervention in social psychology. Revista de Estudios Urbanos y Ciencias Sociales, 3, 105–116. Zanella, A. V., Levitan, D., Bueno, G., & Furtado, J. (2012). Sobre ReXistências. Revista Psicologia Política, 12, 247–262. Andrea Vieira Zanella  is a full Professor at the Federal University of Santa Catarina (Universidade Federal de Santa Catarina /UFSC/Brazil), researcher for CNPq, and guides masters and doctoral courses in the Psychology Post graduation Program at UFSC (PPGP/UFSC—www.ppgp.ufsc.br). She has a PhD from the Catholic University of Sao Paulo (1997); has carried out postdoctoral studies at the Università Degli Studi di Roma La Sapienza with CAPES’ scholarship grants (2009); and has been a visiting researcher at The New School for Social Research with CAPES’ scholarship grants (2016). She was coordinator of Chamber II Social and Humanities at the Interdisciplinary Area of CAPES (2011–2015). She was co-editor of the journal Psicologia & Sociedade (2008–2011) and joined the National Directorate of Brazilian Society of Social Psychology (Associação Brasileira de Psicologia Social– ABRAPSO—1992–1993; 2010–2011; 2012–2013). She develops research and extension projects on the following topics: ethical relations, aesthetic and creative processes; social psychology and art; aesthetic education; methodological issues. A complete CV can be found here: http://buscatextual.cnpq.br/ buscatextual/visualizacv.do?id=K4723197E4

Embodied Walls and Extended Skins: Exploring Mental Health Through Tataus and Graffiti Jamie Mcphie

We have to reject the age-old assumptions that put the body in the world and the seer in the body, or, conversely, the world and the body in the seer as in a box. Where are we to put the limit between the body and the world, since the world is flesh? (Merleau-Ponty, 1968, p. 138)

Curtis (2004) and Prior (1993) suggest that understandings of mental health are socially and culturally constructed, are based on value judgments, and are the result of products of thought and social practices. Additionally, in normative versions of mental health, somatic and mental/psychological realms appear to be purposefully split, as if mental was something other than physical. This chapter is a philosophical diffraction away from that model, more akin to an aesthetic1 exploration of mental health (using tattoos/tataus and graffiti to illustrate my point), something I call, “environ(mental) health.” This infers that mental

J. Mcphie (*) University of Cumbria, Carlisle, UK © The Author(s) 2017 S.H. Awad, B. Wagoner (eds.), Street Art of Resistance, Palgrave Studies in Creativity and Culture, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-63330-5_10

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health is an embodied physical process that is spread in—and always already immanent of—the environment rather than “merely” in the head (Mcphie, 2014a).

Prologue Our visual organic skin creates an illusory belief that that is where we end and the rest of the environment begins. Yet inorganic skin is permeable. The verisimilitude of Western conceptions of organic skin tampers with the state’s empathy and ethical judgments when it comes to perceptions of graffiti or tags. It does this by imagining or projecting the idea that certain graffiti and (especially) tags2 are simple antisocial acts of vandalism or absent-minded disobedience to authority that are completely disembodied and detached from the “perpetrator” or discounting any notion that our mental health may be related, in some way, to the inscriptions (as mental is not even conceived as physical and so not as vital as the organic body). Also, if it is “sold” as this, it means that it is much easier to control, remove, or even assimilate under the capitalist, corporate, and/or state appropriation of space and subjectivity (bodies). Some graffiti are whitewashed over—yet another, homogenized type of graffiti (although I’m positive that the whitewasher would disagree)—whilst other forms of graffiti are approved, funded, and assimilated into the state machine by adopting them in order to control them and the ideas they may encourage, a branded form of art that tames rather than questions, traces rather than maps, and is linear rather than diffractive. However, this is nothing less than a form of dermabrasion (forcibly removing a tatau), a violation of our extended inorganic, topological3 skin; our body.

The Death of the ‘True Self’ Materials are always flowing in and out of perceived boundaries and therefore can never be a solid, unchangeable mass perfectly chunked as a “1”. Any attempt to measure it as a “1” will always produce out-of-date results. Hence, it is more productive to focus on the temporal relations of

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supposed objects-subjects, rather than measuring them as static and isolated organs/things, discrete and bound by their skins. Carol Taylor (2013) explains that from Gilles Deleuze’s philosophical perspective: [T]he individual does not possess a “self ” which exists as a separable entity with a stable ego, people are not divisible into interior and exterior components, and neither do they possess internal will or agency to motivate external action. To think so is an illusion derived from Enlightenment rationality. Instead, Deleuze proposes, subjectivities are multiplicities, subjects are characterised by flows of forces, intensities and desires, and individuals are continually being formed through a process of “dynamic individuation” (Deleuze & Parnet, 1987: 93) from which the changing “self ” as an assemblage, a connective multiplicity, emerges. (pp. 46–47)

In this sense, concepts such as, mental health and well-being become something different when we consider our-selves as multiplicities or haecceities.4 Many objective and subjective measurements of certain concepts, such as happiness, well-being, nature, and mental health, seem to treat these concepts as isolated certainties that supposedly reveal to the transcendent researcher a knowable truth. “Plato said, ‘we must carve nature at its joints’ (Phaedrus 265d-266a, in Hutchins, 2010, p. 705) but where are its joints?” (Mcphie & Clarke, 2015, p. 245). Gregory Bateson (2000) saw the problems inherent in the Platonic “nature carving” frenzy and posited that by doing so, we may omit important information as “the mental world—the mind—the world of information processing—is not limited by the skin” (p. 460). Anthropologist Tim Ingold takes Bateson’s claims even further, positing that it is the organism itself that is not limited by the skin (2011, p. 86). Walther and Carey (2009) point out that modernist thought in traditional psychiatric, psychoanalytic, and psychotherapeutic practice, postulates the notion of a “true self,” implying that beneath our experiences lies a core set of structures that drive our sense of self. Yet, the mental world cannot be separated from the environment that it is ultimately of (not a part of ). Karen Barad (2007) asserts, “[w]e do not obtain knowledge by standing outside the world; we know because ‘we’ are of the world” (p.  185). Therefore, we could conceive of our mental health as our

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e­ nvironment’s health (not just a part of it) as we are of the world’s continuous physical morphing.

From Euclidean Topography to “Fluid” Topology More than the instant, I want its flow. (Lispector, 2014, p. 10)

If, as I am advancing, mental health is, indeed, a transcranial/transcorporeal process, rather than a bounded topographical5 phenomena that we can measure (objectively) in an isolated vacuum (e.g., as a malformation or malfunction within an individually insulated self), what does this understanding mean, or rather do? Following Fraser (1989), Fisher and Freshwater (2013) point out that if “individuals are simply ‘docile bodies’ constituted through the effects of power, this leaves no room for resistance to power” (pp. 3–4). Freshwater (2006) proposes that “definitions of mental illness…are spoken into existence according to the values and beliefs that shape the discourse about what is ‘normal’ and ‘abnormal’, or ‘natural’ and ‘unnatural’” (p. 56) and as such “the labels that define people as mentally ill arguably have no reality independent of the discourse of the society in which they occur” (Fisher & Freshwater, 2013, p. 8). In light of these pathology-orientated perspectives, Adelson (2000) urges us to “rethink—rather than be constrained by—the framework of Western biology” (p. 6). We must attend to the “skin not as a barrier-boundary but as a porous, permeable sensorium of connectivity with/in a universe of dynamic co-constitutive and differential becomings” (Taylor, 2016, p. 15). So, I will attempt to break free from the Cartesian trap of self-other or nature-culture dichotomies that reify transcendent and static modes of thought and practice regarding notions of self, agency, and mental health.

 xploring Environ(Mental) Health Through Tataus E and Graffiti in Liverpool [I]n the same way that we cannot restrict the constitution of a painting to its local physical boundaries we cannot restrict the constitution of a person to their skin. (Pepperell, 2011, p. 117)

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Act 1—Tataus Tattoo comes from “tatau,” a Samoan/Tahitian word for mark. When observing tataus for the first time in Samoa, Sir Joseph Banks, Captain James Cook’s science officer and botanist, wrote, “[e]veryone is marked thus in different parts of his body accordingly maybe to his humour or different circumstances of his life…” (Willsher, 2014, p.  24, emphasis added). In 1902, “Century Dictionary” described tattoos as “found on sailors and uncivilized people or as a sentence of punishment” (Harper, 2017a emphasis added). Thus, tattoos behave differently according to varying spatial and temporal contexts. They can also act as part of an extended cognitive process, as exemplified in the film Memento (Nolan, 2000), where the hero tattoos himself, takes annotated Polaroids, and makes notes as a way of externalizing his memory (and, as such, continues to acquire new knowledge) as a result of his anterograde amnesia, which prevents him from laying down new memories within his organic body (Clark, 2010). Percival (2014) suggests that skin “is the most intimate of boundaries,” a “membrane at the margin of your identity”, something that the ‘self ’ lies within: “Skin is the organ we wear on the outside as armour—a surface in a world of surfaces” (p. 15). Yet the skin is porous to the fluidity of mental health in the form of marks inscribed in a body of flesh. The skin is also permeable. Donna Haraway (1991) asks, “[w]hy should our bodies end at the skin, or include at best other beings encapsulated by skin?” (p. 178). Alternatively, Ahmed and Stacey (2001) propose “that skins do not necessarily end at their bodies” (p.  15). Andy Clark, co-­ author of the “Extended Mind Hypothesis,” explains that “mental states, including states of believing, [can] be grounded in physical traces that [remain] firmly outside the head” (Clark, 2010, p. 43), as exemplified in the film Memento (Nolan, 2000). Tattoos came up in conversation quite a few times within the ‘Walking in Circles’ (WiC)6 research group that I facilitated (see Mcphie, 2014b, 2015, 2016) and two tattoos in particular caught my attention as they were spoken about by the owners of them with more emotional elation than conversations surrounding them. So I chose to follow this line of

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affect. I’ll give you an example from one co-participant/co-researcher who named herself “Dolly.”7

Dolly “I got it six years ago […] It’s to represent me” (Dolly). Dolly is a boxer… this is who she is…and if you look more closely it’s not the only mark in that same place (Annotated Polaroid 1). “Prosser shows how these ‘skin autobiographies’ are cathartic; they recover a skin ego that is damaged in the original skin memory. Skin

Annotated Polaroid 1: Tataus

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memories are hence re-memories; they are as layered as skin itself ” (Ahmed & Stacey, 2001, p. 10). This layering, similar to Dolly’s tataus (both sets of marks), is a palimpsest of environmental stratum. Her tatau is a co-creation of who Dolly is: “it’s who I wanted to be, what I wanted to be but I couldn’t, I wasn’t allowed” (Dolly). Tataus are a form of mapping, what is co-created and co-produced from “different circumstances of people’s lives.” Dolly stated that boxing is “the one thing in my life that I did that I enjoyed, that I enjoy […] I do it three times a week […] I’ve been boxing for over ten years, I’m not very good at it but I like doing it” (Dolly). When I asked why, she replied, “because when you’ve got bipolar and your brain’s stressed out, it clears your mind. I need it. If I didn’t have it, I’d go mad” (Dolly). However, her trainer said she wasn’t allowed to box professionally because of her body scars (Annotated Polaroid 1), a sign of her mental ill health. “That’s why I’m not as good as I could be,” she said, “because they wouldn’t let me box professionally” (Dolly). I asked if she was upset about that. “I’m gutted! I think it should be up to me […] they won’t even let me spar, it’s what I wanted to do” (Dolly). Dolly was bullied throughout school because of her sexual orientation. She ended up getting into street fights most weekends, even throughout her twenties. She still gets abuse to this day and she is now in her thirties. Boxing seemed like the obvious thing to do. However, when her boxing trainer saw her scars on her skin and found out she had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder, he showed her the rule book and refused to let her box professionally or even spar in the ring. Dolly feels it is unfair that this decision was made for her just because someone else has decided that it is best for her own health. Dolly’s tatau is an attempt to create new memories over existing ones as a palimpsest. It is both a celebration of who she is and a form of resistance and it is embedded in her skin, embodied but also externalized and porous. Yet, she has been labeled, territorialized, and therefore rendered incapable of being allowed to make her own decisions by the very same process that was put in place to supposedly benefit her mental health. So, it remains a boxing match for her, although she is not even allowed in the ring, as that is for the professionals (boxing and health professionals). In a study undertaken in Chicago in the USA, Sarah Gehlert exposed ‘ to cause disease, illustrated with the disparity in mortality from ­aggressive

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premenopausal breast cancer suffered by black women” (Gehlert et al., 2008, p. 339). In this study, breast cancer in black women was brought on by exhausted cortisol and linked to living in disadvantaged neighborhoods (as opposed to healthier white women living in socially advantaged neighborhoods where rates of breast cancer were lower), emphasizing how “social–environmental conditions,” such as ethnic disparity, were associated with physical health outcomes (Gehlert et al., 2008). In this way, mental health must be seen as an ecologically distributed physical process that permeates the skin, like a tattoo, and is therefore highly political. These diverse approaches to thinking about the skin as a boundary-object, and as the site of exposure or connectedness, invite the reader to consider how the borders between bodies are unstable and how such borders are already crossed by differences that refuse to be contained on the “inside” or the “outside” of bodies. (Ahmed & Stacey, 2001, p. 2)

Michel Foucault’s notion of the political status of the human body suggests that “power relations have an immediate hold on it; they invest it, mark it, train it, torture it, force it to carry out tasks” (Foucault, 1995, p. 25, emphasis added). As the most deeply inscribed tattoo, when speaking of suicide bombers, Gayatri Spivak said, “[s]uicidal resistance is a message inscribed in the body when no other means will get through” (Spivak, 2004, p. 96, cited in Amar, 2011, p. 316). Although on a very different scale, I would say the same for Dolly’s tatau. When oppression is forced upon us and control taken away by denying us accessibility, we may go to what is considered extreme measures to empower ourselves. Sometimes that empowerment is inscribed in/on/of our body if we are denied social, intellectual, or political accessibility.

Rape City Now compare Dolly’s tatau to this graffiti (Annotated Polaroid 2) photographed in Liverpool by another member of the WiC group, BurnsBrightSilver (BBS):

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Annotated Polaroid 2: Rape City

For whatever reason this graffiti was recorded here on this wall (at the entrance to a pedestrian subway), it is still an inscription in a skin, a narrative in the flesh of the city (an extension of our-selves). A few of us (from the WiC assemblage) had an immediate affective response to this. That is its narrative power, its plot. It accosts the eyes with a certain dark aesthetic. Its horrific message is just left to dribble into your thoughts, your physical mind, your mental health. Its suggestive and associative power creates a disturbing scenario: people (perhaps including the person who wrote this) in this city have been raped8 and someone has extended a cut from their own flesh to this urban skin, a sort of dermatological ­testimony.

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Someone’s body-text has been topologically extended. This is a tatau in a very literal sense. The affect portrayed in this message is empathized through BBS’s own inscriptions in their journal, another skin (Note 1). 9 Sept, 1.45: Walked through a cold tunnel with the wording Rape City. Suddenly the sun went in too. How crazy at the end of a tunnel from Rape City was another sign saying “welcome to the pleasure room”. I’m never going to live in Liverpool.

Note 1: BBS’s journal entry. BBS was a submarine engineer but had a serious head injury and as a consequence had to undertake a lot of therapy, such as cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT) and eye movement desensitization and reprocessing (EMDR), owing to post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). BBS identified with “the bear house” (Annotated Polaroid 3). Like the notes, tataus and graffiti, the photos themselves reveal something of us that may be shared with others. Now it is on this page, another skin (skin of a tree, if you’re reading this in a book). The journals, cameras, photos, tataus, and walls (all skins) seem to be co-conspirators in what appears to be a kind of “agential assemblage” (after Bennett, 2010). This is not to say that humans cannot exert a form of agency by themselves as they were/are never “by themselves” to begin with.9 Humans are always already a multiplicity of many phenomena (microbes, our parents, fungal mycelium, stone, concepts, Plato, Jean-­ Claude Van Damme, the Internet, etc.). Karen Barad (2007) insists that objects do not precede their “interaction” but emerge through specific “intra-actions.”10 This has important ramifications for mental health and well-being owing to the intra-relational roles that “things” play in our mental make-up.

Anti-Oedipus Deleuze and Guattari (2004) rejected the Freudian model of psychodynamics, which, they argued, “distracted attention from the material causes of oppression in society and was complicit in that oppression by suggesting that the roots of neurosis and the source of its cure were s­ymbolic

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Annotated Polaroid 3: The Bear House

rather than material” (Fox & Ward, 2008). Yet, aren’t Dolly’s, whoever inscribed “rape city,” and BBS’s tataus—etched into these skins—material rather than merely symbolic? Rather than interpreting Dolly’s or BBS’s diagnosed mental health “issues” as if in an isolated vacuum or against a normative model/standard (so that “we” can then attempt to “fix” them as a static and essentialized psychological subject among objects), we could instead/also look to the physically political, social, spatial, and temporal structures, for example, as well as the perceptual, conceptual, and affective power structures (still physical) in Liverpool and ask, what coemerges from the meshwork when an assemblage is formed? This is especially poignant if, as Clark (1997) tells us, “cognition emerges from the interaction between brain, body and the environment.”

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Deleuze and Guattari (2004) proposed that “each individual is an infinite multiplicity, and the whole of Nature is a multiplicity of perfectly individuated multiplicities” (p. 280) and therefore, “[c]limate, wind, season, hour are not of another nature than the things, animals, or people that populate them, follow them, sleep and awaken with them” (p. 290). These political, social, materially cognitive spaces are made up of stuff. We are made up of the same stuff. In fact, as the stuff we are made up of changes all the time (as many cells are completely (re)generated within our lifetimes), then some of the very stuff of our immediate environment (including the tataud walls of the city) literally becomes us. This is a physical, ecological process. Manzotti (2008, n. p.) affirms, “The mind is larger, both in time and in space, than the body of the subject.” I agree that the mind is larger than the organic biological body (a socially constructed concept) but not the topological inorganic body. Perhaps this body that I speak of is the very same mind that Manzotti is speaking of. As the mind/body is a physical process, graffiti can be embodied into the self (or vice versa). Not only do the photons merge with us to reveal the picture on the wall, but the very thought of the graffiti is itself a relational ecological process and as such enacts a physical (trophic) cascade. In this way, we cognize with and/or through external components, from iPhones to walls. These cognizing human–object intra-actions are also interlaced with embodied memories.

Thinking with Stone Tataus are registers of what people have undergone in their lifetimes. Vegetal memories are not so different. “Whereas humans remember whatever has phenomenally appeared in the light, plants keep the memory of light itself ” (Marder, 2013, p. 156). Yet if animals and plants can remember (as the co-produced effects of an assemblage of things), then why not stone or concrete? The anthropocentric distinction between life and non-life here is apparent. In How Forests Think, Kohn (2013) describes the cognitive capacity of a forest as a collection of living beings but discounts in his theory of a “more than human anthropology” what he conceives as the “non-living,” such as stones: “life thinks; stones don’t”

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(Kohn, 2013, p. 100). Why should he do this? The forest is also made up of soil, rock, chemicals, and metals, as well as collections of materials that we call flora and fauna. These autopoietic conditions of “life” are also multiplicities of what we would call non-living materials. For example, Manuel De Landa (2005) highlights how granite, through its differing thresholds of crystallization, is “an instance of a meshwork […] a self-­ consistent aggregate” (p.  64). Oppermann (2013) exposes how recent research at the University of Glasgow has created life “from carbon-free, inorganic chemicals […] capable of self-replicating and evolving” (p. 58) and, as such, reveals that the mechanisms for life are not necessarily limited to basic bio-logical systems, “but instead are general phenomena, applicable to a wide range of systems of different nature” (Hannestad, 2013, p.  71). “This shows that defined as self-consistency or self-­ determining capacity, agency exists beyond the biological world, even in synthetic matter, which exhibits astonishing creativity and can be considered emblematic of storied matter.” (Oppermann, 2013, p. 58). Architect Fernandez-Galiano suggests that the material world remembers just as we do; “just as our pasts shape who we are in the present” (Tiessen, 2007, para. 5). Philippe Descola’s review of Eduardo Kohn’s book explains: “But the stones upon which I stumble ‘do things’ in the world, so does an image of the Virgin, radioactivity, a sundial, and many other ‘lifeless’ and ‘thoughtless’ objects” (Descola, 2014, p. 271). So, why stop at the epidermis of flora and fauna? What is so special and encompassing about skin and bark when it comes to physically embodied memory? “To tell a story with stone is intensely to inhabit that preposition with, to move from solitary individuations to ecosystems, environments, shared agencies, and companionate properties” (Cohen, 2015, pp.  11–12). And if “the mind” can be extended into a stony environment, why not “the body,” especially if we have begun the process of deconstructing the mind–body fallacy to highlight the physical, material nature of what we may have previously thought of as mind, agency, the psyche, or mental health? After all, the mind was invented by the body. Therefore, we think with stone, concrete, and graffiti. It is the assemblage that thinks. And as stone is already a temporal assemblage in its own right, at least in a non-biological sense, stone itself may be granted agency and cognition of a sort.11 In other words, “[i]t is not so much that

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o­ rganisms are not alive, but that life can be articulated in all things” (Dema, 2007, para. 1).

Act 2—Graffitti Tataus “Furthermore, as Jay Prosser argues […] skin remembers: skin surfaces record our personal biographies, however imperfectly” (Ahmed & Stacey, 2001, p. 2), including the skin of a city. I have physically inscribed my mind on these pages. They are an extension of my flesh, a way to remember. As a rather useful coincidence, the etymology of “member” comes from the Latin membrum, meaning “limb;” the Greek meninx, meaning “membrane;” Gothic mimz and Sanskrit mamsam meaning “flesh” (Harper, 2017b). In this sense, re-­ membering is literally an embodied act. It is a physical process immanent of a wider environment. My phone doesn’t just (re)mind me of the numbers, it is also my memory bank, an extended limb. The research, the photos, the graffiti, the journals, the iPhones, etc., are not merely objects that I relate to beyond my skin, they are physical extensions of me, extra-­ epi-­dermatological limbs where I co-exist and where the narrative of my mental health is inscribed. It certainly isn’t an emotionless inscription, just as many of these artworks, graffiti, tags and tataus in this edited book attest to. The etymology of skin reveals its kinship with an animal hyde (Old Norse, skinn), with tree bark (Dutch, schinde), with fruit peel (dialectal German, Schinde), and with fish scales (Breton, skant). Our world is brimming with rinds, with pelts, with shells. (Percival, 2014, p. 15)

Yet the human body extends far beyond the human organic dermis. Our true epi-dermis is topological. This understanding of a larger topological epidermis as the permeable border of our extended body means we can conceive of our mental health (and body) as physically fluctuating in and out (of place, space and time). When I asked why another member of the WiC group, Blondie, took so many photos of graffiti in Liverpool she replied, “I don’t see it as

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g­ raffiti, I see it as art” (Blondie). It is art, but it is also a form of bodily resistance in response to spaces of dominance (Annotated Polaroid 3).

Spaces of Dominance and Resistance Curtis (2010) notes that in the context of space, place, and mental health, “some of the supposed signs of incivility can also be read differently by certain observers and in certain settings” (p. 180). She goes on to use the example of graffiti where some images may be “interpreted as an expression for resistance to authority” (Annotated Polaroids 3 and 4) yet others may “have a less threatening aspect” (Annotated Polaroids 3 and 4), concluding that “signs and symbols by which environments may be ‘read’ as ‘safe’ or ‘insecure’ are contingent on the characteristics of the individual observer” (Curtis, 2010, p. 180). We bring different embodied memories with us, which then mingle with the environment to co-produce other

Annotated Polaroid 4: Love

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events or extensions of ourselves, such as tattoos or graffiti. If we have been oppressed, or empathize with those who are oppressed, and enter an opportunistic space to express or reveal an aesthetics of resistance, we might just take that opportunity. Yet, “the characteristics of the individual observer” also mean that the graffiti are interpreted in myriad ways by the spectator, or as Augusto Boal (1979) put so concisely, the “spect-­ actor,” as we co-create the story when we intra-act with the aesthetic productions. For example, Annotated Polaroids 3 and 4 could be interpreted as resistance or passivity depending on the “spect-actor”-graffiti-artist assemblage. Curtis (2010) explains that “psychological wellbeing and the experience of mental illness are closely bound up with social relationships involving power and control in places that can be characterised as ‘spaces of dominance’ or ‘spaces of resistance’” (p. 181). These spaces were evident in our (WiC) meanderings yet they weren’t merely “bound up with social relationships” as the architecture and flesh of the body (the city and arm or city as arm) played/plays a role in the narratives of personal mental health and well-being (Annotated Polaroid 1). The patriarchal power exerted from/through particular flags, statues, and imposing architecture of the physical space in many urban environments highlights the political materiality that can so easily become infused with the permeability of the skin to touch the mental health and well-being of an unsuspecting pedestrian. Sometimes these spaces of dominance and resistance become merged. That is when the trouble begins. For example, there have been incidents involving the tagging over of various Paleolithic cave paintings. This has led to outrage by authorities as it is considered vandalism. But aren’t cave paintings also graffiti/tags? Eickmier (2017, para. 2) asserts that “humans for thousands of years have made works of art in public spaces” and “the thing they do say is ‘We were here. We existed!’” Minds are permeable, physical processes that are susceptible to the most outrageous conceptual practices as long as they are normalized and standardized. This is a capitalist production (and corporate appropriation) of subjectivity and if you don’t fit in or comply, you may be oppressed, excluded, or disempowered. People are imprisoned for trying to make their mark in the flesh of the earth, sometimes because they feel

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disempowered and it may be the only way they feel they can be heard. If spaces are privatized, for example, you may not be able to protest, play music, sing, dance, or even sleep, sit, or shit (as is the case for many homeless people). If graffiti is banned, you may not be able to express your views or your “self.” If you have something (or someone) that you care about taken away from you and yet you cannot be heard because your platform or canvas has been confiscated, where do you make your mark? In your skin? How deep within your body does your tatau have to go before it complies with the regulatory body of your big brother? This is mental health and well-being.

Dermabrasion Inhuman agency undermines our fantasies of sovereign relation to environment, a domination that renders nature “out there,” a resource for recreation, consumption and exploitation. (Cohen, 2015, p. 9)

Removing graffiti from walls is a form of dermabrasion and yet is a palimpsest at the same time. It is graffiti upon graffiti, two very different types of art. Thought of by the state as order (Apollonian) over chaos (Dionysian), when it could also be dominance over resistance. One of them is a tatau (space of resistance and deterritorialization) for some, the other a transfer (space of dominance and reterritorialization), yet both are territorializations of some sort. This legal form of graffitiing over cave paintings and urban graffiti is also a dermabrasion–palimpsest hybrid. It is, however, sometimes interpreted as more justified and socially acceptable than the initial graffiti based on an aesthetics of dominance, neatness, and control (what Deleuze call’s striated space). Graffiti dermabrasion is not only a form of political censorship, but also a form of bodily restriction where the state machine imposes its dream of homogenization on the flesh of the city, our extended skin. It aids and abets in the capitalist production of subjectivity through the control of space and the bodies enmeshed within it. Yet, if those marks are made on another individual’s house—their extended home-skin—the scarring can deliver an e­ motional impact just as deeply as the expressions inscribed by the artist and so the political topology becomes ever more complex.

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Affect sometimes gets lodged in the porosity of the skin and co-emerges as a tatau. The same can be said for graffiti. The wall that the graffiti is enacted on is an outer layer of epidermis, one that isn’t necessarily carried around with us (as concrete/brick, at least), yet sometimes is just as painful to inscribe (e.g. Rape City). The walls of flesh afford the opportunity to inscribe and extend an embodied memory, to express, to resist, or to ask a poignant question. This elementary principle of prosthesis and prosthetic projection animates the whole technological universe […] the human organic mass, the body, is the first manufacturer of technology in that it seeks for organic extension of itself first through tools, weapons, and artifacts, then through language, the ultimate prosthesis. (Braidotti, 1994, p. 44).

The prostheses of language, concrete and skin are like your precious iPhone, an assemblage of an extended mind (or self ) that affords more efficient intra-actions of the world by externalizing embodied memory, as well as cognition; an extended body. Therefore, this dermabrasion is a form of grievous bodily harm (GBH), which, by-the-way, is an offense!

Epilogue: An Extended Body Hypothesis (EBH) Karen Barad (2012) protests “we tend to think about causality and questions of agency in terms of either determinism on the one hand, or free will on the other” but reasons “agency is not something possessed by humans, or non-humans for that matter. It is an enactment. And it enlists, if you will, ‘non-humans’ as well as ‘humans’” (pp.  54–55). Therefore, we may also need an updated conception of the body.

Organic Skin Organic skin is the bio-logical dermatology of human invention, comprised of taxa and classifications and derived from the Linnaeus tree of knowledge and taxonomy (Mcphie & Clarke, 2015, p. 236). It believes

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there is such a thing as inanimacy, order, and hierarchy within a pre-­ ordained eco-logical system that places “man” on top of “the” food chain, the one we learn about in school. This medicalized body has a long bloody history that Michel Foucault (2003) elegantly deconstructed to highlight its obvious historicization and oppressive consequences in the race to gather “the world of objects to be known” (p. x), some of which were organs. Foucault (2003) asks, “[i]s the law governing the spatialization of these phenomena to be found in a Euclidean anatomy?” and proffers “[e] very great thought in the field of pathology lays down a configuration for disease whose spatial requisites are not necessarily those of classical geometry” (p. 3). He goes on to highlight “the privileges accorded to pathological anatomy,” “the visible lesions of the organism,” and “the coherence of pathological forms” (Foucault, 2003, p. 4). Hans Jonas (1966) suggested that “the organic even in its lowest forms prefigures mind, and […] mind even on its highest reaches remains part of the organic” (p. 1). Rather than view cognition as a biological phenomenon, why not conceive of “the mind [as] an idea of the body” (Dolphijn & van der Tuin, 2012, p. 48)? We could focus on the inorganic body as opposed to the organic bio-logical body.

Topological Skin Topological skin is not opposed to organic skin, it is an enhancement, albeit one that alters the traditional conceptions (and practices) undertaken with the biological model. Unlike organic skin (a topographical atlas), we participate with topological skin (a Moebius strip) as we travel along its immeasurable lines of continual, untearable physical space. This new topology involves “a movement across bodies” where we imagine “human corporeality as trans-corporeality, in which the human is always intermeshed with the more-than-human world” as “the substance of the human is ultimately inseparable from ‘the environment’” (Alaimo, 2010, p.  2). Dolly’s tatau and the various graffiti exampled throughout this book make this obvious. “The shapes of objects can change through twisting or stretching them, and topologists ask: what are the object’s properties that remain intact? In these deformations, tearing is not

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allowed” (Braungardt, 2016, para. 1). If tearing is not allowed, what does it do when an attempt at tearing is made (dermabrasion)?

Inorganic Skin …the organism is that which life sets against itself in order to limit itself, and there is a life all the more intense, all the more powerful for being inorganic. (Deleuze & Guattari, 1987, p. 503)

This epilogue, an Extended Body Hypothesis (EBH), is topological dermatology. The physical body is extended and distributed in time and space conceptually, perceptually, and affectively. Our topological, inorganic skin is able to “plug in and out of a variety of assemblages” (after Deleuze and Guattari) and is therefore permeable. Our “organic skin” is merely porous. Yet these two varieties of skin are both physical processes and could be thought of as “of ” our bodies. It also infers that we might blur the illusory boundaries that we have surrounded ourselves with if we wish to inquire as to what mental health actually is, how it manifests itself, and what it does. Our embodied minds are open to penetration from an array of invading forces, often expressed in visually accessible spaces through dermatological artistry, like Dolly’s tatau, BBS’s photos, or the graffiti in this book (or the book itself ). Topological skin is “inorganic” and yet, following the words of Dema (2007), all the more alive for being so. The body is enmeshed in/through a tapestry of political, social, environmental, and ultimately material forces that have shaped, molded, mutated, and morphed it into the neatly packaged organic skin we perceive (it) in. But in reality, it is always already been a topological process. We (in the West, at least) have simply forgotten this (process-relational) immanent externalism. One can say that we perceive the things themselves, that we are the world that thinks itself—or that the world is at the heart of our flesh. In any case, once a body-world relationship is recognized, there is a ramification of my body and a ramification of the world and a correspondence between its inside and my outside, between my inside and its outside. (Merleau-Ponty, 1968, p. 136)

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Perhaps a stark realization is necessary in order to break the Cartesian mind-body illusion that has so dominated Western notions of mental health, one that McGann and Cummins (2013) put straightforwardly: “there is no coherent domain of mental health. There is health: the health of cells, of bodies, of families, of football teams, and of nations” (p. 1). BBS knew this all too well when he emailed me: The man behind BBS: Burnsbrightsilver…A man fighting a 2000 day war, a man lost in trauma of a “Traumatic brain injury” but he must be fine isn’t he? There is no limp, wheel chair, he can walk, feed himself, work, yes but the catastrophic wake of a head injury is often silent and only real to the man behind the injury. (BBS, email to Jamie)

Institutions that cater for the taboo of mental ill health, within the unseen and “silent” mind, are underfunded compared to physical ill health because it is not thought of as physical, as of the body. “Is he really ill or just wanting attention?” they say. But “[i]f the concept of ‘mind’ does not stand in opposition to the concept of ‘body’, then there is little justification for distinguishing between ‘mental’ and ‘physical’ health” (McGann & Cummins, 2013, p.  2). In their concluding remarks, McGann and Cummins state: Questions of health are not independent from questions of systemic values and the shifting boundaries of system identity, where the systems in question may range from the sub-cellular to the societal. There is thus no domain of mental health. There are questions of health, period. (2013, p. 4)

“The mind” and “mental health” may be better placed in our literature and practice as an extended body that may include an assortment of material processes to contribute to its agential assemblage. Graffiti and tattoos aren’t simply inert gloss or decoration on a wall, arm, or ankle to look at and create meaning from. We think through them. Like the hero in the film Memento, the tattoos, notes, and Polaroid photos form an integral part of our embodied memories. They are of the extended neuronal web that forms what we think of as “us.” They are also

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our physical mind. They participate with us in what Pickering or Ingold (2013) might call a “dance of animacy.” They don’t merely share with us an agency, they are of our agency. They are of our body, an extended flesh. Our visual organic skin creates an illusory and false belief that that is where we end and the rest of the environment begins. Mental health and agency are co-produced and distributed in the relations between things. Therefore, the body itself becomes topologically spread of the environment. Put another way, we are the environment in its very becoming.

Notes 1. From the Greek, aisthētikos, referring to perception by means of the senses. 2. “Tagging is arguably the most prevalent type of Graffiti and cities all over the world have passed laws with strict fines often accompanied by community service-hours that offender’s spend cleaning up graffiti.” Eickmier, (2017, para. 5). 3. Topology refers to stretchable spatial relations rather than linear geometrical measurements. 4. The concept “haecceity” was coined by the medieval philosopher Duns Scotus to mean a “nonpersonal individuation of a body” (Bonta & Protevi, 2004, p. 94); in other words, a things “thisness”. 5. “‘Topography’ is defined in Cassell’s Concise English Dictionary as: ‘the detailed description of particular places; representation of local features on maps, etc.; the artificial features of a place or district; the mapping of the surface or the anatomy of particular regions of the body’” (Murdoch, 2006, p. 12). 6. The WiC inquiry group used collaborative action research to explore how our perceptions of a variety of environments might alter or influence our moods, stress levels, mental health, and well-being. Other than myself, the group consisted of six co-participants/co-researchers, each with a specific diagnosed mental health condition, mostly recruited from a therapeutic community garden. The inquiry consisted of a series of trips to a variety of environments (almost one every month), democratically chosen by the WiC group, followed a couple of weeks later by focus group meetings, giving me enough time to layer and edit the empirical

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materials (video interviews, photos, journals, notes) so that we could analyze them together. 7. Pseudonyms were chosen by the co-participants/co-researchers of this study. 8. According to the Office for National Statistics (2013, 2015) England has one of the highest rates of rape in the world and cases of reported rape are on the rise. However, according to the Ministry of Justice, Office for National Statistics and Home Office, ‘Only around 15% of those who experience sexual violence choose to report to the police’ (Rapecrisis, 2016, para. 1). Although I could find no recent report to compare UK cities, in 2006, Liverpool had a statistical “city crime average” for reported cases of rape (Gibbs & Haldenby, 2006, p. 34). 9. “The two of us wrote Anti-Oedipus together. Since each of us was several, there was already quite a crowd” (Deleuze & Guattari, 2004, p. 3). 10. “Barad (2003) coined the term ‘intra-action’ to replace ‘inter-action’ in order to highlight that agencies do not precede encounters, but rather that agency emerges from the relationships between components” (Poole, 2015, p. 862). 11. “Some stones have been discovered to walk, slide, or sail! A number of stones at Racetrack Playa, Death Valley, California, have been documented (Reid et al., 1995) as sailing across the desert floor, leaving trails like snails behind them, criss-crossing in varying directions depending on their destination. Rather like plants creeping around when played back on video at high speed, rocks also begin to become more overtly animated and slither around. The illusion of time deceives us all” (Mcphie & Clarke, 2015, pp. 242–243).

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Harper, D. (2017b) Member. Online Etymology Dictionary. Retrieved from http://www.etymonline.com/word/member Hutchins, E. (2010). Cognitive ecology. Topics in Cognitive Science, 2, 705–715. Cited in Mcphie, J., & Clarke, D.  A. G. (2015). A walk in the park: Considering practice for outdoor environmental education through an immanent take on the material turn. The Journal of Environmental Education, 46(4), 230–250. Ingold, T. (2011). Being alive: Essays on movement, knowledge and description. Oxon: Routledge. Ingold, T. (2013). Making: Anthropology, archaeology, art and architecture. Oxon: Routledge. Jonas, H. (1966). The phenomenon of life: Toward a philosophical biology. New York: Harper Collins. Kohn, E. (2013). How forests think: Toward an anthropology beyond the human. Berkeley and Los Angeles, CA: University of California Press. Lispector, C. (2014). Agua viva. London: Penguin Classics. Manzotti, R. (2008). A process oriented externalist solution to the hard problem. (Comic Strip). Retrieved from http://www.consciousness.it/Manzotti/Index. htm Marder, M. (2013). Plant-thinking: A philosophy of vegetal life. New  York: Columbia University Press. McGann, M., & Cummins, F. (2013). No mental; health. Conference Publication. Retrieved from http://cspeech.ucd.ie/Fred/docs/NoMentalHealth.pdf Mcphie, J. (2014a). Mr Messy and the Ghost in the machine: A tale of becoming…a working-class academic (researching environ(mental) health). Rhizomes, 27. Mcphie, J. (2014b). Walking in circles? Exploring environ(mental) health creatively. Paper presented at Under Western Skies Conference, Mount Royal University, Calgary, AB, Canada, 9–12 September. Mcphie, J. (2015). Place, perception and, placebo: The healing power of nature. In C. L. Norton, C. Carpenter, & A. Pryor (Eds.), Adventure therapy around the globe: International perspectives and diverse approaches (pp.  552–570). Champaign, IL: Common Ground Publishing. Mcphie, J. (2016). Walking in circles: We are of the world, not connected to it. EarthLines, 15, 49–51. Mcphie, J., & Clarke, D. A. G. (2015). A walk in the park: Considering practice for outdoor environmental education through an immanent take on the material turn. The Journal of Environmental Education, 46(4), 230–250. https://doi.org/10.1080/00958964.2015.1069250.

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Merleau-Ponty, M. (1968). The visible and the invisible (C. Lefort, Ed., A. Lingis, Trans.). Evanston: Northwestern University Press. Murdoch, J. (2006). Post-structuralist geography. London, Thousand Oaks and New Delhi: Sage Publications. Nolan, C. (Dir.). (2000). Memento. USA: Summit Entertainment/Team Todd. Opperman, S. (2013). Material ecocriticism and the creativity of storied matter. Frame, 26(2), 55–69. Pepperell, R. (2011). Art and extensionism. In R. Manzotti (Ed.), Situated aesthetics: Art beyond the skin (pp. 107–122). Exeter, UK: Imprint Academic. Percival, R. (2014). Membranes. In S. Blackie & D. Knowles (Eds.), Earthlines (Vol. 10, pp. 13–18). Poole, K. (2015). The contextual cat: Human–animal relations and social meaning in Anglo-Saxon England. Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory, 22(3), 857–882. Prior, L. (1993). The social organisation of mental illness. London: Sage. Rapecrisis. (2016). Statistics. Retrieved from http://rapecrisis.org.uk/statistics.php Reid, J. B., Bucklin, E. P., Copenagle, L., Kidder, J., Pack, S. M., Polissar, P. J., & Williams, M.  L. (1995). Sliding rocks at the Racetrack, Death Valley: What makes them move? Geology, 23(9), 819–822. Cited in Mcphie, J., & Clarke, D. A. G. (2015). A walk in the park: Considering practice for outdoor environmental education through an immanent take on the material turn. The Journal of Environmental Education, 46(4), 230–250. Spivak, G. (2004). Terror: A speech after 9–11. Boundary, 1(2), 81–111. Taylor, C. (2013). Mobile sections and flowing matter in participant-generated video: Exploring a Deleuzian approach to visual sociology. In R. Coleman & J. Ringrose (Eds.), Deleuze and research methodologies (pp. 42–60). Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Taylor, C.  A. (2016). Edu-crafting a cacophonous ecology: Posthumanist research practices for education. In C.  A. Taylor & C.  Hughes (Eds.), Posthuman research practices in education (pp.  5–24). Basingstoke, UK: Palgrave Macmillan. The Office for National Statistics. (2013). An overview of sexual offending in England and Wales. Retrieved from http://webarchive.nationalarchives.gov. uk/20160105160709/https://www.gov.uk/government/statistics/an-overviewof-sexual-offending-in-england-and-wales The Office for National Statistics. (2015). Crime in England and Wales: Year ending June 2015. Sexual Offences. Retrieved from http://www.ons.gov.uk/ peoplepopulationandcommunity/crimeandjustice/bulletins/crimeinenglan dandwales/2015-10-15#sexual-offences

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Tiessen, M. (2007). Accepting invitations: Desire lines as earthly offerings. Rhizomes, 15. Walther, S., & Carey, M. (2009). Narrative therapy, difference and possibility: Inviting new becomings. Context, 105, 3–8. Willsher, K. (2014, May 3). Exhibition traces our love of tattoos from Neolithic age to today. The Guardian. Retrieved from http://www.theguardian.com/ fashion/2014/may/03/exhibition-tattoos-neolithic-age-today Jamie Mcphie  is lecturer of cultural landscapes and aesthetics in the outdoors at the University of Cumbria, UK. He has recently completed a PhD on mapping the spread mind in environ(mental) health, a post-­qualitative rhizoanalysis of mental health and well-being. His research interests lie in therapeutic landscapes, environmental education, psychogeography, and philosophies of immanence such as New Materialisms, Contemporary Animism, and the New Science of the Mind/Situated Aesthetics. Published material includes book chapters such as, ‘Place, Perception and Placebo: The Healing Power of Nature(s). In Adventure Therapy around the Globe: International Perspectives and Diverse Approaches’ (Common Ground Publishing, 2015), ‘A Last Wolf in England: The Wolf ’s Tale’ (Dark Mountain 7, 2015), and a small host of articles in academic journals that include the Journal of Adventure Education & Outdoor Learning, Rhizomes.net, Environmental Education Research, and the Journal of Environmental Education. In 2011 he was presented with the ‘Excellence in Facilitating and Empowering Learning’ award at the University of Brighton. As a former performance artist, he has combined his interests in creativity and outdoor studies to incorporate creative approaches to outdoor education, philosophy, research, mental health, and environmental exploration (and occasional activism).

Indigenous Graffiti and Street Art as Resistance Matthew Ryan Smith

and we can all move on we can be reconciled except, i am graffiti. except, mistakes were made. – Leanne Simpson, i am graffiti (excerpt), 2015

The inscription of graffiti and street art by indigenous writers and artists onto rural and urban topographies enact strategies of resistance by radically critiquing settler colonialism. In August 2014, several graffiti writers and street artists, including Red Bandit, Tom GreyEyes, and Cam, converged upon Montreal, Canada, to participate in the first annual Decolonize Street Art event. This was no ordinary gathering of creatives; the textures of indigenous resistance were appended with critical graffiti and street art here. Decolonize The author asks the reader to observe that he is of Euro-Canadian descent.

M.R. Smith (*) Department of Visual Studies, University of Toronto Mississauga, Mississauga, ON, Canada © The Author(s) 2017 S.H. Awad, B. Wagoner (eds.), Street Art of Resistance, Palgrave Studies in Creativity and Culture, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-63330-5_11

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Street Art functions as a grassroots political organization funded by online crowd-sourcing and private donations that sponsors graffiti writers and street artists from Canada and abroad to create unsanctioned art interventions, engage in critical workshops, and speak-out during panel discussions. In the spirit of praxis, of social action in the public sphere, the organization calls attention to matters of (de)colonization, European imperialism, and survivance encountered by indigenous peoples of the Global North and South. Further, they provide an instructive model for how the aesthetic occupation of walls, street-­level activism, and mutual solidarity can perform a cacophony of “anti-­colonial resistance” (Decolonize Street Art, 2015). The following year, in 2015, graffiti writers and street artists who identify as indigenous or people of color assembled upon Montreal again—this time proceeding under the theme “Unceded Voices”—to emphasize the urban city’s physical encroachment on unceded Kanien’kehá:ka (Mohawk) territory, known to the Mohawk people as Tiohtià:ke. Indeed, the participants intended to stage an uncompromising reminder of who the land belongs to. Decolonize Street Art engineers gestures of protest that vehemently critique the sufferings of indigenous people living under settler colonialism and its damaging aftermath. “Unceded Voices” produced a myriad of collaborative and independent large-scale painted murals, ephemeral markings, transmedial street-level performances, and thrown-up wheatpaste stencils. Among these was Melanie Cervantes’s stencil works featuring the Americas rendered in fire-engine red and flanked by the text “TERRA INDIGENA” meaning “indigenous lands.” In her work, Cervantes underscores axioms that settler paradigms of land ownership are embedded in the occupation of stolen indigenous territory. Various other works uncompromisingly address how settler colonial governments are wholly responsible for the systemic and structural violence affecting indigenous women and girls today.1 Until only recently, newly appointed Prime Minister Justin Trudeau has called for a national public inquiry into murdered and missing indigenous women and girls in Canada, a policy measure that his predecessor Stephen Harper routinely and pathetically refused. Along these lines, Jessica Sabogal’s towering tri-color mural This Type Love (Fig. 1) represents a woman perched slightly above another woman who wears a backwards baseball cap scrolled with the words “Women are Perfect.” Presumably, the above figure is an allegory of Mother, who voices the aphorism written in bold French lettering “Our

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Fig. 1  Jessica Sabogal, This Type Love. Mural (2015). Montreal, Canada. Image courtesy of Jessica Sabogal

existence will no longer be silenced/We require no explanations, apologies or approval” to her kin. The mural’s mise-en-scène is suggestive of an intergenerational dialogue between indigenous women and girls more generally, whereby text and image operate as critical signifiers for positive self-affirmation. Images and descriptive text from “Unceded Voices” were later printed in a small publication of the same name; so while the ostensibly ephemeral works fall prey to the forces of entropy and erasure, the works continue to survive on paper.

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Walls play a seminal role in the political economy, particularly in matters of dissensus, whereby the status quo political apparatus is challenged by subaltern communities (c.f. Rancière, 2010; Reisner, 1971, p. viii; Spivak, 1994). The works of Cervantes and Sabogal, among several others, endeavor to snap random passersby out of their omnipresent submissiveness and desensitization to contemporary indigenous social concerns. As a result, they become implicated in the protracted and painful history of European colonialism in Canada and its hegemonic domination over Inuit, First Nations, and Métis peoples; more specifically, how the vectors of colonialism have produced—and continue to produce—conditions of cultural loss, intergenerational trauma, violence, suicide, destruction of land and resources, reservization, and racism encountered by indigenous peoples in Canada since Contact. According to some scholars, little has changed; North America is still very much a colonial society (Miner, 2015, p. 221). In order to better understand how this historical matrix constructs the oppositional politics espoused by scores of indigenous graffiti writers and street artists—whereby each inscription is executed with the spirit of resistance—necessitates an examination of how indigenous relations to settler colonialism remain desperately unresolved. In this chapter, I propose that indigenous graffiti and street art is interconnected with the political mobilization of indigenous groups who actively oppose the structural and systemic history of violence suffered by indigenous people through settler colonialism. Indigenous graffiti and street art works to destabilize colonial occupations of indigenous territory, thereby drawing attention to the ways that the existence of settler colonial infrastructure and architecture operates as material evidence of indigenous suffering. By attempting to reclaim the constructed spaces of colonialism through modes of socio-aesthetic intervention, I maintain that the work produced by indigenous graffiti writers and street artists unfold productive strategies of decolonization. These seemingly little marks carry large consequences for indigenous autonomy over unceded tribal territory. Elemental to this critical methodology is determining how colonial topographies, the indigenous body, and revolutionary subject matter enact strategies of resistance while reconceptualizing the nomenclature of capitalist public space. Readers should observe that I employ the terms graffiti and street art in a broad sense here to a­ cknowledge

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the post-graffiti condition, a term used to describe the expanded the field of graffiti production and the throng of approaches and styles that comprise graffiti production across the world today. Finally, my analysis raises questions about the radical potential of indigenous graffiti and street art to critique and delegitimize the oppressive social conditions forced upon indigenous people. In their attempts to redress such narratives, they strategize towards reclamation, renewal, and recovery.

Surface Marks, Deep Cuts The near-lack of critical literature on the subject of indigenous graffiti and street art yields substantial gaps in its historical narrative; however, more recently, it is drawing closer scrutiny by critics and scholars who deem it a powerful expression of indigenous socio-aesthetic circumstance (e.g., Farmer & Milos, 2012; Ignace, 2011; M.  Ignace & G.  Ignace, 2005; Martín, 2016; Ritter & Willard, 2012; Skenandore, 2016; Smith, 2015/2016). While an exhaustive ontological definition of graffiti and street art is currently being penned and negotiated, credence is given to the perception that graffiti discourse first appeared during the Western era of antiquity (McCormick, 2011).2 Inversely, the circuitous history of graffiti or “wall painting” far exceeds the extraordinarily tight—and undoubtedly Eurocentric—2000-year window stipulated for the earliest productions of what we deem graffiti. The co-optation of graffiti as a European phenomenon not only ignores the possibility of it existing elsewhere, but it also points to the proclivity of critics and scholars to claim graffiti as theirs, as elementally European in origin. Predating the graffiti of ancient Rome and Greece by tens of thousands of years, ancient tribal communities on Turtle Island (North America) marked their surroundings with pictographic and petroglyphic iconography, which tended to denote travel experiences, sacred visions, and the nuances of vernacular life (Ignace, 2011; Ritter & Willard, 2012). For curator Tania Willard, the graffiti “tag”—the autobiographical inscription of the writer’s chosen pseudonym—has become a metaphor for indigenous relationships to land. “The tag is really about marking the land […] We see that in ancient ways with pictographs and petroglyphs in our territory, marks that our

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ancestors made […] And we see it as well, today, in graffiti work. The tag really focuses on this continuum” (quoted in Ball, 2012). Graffiti is writing in communal space. In this context, the aesthetic vocabulary of pictographs and petroglyphs can be construed as some of the earliest occurrences of graffiti since each inherently makes use of topographical inscriptions and markings in tribal or public space. In recent years, indigenous graffiti writers and street artists have returned to the aesthetic and social potential of mark-making on urban and rural topographies as a way to (re)connect with the practices of the past. For N’laka’pamux graffiti writer and educator Chris Bose, the process of inscribing the land with colored pigment is also an intensely spiritual gesture that draws a transhistorical line between one’s ancestors and their descendants. For this reason, it is most sacred: I come from a nation where we wrote our dreams and visions on the rocks in sacred places. To me the land is sacred, all of it. We wrote pictographs before contact, and I’m doing my interpretation of pictographs after contact. Back then they painted about the animals, the seasons, ceremonies, and the people. I’m part of a continuation of that, and I paint about the land, the environment, the seasons, and the people as well, with or without permission. I still take paint with me when I go out in the bush, and when I find a good spot, I’ll paint pictographs or something new and fresh. I want to get…ochre and make my own pigments for projects on the land. I never tell anyone where I’ve done this. If someone finds it that’s cool; if not, that’s cool, too. (quoted in Smith, 2015/2016)

Not only is indigenous graffiti and street art political because it engages settler colonialism and its aftermaths, but because it continues the rich tradition of pictographic and petroglyphic representation employed by ancient tribal communities, a tradition that was historically suppressed and disavowed under the framework of colonialism. As Bose makes clear, his conception of (un)sanctioned pictographic graffiti fulfills a transmedial form of storytelling that indexically references the vernacular narrative of his life. This close relationship to the creative process once utilized by his ancestors is unquestionably sacred and worthy of preservation in the sense that it represents a spiritual practice connecting the artist to the land, to his tribe, and to earth-as-Mother. Because of the forced assimilation of indigenous people into settler society as

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part of government policy, particularly in Canada through the Residential School system, indigenous visual culture was under threat of erasure. The method of continuation-as-preservation whereby the creative process functions as an archive for indigenous histories is one of the ways that graffiti writers and street artists can resist the hegemonic regimes of representation introduced into indigenous visual culture by settler colonialism. Likewise, the objective of many contemporary indigenous graffiti writers, street artists, and visual artists is to modernize pictographic and petroglyphic techniques, designs, and symbols that protract tens of thousands of years to the present day. For instance, in 1998 visual artist and educator Marianne Nicolson from the Dzawada’enuxw Tribe of the Kwakwaka’wakw scaled a rock face in Kingcome Inlet, British Columbia, to paint an enormous pictographic mural dedicated to her ancestral village of Gwa’yi (Fig.  2). The pictograph represents a coded signifier of Gwa’yi tribal history that stages a space of remembrance and sense of solidarity to the local tribal community. It also serves as a beautiful and poignant honor to the suffering experienced by the Dzawada’enuxw people in their claim to traditional lands and hunting grounds threatened by colonial and capitalist encroachment. When asked how the work came into being Nicolson replied: Anyone coming into that territory cannot miss this large declaration of the land of these ancient relationships. That painting is of our original story, so to tie this back to our origin story, they say the beginning of time, which translate as when the waters receded and the land was revealed, that’s when our people arrived to this land. I wanted to privilege that perspective, I wanted to be very public, and I wanted it to be of strength to the community, because legally—especially when it came to our relationships to government and industry—it was extraordinarily inconvenient for us to have this little village in the middle of all this logging. We were basically inconvenient and in some ways almost nonexistent. That has shifted and changed somewhat in the last 20 years, but I wanted to make this strong political statement, and in recognition of the community, I was going to acknowledge our perspective and worldview. (quoted in Smith, 2016, pp. 68–69)

Incursions into traditional tribal lands by industry and the Canadian state, such as those occupied by the Dzawada’enuxw, through commercial

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Fig. 2  Marianne Nicolson, Cliff Painting. Petroglyph (1998). Kingcome Inlet, British Columbia, Canada. Image courtesy of Marianne Nicolson

logging, fishing, and petroleum interests, continue to threaten indigenous livelihood and the precious resources necessary for survivance. If “A sense of location and relationship to the land produce a political statement on the way that Indigenous notions of belonging and place transcend colonial apparatuses of legal ownership,” then Nicolson’s pictographic inscription of the land performs resistance to settler-colonial theft, appropriation, and misuse of tribal territory. This vehement rejection to protocols of state-imposed land ownership by Nicolson’s unrelenting declaration of

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place reveals how indigenous political opposition can materialize through forms of contemporary pictographics. Conversely, Nicolson’s declaration of place doubles as a (re)occupation of space, thus seeking a type of spatial recovery from the clutches of empire. Petroglyphics may also be a locus for indigenous political resistance. The systemic and structural racism masquerading as logos or emblems for professional North American sports teams—including the Washington Red Skins football team, the Atlanta Braves baseball team, and the Chicago Blackhawks hockey team—relentlessly caricaturize, shame, and defame indigenous peoples of North America. At the intersection where accepted forms of racism meets sports entertainment emerges ­Tlingit/ Aleut artist Nicholas Galanin’s (2012) series Indian Petroglyph, based on the decades-old insignia of the Cleveland Indians baseball team (Fig. 3). In the work, Galanin uses a conventional cement cutter to etch the word “Indians” into rock, cement, or stone as a means of quite literally (re)

Fig. 3  Nicholas Galanin. Indian Petroglyph (2012). Image courtesy of Nicholas Galanin

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embedding indigenous origin and presence back into the land.3 As a method of détournement, of aesthetic hijacking, Galanin’s proposition serves to delegitimize such culturally preferred ideologies in a political struggle, disrupting their authority and influence over the status quo (Hall, 1994, p. 98; Žižek, 2012, p. 281). While “Indians” has been etched throughout the Pacific Northwest, New York City, and elsewhere, it was most conspicuously etched into the cement outside the Vancouver Art Gallery by the Hornby Street entrance as part of the travelling exhibition “Beat Nation: Art, Hip Hop and Aboriginal Culture” organized by the Art Gallery of Vancouver. Not only is the city of Vancouver located on unceded Coast Salish territory, but the Vancouver Art Gallery was originally built to serve as the province of British Columbia’s courthouse, which, consequently, administered punishment to indigenous people for partaking in banned or outlawed ceremonies such as potlatches. “I now embrace my position as a contemporary indigenous artist,” says Galanin, “with [the] belief that some forms of resistance often carry equal amounts of persistence” (quoted in Bernstein, 2012, p. 32). The work of Nicolson and Galanin participate in an expanded field of representation which maneuvers between graffiti, street art, and contemporary art by collapsing the categorical (and legal) distinctions separating them. For this reason, their works appear to satisfy the nuanced definition of post-graffiti, which describes the renaissance of public graffiti forms and unsettles traditional categories of graffiti and street art during the 1990s (c.f., Waclawek, 2011; Whitehead, 2004). Still, the most axiomatic expression of conventional graffiti resides in the tag, which became popularized in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, during the 1960s by writers such as Cool Earl and Cornbread. The tag is an autobiographical signature; it can be likened to a symbolic form of identity construction in that it declares the physical presence of the writer during and after the process of inscription. After its emergence in Philadelphia, the tag shifted geographies to infiltrate the shipping yards, subway systems, and streets of major urban centers such as New York City. By no means, however, is the tag restricted to urban settler-colonial topographies, but rather it continues to flourish in remote rural areas and reserves as well. The tag accompanies a strange paradox in that it gathers praise among the graffiti and street art subcultural community by way of its visual “overexposure,”

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while, simultaneously, the writer’s individual identity remains anonymous to passersby (Waclawek, 2011). The graffiti tag remains instrumental in determining how indigenous writers mobilize to enact political resistance against the conditions of (post)colonialism with critical aesthetics. In the Canadian context, indigenous youth most often occupy “the bottom of almost every available well-being index including education levels, housing conditions, [and] per-capita incomes”4 as a result of systemic and structural damage inflicted by the lingering project of colonialism. The process of becoming present and visible to one another and to one’s community-at-large is precisely where the once-powerless perform a counter-hegemony which fundamentally shifts the character of political autonomy in their favor (c.f., Ignace, 2011, p.  208; Sassen, 2011, p. 574). In this sense, the overexposed tag occupies a privileged position among indigenous graffiti writers, particularly indigenous youth, because it represents a communicative apparatus of empowerment that strengthens the social bonds of this subaltern community. The appropriation of hip hop culture by indigenous youth is central to any understanding of contemporary indigenous graffiti and street art. The collective interest in the predominantly black and urban cultural phenomenon indicates a commensurate level of social marginalization experienced between indigenous and urban black communities in North America.5 Since hip hop first appeared in the boroughs surrounding New York City in the 1970s, hip hop fashion, music, dance, and aesthetics have become a mode of political resistance and cultural legitimacy that speaks to the struggles of black experience and secondary citizenship in the American historical context. On this latter point, the veritable lack of clean water, food, housing, health care, and employment opportunities among Inuit, First Nations, and Métis in Canada has normalized a state of extreme poverty. It should come as no surprise, then, that indigenous youth identify with the ghettoization of their black brothers and sisters in the USA. Counter to the xenophobic stereotypes found in settler colonial communities, indigenous peoples respond to new cultural influences such as hip hop as a way to redress their own, contributing to mainstream popular culture while actively redefining it (Ritter & Willard, p.  9).6 Homi Bhabha categorizes this discursive liminality as the “Third Space,” a type of (non)site whereby the hybrid character of cultural identity is

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generated and productively negotiated (Bhabha, 1994, pp.  36–39). Taking his cue from Bhabha, Edward W. Soja interprets “Thirdspace” as one “fully lived space, real and imagined, actual and virtual, a place for individual and collective experience and agency” (2000, p.  11). This stresses the idea that the physical body functions as an archival vessel of memory, information, and experience that also informs how cultural identity is represented and performed. In the Third Space of the present, indigenous graffiti and street artists passionately adopt hip hop culture to transform and express the myriad ways that indigenous stories can be articulated to indigenous and non-­ indigenous communities. Their work represents a potential continuation and evolution of traditional modes of storytelling, of oral traditions passed down through generation upon generation since time immemorial; traditional stories are still being told, but the manner of their telling has shifted from the sound of the voice to the spray of the paint can (in addition to other means of cultural expression including video, film, and the Internet). The oral tradition of many indigenous tribes clearly demonstrates how critical events in history or sacred legends impacted on tribal communities and what moral values can be learned from these transactions. The sociopolitical conditions of European colonialism emphasize the necessity of political resistance through graffiti and street art as a means of cultural survivance. To this end, indigenous graffiti and street art, much like indigenous “rez rap,” proposes an interconnected mode of storytelling (Cruikshank, 1998, 2005), which draws on colonial narratives of trauma, loss, and social alienation to critique the frequency of suicide, drug use, gun violence, illness, and murder that afflict many indigenous communities (Ignace, 2011, pp. 204–208). It is in these types of stories that the potentiality of active resistance is everywhere to be found (Kermoal, 2010, p. 172). Notwithstanding, the vast majority of tagging or text-based graffiti and street art found in Canada, the USA, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, and other colonized nation states throughout the Global North and South continue to be written in the English language, which points to the unshakable hegemony of colonial semantics among indigenous people. Like the land and people, the signifier itself is colonized. To approach a truly decolonized graffiti and street art aesthetics, one must

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first decolonize the European systems of communication that constitute modes of self-expression; that the production of decolonized aesthetics which makes use of European languages simply re-inscribes the conditions of cultural loss that writers and artists supposedly react against. The inherent obstacle is that, as a direct result of colonialism, countless indigenous languages have been destroyed by agents of state government and subsequently lost forever; though, at present, the paradox is that there is a steady resurgence of indigenous language teachings brokered by the colonial systems of communication such as the Internet, social networking, and mobile apps.7 The movement towards restoring indigenous language graffiti as a powerful mode of cultural renewal is slowly but steadily manifesting itself among the topography of North America. What could a new regime of graffiti and street art representation that mandates indigenous languages and syllabics such as Anishinaabemowin, Inuktitut, or Cherokee (Tsalagi) look like? One would assume it would look like resistance.

Contested Spaces, Protested Places The inscription of graffiti and street art by writers and artists activate the wall in a matrix of contested space. On the date of his birthday, 11 January 2013, a monumental statue of Canada’s first Prime Minister Sir John A.  MacDonald was “vandalized” by red and white graffiti featuring the words “THIS IS STOLEN LAND,” “MURDERER,” and “COLONIZER.” While romanticized by many Canadians for uniting the Dominion of Canada under a national government and building the Canadian Pacific Railway, MacDonald’s relationship with Inuit, First Nations, and Métis demands closer scrutiny. In Clearing the Plains: Disease, Politics of Starvation, and the Loss of Aboriginal Life,8 James Daschuk proposes that MacDonald committed ethnocide by deliberately starving indigenous peoples of the plains in order to clear land for the construction of the Canadian Pacific Railroad and the establishment of white settlements (2013; Goar, 2014). Daschuk’s reformed narrative paradigmatically shifts the historical record from MacDonald’s achievement of Canadian nationalism to his systematic erasure of indigenous peoples from Western Canada.

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Artist and educator Tanya-Lukin Linklater argues that settler colonialism is often realized on and through the physical body of indigenous peoples (Turions, 2016). Overlooking the role of bodily presence in relation to indigenous graffiti and street art is problematic since it fails to account for the body as a political apparatus used to symbolically reclaim sites of social exclusion.9 Along similar lines, indigenous graffiti and street art serves to assert indigenous rights to place through the physical embodiment of space itself (David and Wilson quoted in Lennon, 2014, p. 243). If MacDonald committed acts of ethnocide against indigenous peoples of the plains, for which there is mounting evidence, then inscribing counter-narratives in red paint, while embodying previously disavowed space, represents a radical gesture of protest. The deconstruction of public spaces where monuments such as MacDonald’s inhabit reifies national ideologies, thereby exposing painful narratives that are commonly silenced or hidden from the “official picture” projected by government (Lauzon, 2011, pp. 79–80). The result is a transformational shift in the notion of space from public to protested, from constructed to contested; and with it the belief that unsanctioned graffiti, though often illegal and ugly, can rupture false truths. The MacDonald graffiti example provides evidence of decolonizing aesthetics. The prefix “de” in “decolonization” symbolizes an etymology of “privation, removal or separation,” a proverbial “undoing of colonialism;” however, it remains unclear as to what this meaning actually implies (Turions, 2016). In their article “Decolonization is Not A Metaphor,” Eve Tuck and K. Wayne Yang suggest that the metaphorical usage of the term decolonization should be carefully avoided, citing that it “is not converting Indigenous politics to a Western doctrine of liberation; it is not a philanthropic process of ‘helping’ the at-risk and alleviating suffering; it is not a generic term for struggle against oppressive conditions and outcomes […] By contrast, decolonization specifically requires the repatriation of Indigenous land and life” (2012). If the process of ­decolonization necessitates the repatriation of indigenous land, then the reclamation of space through dynamic processes of indigenous graffiti and street art can be perceived as one of the first steps towards decolonization. For Thom Charron, a member of the 7th Generation Image Makers, indigenous people “are in this urban setting where there’s concrete everywhere and buildings, and you see all this colonization. For us, when we create those

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pieces, it’s decolonizing, it’s reclaiming back that spirit of the land” (quoted in MacInnis, 2015, p. 103). The work of Corey Bulpit, a Haida member of the Naikun Raven clan, and Warraba Weatherall, a member of Australia’s Gamilaraay Nation, perform resistance through indiginizing public space. In Vancouver, Montreal, Ottawa, and others urban centers in Canada and the USA, Bulpitt paints and pastes murals and stickers featuring raven, salmon, and orca whales rendered with scintillas of traditional Haida iconography (Fig. 4). Not only does Bulpitt enact vectors of defiance by reinstituting indigenous iconography into North America following

Fig. 4  Corey Bulpitt. Salmonhead/LIFE (2015). Washington State, United States. Image courtesy of Corey Bulpitt

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centuries of the systematic disavowal of indigenous visual culture, but he also recovers such spaces as indigenous. This insistence on presence is spurred on in part by the gross assumption of the “vanishing” or “dying Indian,” which destabilized indigenous cultural identity in North America while creating an industry of collecting indigenous artefacts before they were supposedly lost forever (Francis, 1992). Perhaps nowhere is this clearer than in the sticker Salmonhead/LIFE affixed to a gas station pump in Washington State. Here Bulpitt unearths debate over the proposed expansion of the Keystone XL pipeline leading from the Canadian oil sands to refineries in the Southern United States, which would cut across treaty lands above and below the fortyninth parallel, ultimately threatening water, food, heritage sites, and public health.10 Essentially, it is a trickster shift, an event of serious play, which anticipates a political transformation in the viewer that prompts them to envision the world in a different way (Ryan, 1999, p. 5). The black-and-white sticker’s close proximity to the handle of the gasoline pump culture jams the existing corporate logo while potentially serving as a subtle yet damning reminder to the consumer of how land and people can suffer under the capitalist exploitation of natural resources. The question of who “gets” the message, however, is open to interpretation; but this much is clear: there exists a collective disconnect between how resources are extracted and how they are used. Warraba’s strategy is similar to Bulpitt’s in that he politicizes capitalist constructions of public space by restoring it as indigenous tribal land that has become unceded or broken of title. In large-scale mural works featuring the word “SOVEREIGNTY” Weatherall pursues a decolonized aesthetics by illegally marking walls with the colloquy for the repatriation tribal land, self-determination, and independent governance. As Weatherall is well-aware, the determinacy of graffiti and street art as unsanctioned and therefore “illegal” by law enforcement further complicates the issue of indigenous sovereignty by throwing into question: how can so-called illegal activities such as graffiti and street art happening on unceded land be recognized and prosecuted as such when the authority of one sovereign nation exercises power over another? Skenandore comments on this complex socio-judicial relationship by stating:

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I have always felt that the illegal nature of graffiti is about as ridiculous as the very concept of claiming ownership of land. Indigenous peoples of North and South America have always marked the land in respect (and with respect) to the land […] Contemporary spaces are continued to be treated as areas for the creation of art and the telling of stories regardless of what a municipality has decided. It is the very transformation of these spaces that calls in to question the colonial concepts of “ownership” and “territory” and considering that our Indigenous arts are not bound by these ideas, no laws will contain them either. It has been my feeling that this kind of art actually reclaims that which is taken, even if only for a moment. (2016)

Graffiti and street art enact spaces of protest to regimes of visual representation dominated by European colonialism, what Stuart Hall terms “Presence Europeenne,” which also structures the ideology and social identity of colonized peoples (1990, pp.  232–233). Since most, if not all, urban environments in colonized nation states are assaulted with imagery and text from advertising industries, public space is increasingly under attack, fast becoming occupied by the visual rhetorics of consumer capitalism. Any if not all unsanctioned transformations to the topography of public space represent a form of rebellion against the capitalist construction of space itself (Waclawek, 2011, p. 73). The veritable production of indigenous graffiti and street art in urban environments offer protest against the sanctioned (and sterile) capitalist imagery encountered in colonized public space and land. It is also crucial to understand the ways that indigenous graffiti and street art enact resistance by anesthetically occupying and disavowing the infrastructure and architecture of European colonialism that territorializes, and terrorizes, North America. In their book Freight Train Graffiti, Roger Gastman, Darin Rowland, and Ian Sattler describe how the growth of freight trains swelled from twenty-three miles of railroad in 1830 to 254,000  in 1916, thereby romanticizing American ingenuity without mentioning how the railroad system was elemental to manifest destiny, contributed to the displacement and suffering of indigenous peoples of the plains and prairies, or how it exploited immigrant labor. Since Contact, settler colonial expansion pushing West across the continent

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forced the annexation of indigenous land, the ethnic cleaning of indigenous lives, and the destruction of indigenous culture. This schema was, of course, motivated by the discourse of manifest destiny, the belief that American settlers were bound by God and duty to spread west to the Pacific Ocean while cultivating (so-called) idle lands into agricultural settlements. Manifest destiny resides as a core belief of settler colonialism, whose object of desire is possession of the land rather than the exploitation of indigenous labour found in most states under European colonial rule (Miner, 2015, p. 221). The protest gesture of taking settler-colonial space underscores the idea that the process of decolonization begins and ends with the retrieval of traditional indigenous land and the protection of land rights (c.f., Chmielewska, 2009, p. 272).11 For instance, a massive graffiti inscription reading “THIS IS INDIAN LAND” (Fig. 5) haphazardly scrawled across a rusty railway bridge at Ketegaunseebee (Garden River) near Baawaating (Sault Ste. Marie) emphasizes how the history of the transcontinental

Fig. 5  Warren Schlote. THIS IS INDIAN LAND. Ketegaunseebee (Garden River) near Baawaating (Sault Ste. Marie), Ontario, Canada. Image courtesy of Warren Schlote

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railroad system in North America is interconnected to the settler-­ colonialism appropriation of indigenous lands.12 Indigenous graffiti writers and street artists such as Breez, Water CR, Grue, TNR, Lefto, Unek, and Hator generate subjectivities of reclamation by (re)occupying and (re)possessing settler-colonial railroads.13 “Trains were a vehicle of change,” writes Oneida/Oglala Lakota/Luiseno street artist Hoka Skenandore, “bringing death and destruction to the culture of the Indigenous peoples of the Plains, so to paint trains can transform a symbol of death into a [sic] image of beauty” (2013). The détournement of freight and commuter trains—as critical signifiers of indigenous loss— delegitimize the railroad system’s destructive history of hegemonic power over indigenous land and people through the process of its aestheticization.

Conclusion Indigenous graffiti and street art are integral to the political mobilization opposing settler colonialism in North America. When the National Park Service of the USA paid nearly $1.5  million dollars to restore a 250,000-gallon tank and a 103-foot steel tower on the prison island of Alcatraz in 2012, they also carefully replicated the graffiti “Peace and Freedom. Welcome. Home of the Free Indian Land” marking the tank as well. The red-lettered text, eerily similar to that placed on MacDonald’s monument, was originally executed during the nineteenth-month occupation of Alcatraz, from 1969 to 1971, by Indians of All Tribes, a group of civil rights activists made up mostly of students. Alexandra Picavet, a spokesperson for the National Park Service, was quoted as saying, “Normally, the federal government is not in the business of preserving graffiti;” however, the political inscription of the water tower epitomized the movement’s objective while remaining a crucial part of the island’s history (quoted in Wollan, 2012). Although then-President Richard Nixon ordered the removal of indigenous protestors from the island, the resistance helped to galvanize the indigenous civil rights movement, which led to other sit-ins, occupations, and protests throughout North America. It also led to various federal policy reforms affecting indigenous

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peoples in the USA, including the right to self-determination; of course, these changes were nominal at best, but they were changes nonetheless. On the one hand, the conservation of the Alcatraz water tower graffiti alludes to a subtle cooptation by government to procure tourist capital on the island by creating a spectacle out of protest; on the other hand, it provides convincing evidence as to how political graffiti is emblematic of the critical messages, events, and stories of social movements. When indigenous graffiti and street art accumulates enough symbolic power to warrant its conservation by federal authorities, then it clearly and succinctly transgresses settler-colonial hegemony over regimes of representation. This archetypal shift from approaching graffiti as a mode of visual pollution to valuing graffiti for its historical significance implies a sea change in thinking about the political potential of indigenous graffiti and street art. To understand it, we must first set aside what it looks like and instead draw our attention to the dynamics that placed it there.

Notes 1. For more on the relationship between colonialism and the violence inflicted on indigenous women and girls, see: Native Women’s Association of Canada, “Fact Sheet: Root Causes of Violence Against Aboriginal Women and the Impact of Colonization,” (Ottawa: Native Women’s Association of Canada, 2015), http://www.nwac.ca/wp-content/uploads/2015/05/Fact_Sheet_Root_Causes_of_Violence_ Against_Aboriginal_Women.pdf (accessed 26 May, 2016). 2. The title of Robert Reisner’s book Graffiti: Two Thousand Years of Wall Writing implies that graffiti emerged in Ancient Rome and Greece, ­overlooking the notion that occurrences of “wall writing” in the forms of petroglyphs and pictographs far exceed 2000 years of age. 3. For more on the re-embedding of Indigenous presence back onto the land as witnessed in the work of Nicholas Galanin, see: David P. Ball, “‘Beat Nation’ Brings Skateboard and Hip Hop Culture to the Vancouver Art Gallery,” Indian Country Today Media Network (26 May, 2012): http://indiancountrytodaymedianetwork.com/2012/05/26/beatnation-brings-skateboard-and-hip-hop-culture-vancouver-art-gallery-115120 (accessed 17 May, 2016).

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4. See: Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples. Choosing Life: Special Report on Suicide Among Aboriginal People (Ottawa: Library and Archives Canada, 1995, p. 24). 5. The critical success of the travelling exhibition “Beat Nation: Hip Hop as Indigenous Culture,” organized by the Vancouver Art Gallery in co-­ operation with grunt gallery, illustrates the conceptual, aesthetic, and political relationship between hip hop and Indigenous cultures. 6. In Canada, the RestART community mural painting program in Vancouver, the Graffiti Art Programming not-for-profit community arts initiative for youth in Winnipeg, the Saskatoon Community Youth Arts Programming (SCYAP) art and culture program for youth-at-risk, and the 7th Generation Image Makers art and mural program for Indigenous youth in Toronto, provide Indigenous youth the means to develop friendships and create sanctioned graffiti in positive and safe spaces. 7. Digital apps such as FirstVoices Chat make use of Indigenous writing systems to communicate in over 100 Indigenous languages. See: http:// www.firstvoices.com/en/apps 8. Ironically, Daschuk’s book was awarded the 2014 Sir John A. MacDonald prize for the best academic book based on a subject in Canadian history. 9. For more on the relationship between the physical body and the site of graffiti inscription, see: Matthew Ryan Smith, “Tell-Tale Signs: Unsanctioned Graffiti and Street Art in Post-Apartheid Johannesburg,” Bronze Warriors and Plastic Presidents: Public Art in South Africa, 1999–2015 (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, forthcoming, 2017). 10. For more on the controversy surrounding expansion of the Keystone XL pipeline, see: The Globe and Mail, Digging In: A Deeper Look at the Keystone XL Pipeline (Bloomington, IN: Booktango, 2013). 11. For Roger Moody, “Underscoring virtually every contemporary struggle by indigenous peoples—be it against specific damage, or for culture or political self-determination—is the demand for land rights.” Quoted in Gail Guthrie Valaskakis (2005). Indian Country: Essays on Contemporary Native Culture. Waterloo: Wilfred Laurier University Press, p. 93. 12. I thank Dylan A.  T. Miner for reminding me of this example in our conversation. 13. I thank Hoka Skenandore for assisting me with the tags of indigenous freight and commuter train writers.

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References Ball, D. P. (2012, May 26). ‘Beat nation’ brings skateboard and hip hop culture to the vancouver art gallery. Indian Country Today Media Network. Retrieved from http://indiancountrytodaymedianetwork.com/2012/05/26/beat-nationbrings-skateboard-and-hip-hop-culture-vancouver-art-gallery-115120 Bernstein, B. (2012). Expected evolution: The changing continuum. In K. K. Russell (Ed.), Shapeshifting: Transformations in native American art. Exhibition Catalogue. New Haven and London: Peabody Essex Museum and Yale University Press. Bhabha, H. K. (1994). The location of culture. New York and London: Routledge. Bulpitt, C. (2015). Salmonhead/LIFE. Sticker. Chmielewska, E. (2009). Framing temporality: Montreal graffiti in photography. In A. Gérin & J. S. McLean (Eds.), Public art in Canada: Critical perspectives. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Cruikshank, J. (1998). The social life of stories. Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press. Cruikshank, J.  (2005). Do glaciers listen? Local knowledge, colonial encounters, and social imagination. Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press. Daschuk, J. (2013). Clearing the plains: Disease, politics of starvation, and the loss of aboriginal life. Regina: University of Regina Press. Decolonize Street Art. (2015). About. Retrieved from https://decolonizingstreetart.com/about/ Farmer, L., & Milos, R. (2012, Spring). Graffiti: Giving voice to the indigenous. DePaul Journal for Social Justice, 5(2), 409–419. Francis, D. (1992). The imaginary Indian: The image of the Indian in canadian culture. Vancouver: Arsenal Pulp Press. Galanin, N. (2012). Indian petroglyph. Inscribed Rock. Goar, C. (2014, June 25). Canada starved aboriginal people into submission. Toronto Star. Retrieved from https://www.thestar.com/opinion/commentary/2014/06/10/canada_starved_aboriginal_people_into_submission_goar. html Hall, S. (1994). Encoding, decoding. In S.  During (Ed.), The cultural studies reader. London and New York: Routledge. Ignace, M. (2011). Why is my people sleeping?—First nations hip hop between the rez and the city. In H. H. Howard & C. Proulx (Eds.), Aboriginal peoples in Canadian cities: Transformations and continuity. Waterloo: Laurier University Press.

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Ignace, M., & Ignace, G. (2005). Tagging, rapping, and the voices of the ancestors: Expressing aboriginal identity between the small city and the rez. In W. F. Garrett-Petts (Ed.), The small cities book: On the cultural future of small cities. Vancouver: New Star Books. Kermoal, N. (2010). The nationalist gaze of an aboriginal artist. In B. Hokowhitu, N. Kermoal, C. Anderson, A. Peterson, M. Reilly, I. Altimarino-Jiménez, & P. Rewi (Eds.), Indigenous identity and resistance: Researching the diversity of knowledge. Dunedin, NZ: Otago University Press. Lauzon, C. (2011). Monumental interventions: Jeff Thomas seizes commemorative space. In J. K. Cronin & K. Robertson (Eds.), Imagining resistance: Visual culture and activism in Canada. Waterloo: Wilfred Laurier University Press. Martín, F. (2016). American Indian graffiti. In J. I. Ross (Ed.), Routledge handebook of graffiti and street art. New York: Routledge. McCormick, C. (2011). The writing on the wall. In I. Deitch, J. Gastman, & A.  Rose (Eds.), Art in the streets (pp.  19–24). New  York: Skira Rizzoli Publications, Inc. Miner, D. A. T. (2015). In N. Brown & S. Kanouse (Eds.), Re-collecting Black Hawk: Landscape, memory, and power in the American Midwest. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press. Native Women’s Association of Canada. (2015). Fact sheet: Root causes of violence against aboriginal women and the impact of colonization. Ottawa: Native Women’s Association of Canada. Nicolson, M. (1998). Cliff painting. Pictograph. Rancière, J. (2010). Dissensus: On politics and aesthetics (S. Corcoran, Ed. and Trans.). London: Continuum Press. Reisner, R. (1971). Graffiti: Two thousand years of wall writing. Spokane: Cowles Book Company. Ritter, K. V., & Willard, T. (2012). Beat nation: Art, hip hop and aboriginal culture. Exhibition Catalogue. Vancouver: Art Gallery of Vancouver. Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples. (1995). Choosing life: Special report on suicide among aboriginal people. Ottawa: Library and Archives Canada. Ryan, A. J. (1999). The trickster shift: Humour and irony in contemporary native art. Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press. Sassen, S. (2011, October). The global street: Making the political. Globalizations, 8(5), 573–579. Skenandore, H. (2016, May 5). E-mail communication with the author. Smith, M.  R. (2016). Dzawada’enuxw interdisciplinary artist and educator Marianne Nicolson. PhD. First American Art Magazine, 64–71.

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Smith, M. R. (2015/2016). March of the land writers: Unsanctioned indigenous street art interventions. First American Art Magazine, 22–27. Smith, M. R. (2017). Telltale signs: Unsanctioned graffiti interventions in postapartheid South Africa. In K. Miller & B. Schmahmann (Eds.), Bronze warriors and plastic presidents: Public art in South Africa. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Soja, E. W. (2000). Postmetropolis: Critical studies of cities and regions. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Spivak, G. C. (1994). Can the subaltern speak? In P. Williams & L. Chrisman (Eds.), Colonial discourse and post-colonial theory: A reader. New  York: Harvester and Wheatsheaf. The Globe and Mail. (2013). Digging in: A deeper look at the keystone XL pipeline. Bloomington, IN: Booktango. Tuck, E., & Wayne Yang, K. (2012). Decolonization is not a metaphor. Decolonization: Indigeneity, Education & Society 1(1). Retrieved from http:// decolonization.org/index.php/des/article/view/18630 Turions, C. (2016, March 23). Decolonization, reconciliation, and the extra-­ rational potential of the arts. ArtsEverywhere. Retrieved from http://artseverywhere.ca/2016/03/23/1218/ Valaskakis, G. G. (2005). Indian country: Essays on contemporary native culture. Waterloo: Laurier University Press. Waclawek, A.  A. (2011). Graffiti and street art. New  York: Thames and Hudson. Whitehead, J.  L. (2004, November). Graffiti: The use of the familiar. Art Education, 57(6), 25–32. Wollan, M. (2012, December 24). Antigovernment graffiti restored, courtesy of government. New York Times. Retrieved from http://www.nytimes.com/ 2012/12/25/us/alcatraz-american-indian-occupation-graffiti-preserved.html Žižek, S. (2012). Mapping ideology (S. Žižek, Ed.). New York: Verso Books. Matthew Ryan Smith  is the Curator of Glenhyrst Art Gallery of Brant and a Sessional Professor of Visual Studies at the University of Toronto, Mississauga. Matthew received his Ph.D. in Art and Visual Culture from Western University in 2012. He is currently the Canadian Section Editor of the Art Market Dictionary, and the Literary Editor of First American Art Magazine. Matthew also resides on the editorial board of the Yearbook of Moving Image Studies (YoMIS). E-mail: [email protected]

Part IV Artists and Social Movements

Representations of Resistance: Ironic Iconography in a Southern Mexican Social Movement Jayne Howell

Introduction: Street Art and Protest in Contemporary Mexico Public art is a powerful political tool used to convey state-sponsored political rhetoric or to contest and resist official policies and dominant ethos (Adams, 2002; Chaffee, 1993; Firth, 1992; Hall, 2012; Hart, 2007; Jasper, 1997; Scott, 1990). Whether created by an individual or a collective, artistic expression historically has had a “deliberate purpose of incitement to understand and change the social order” (Firth, 1992, p. 26). This holds true for the at times solemn, at times humorous, but always pointed, street art produced in contemporary social movements (Castells, 1983; Kutz-Flamenbaum, 2014; Hart, 2007). The use of politicized art in public protests is well documented in Mexico (Barajas, 2000; Beezley & Curcio-Nagy, 2012; Campbell, 2003 McCaughan, 2012; Salopek, 2011), and has gained international visibility though the ubiquitous street art that dominates late-twentieth century social movements. J. Howell (*) Department of Anthropology, California State University Long Beach, Long Beach, CA, USA © The Author(s) 2017 S.H. Awad, B. Wagoner (eds.), Street Art of Resistance, Palgrave Studies in Creativity and Culture, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-63330-5_12

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In contrast to the monumental murals and statues the Mexican state government constructed to commemorate heroes and historical moments while promoting hegemonic political agendas, the graffiti and street art produced in Mexico City, on the US–Mexico border and during the 1994 Zapatista uprising in Chiapas present a challenge to the status quo. Cultural productions, including graffiti, graphics, text, street and at times performance (including songs, poems, plays and dance) accessed across the globe through the Internet and other social media that are part and parcel of grassroots social movements, have also gained respectability (Campbell, 2003; Zolov, 2004; Weinberg, 2000). Although tagging has been widely perceived as a social problem, and, in fact, remains criminalized in communities such as Mexico City in the interest of public safety (Davis, 2013), not all works produced in the street are “framed as scandal rather than art” (Campbell, 2003, p. 22). In many regions, graffiti in Mexico has taken on a new cache in the twenty-­ first century; following a pattern seen elsewhere (e.g., Mattar, this volume), entrepreneurs have capitalized on interest in street art and graffiti by offering tours walls painted by internationally known and home-­ grown and international street artists.1 In part, this increasing acceptance can be attributed to newspapers, artists, websites, and many sectors of the public drawing links between street art painted on walls today and pre-Columbian murals produced by Maya and Aztec civilizations, the satirical illustrations of Mexico City artist José Guadalupe Posada (1851–1913), and the great post-­ Revolutionary Mexican School muralists David Siqueiros, José Clemente Orozco, and Diego Rivera (Campbell, 2003; McCaughan, 2012). Building on Lyman Chaffee’s (1993, pp. 17–18) contention that artists’ ability to “project concise messages and clichés” is ideally suited for social activists striving for social change, this essay analyzes the multi-­ layered graphics produced during ongoing protests in the impoverished, politically tense state of Oaxaca. Oaxacan street art came to academic and popular attention during and in the aftermath of a 2006 teacher strike-­ cum-­social movement known as the Asamblea Popular de los Pueblos de Oaxaca (abbreviated APPO, for Popular Assembly of the Peoples of

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Oaxaca). APPO formed when tens of thousands of social activists in 300 civic organizations united after striking teachers were dislodged during a violent, now infamous pre-dawn desalojo (dislodging) on 14 June. Websites, blogs, and a host of books are dedicated to the transformational graphics created during and after the APPO social movement—with the majority focusing on the graffiti and wood stencils—produced  by an emerging group of talented young artists who organized as the Assembly of Revolutionary Artists of Oaxaca (Asamblea de Artistas Revolucionarios de Oaxaca; ASARO) (including Denham & C.A.S.A. Collective, 2009; Nevaer & Senyk, 2008). Some of these individuals, including graffiti artist Yeskas, have since achieved individual international recognition. This ethnographic study focuses on a different aspect of the Oaxacan art scene: the poignant, satirical imagery and text that members of Oaxaca’s Local 22 of the National Union of Education Workers (Sindicato Nacional de Trabajadores de la Educación, or SNTE) and their supporters have produced over the past decade.2 These images appear on materials ranging range from 8.5 × 11-inch paper flyers to large cardboard signs and multi-foot wide vinyl banners. Arguably the most popular medium is manta—a large piece of cloth or vinyl that contains text and graphics—that is hung from trees or structures and carried during marches. In his discussion of ways that manta is well suited to social movements, Bruce Campbell (2003) writes these “monumental image[s] on cloth” are essentially a portable “mural with feet” that can be easily “deployed” in contested public spaces (p. 160). He further asserts that although mantisma developed in parallel to graffiti as a “response to public crises” (p. 157), these forms of sociopolitical expression have different objectives. Whereas graffiti art and text may be abstract and stylized, the manta “seeks maximum legibility” of a political position, with lettering that attempts to clearly state and complement any images created. Local 22 visuals have four interlocking themes, including (1) demands for higher wages and benefits; (2) charges of “oppression” and “repression” by public officials who are routinely ridiculed and demonized; (3) concerns that neoliberal policies and global forces that Local 22 contends are harmful to economically and politically vulnerable Oaxacans who comprise the majority of the state’s 3.8 million residents; and (4) references to Oaxaca’s cultural patrimony. Included in the latter are

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materials produced for an alternative Guelaguetza folklore festival that invert materials the state produced for an “official tourist spectacle that celebrates the state’s cultural diversity.” As one activist asserted, these images and actions “continue a tradition of popular rebellion” that strives to “open the public’s eyes to the possibility of change.” Before turning to analysis of imagery Local 22 has produced and how it is interpreted in different gazes, the next section contextualizes teachers’ decades-long lucha, or struggle, within the underpinning socioeconomic and political conditions in Oaxaca.

Situating Unrest in Oaxaca City Oaxaca City (population 280,000) emerged in the 1980s as an international tourism destination known for its colonial architecture, proximity to pre-Columbian archaeological sites, a thriving arts scene that includes “high art” and handicrafts (including woven rugs, clay figures, and carved wood animals known as alebrijes), open-air markets, and rich folklore. The lack of large-scale manufacturing also contributes to outsiders’ impressions of the capital as a sleepy bastion of tradition representing what Norman Hayner (1966) called “old Mexico.” This romanticized view belies that this region has been firmly enmeshed in global economic systems since colonizers arrived in the 1520s, and wracked by political tensions since the 1970s. The tourism industry that has become a linchpin of the urban economy intersects with political protests in the zócalo, a downtown plaza promoted to tourists as the heart of the community (el corazon del pueblo). In the 1990s, guidebooks described this central plaza containing trees, benches, and a gazebo as one of the most beautiful in Mexico. The cobblestone streets, outdoor cafés, and a sixteenth-century central cathedral that border it add to its charm. The zócalo is a critical crossroads for the community, with the expensive restaurants that ring it patronized by international and Mexican tourists and affluent Oaxacans who interact with ambulatory vendors. In this sense, the zócalo is a microcosm of the complex local socioeconomic hierarchy based on an interlacing of ­perceived ethnic identity, education level, occupation, places of origin,

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current residence, and wealth that rural and urban Oaxacans negotiate on a daily basis. Over one million tourists visit Oaxaca through the year, with the greatest number arriving for four high seasons that correspond with the most important local cultural celebrations: Holy Week in late March or early April, Day of the Dead during the first week of November, Christmas, and the late-July fortnight of the Guelaguetza folklore festival, which is the linchpin of the urban economy As elaborated below, the latter highlights customs in eight geographic regions and cultural practices associated with the nearly one million Oaxacans who identify with one (or more) of the state’s fourteen indigenous populations.3 Despite the richness of the state’s cultural diversity, poverty levels are high in urban and rural areas. Nearly two-thirds (sixty-two percent) of Oaxacans live below a federally defined poverty threshold of 2700 pesos per month (one euro  =  twenty-one pesos at the time of writing), and the state has the nation’s largest (80.5 percent) ratio of workers aged fifteen years and over in the informal sector (INEGI, 2010). Economic marginalization is most pronounced in thousands of rural communities where the economic base includes subsistence agriculture, craft production, wage labour, and remittances from international migrants; a high percentage of villages also lack access to healthcare, paved roads, and many basic services (electricity, potable water, mail delivery, and phones). Public school teachers typically begin their careers in isolated rural communities of the latter type, and can request transfers as they acquire seniority and by accumulating points through participation in union labour actions that include marches, work stoppages, bloqueos (blocking intersections and entry to public buildings and shopping areas) and plantones (encampments). Media sources consistently report that parents and other members of the public are resentful of Local 22 teachers’ salaries (a minimum of 8000 pesos per month), which are high by local standards, and generous benefits, although children lose class time when schools are closed for days, weeks, or even months at a time (Howell, 2009). The Oaxacans with whom I’ve spoken who disagree with these actions attribute the low adult schooling levels (of just over six years) that lag forty years behind national averages, and an illiteracy rate (eighteen percent) twice the national level (INEGI, 2010), to teachers’ labor actions.

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Others who support the union told me that they appreciate that these teacher-activists muster their political clout to contest government policies they consider “unjust” or “repressive.”

The Oaxacan Teachers’ Movement Eye-catching graphics have been an integral component of the Oaxacan Teachers’ Movement (Movimiento Magisterial Oaxaqueño, or MMO) since it became an active political force in the early 1980s, and have become all the more prominent in the past decade.4 The MMO gained strength after Local 22 joined with teachers in other largely rural states to form the National Network of Education Workers (Coordinadora Nacional de Trabajadores de la Educación, or CNTE), which is considered a “dissident” wing of SNTE. Although in the 1990s Local 22 teachers marched on 1 May (Workers’ Day) and 15 May (Teachers’ Day), and typically engaged in other labour actions of short duration, in 2006 the protests lasted for months. Beginning in early May, Local 22 established a plantón that spread over forty blocks surrounding the zócalo during the lead-up to Guelaguetza festival organized by the state’s Ministry of Tourism (abbreviated SECTUR). With concerns mounting that the social unrest would deter visitors, the state government ordered the desalojo of the plantón, and helicopters dropped tear gas on teachers and demolished the encampments. Joining with Local 22, the diverse group of citizens who came together under the umbrella of the APPO social movement called for the immediate resignation of Governor Ulisis Ruíz Ortiz (URO). They also promoted a boycott of the “official” government Guelaguetza festival, which critics claim is accessible only to tourists and local elites who can pay an average of ten times the daily minimum wage per ticket. The festival was cancelled for the first time in its seventy-four-year history, and Local 22 and APPO organized a free Guelaguetza Magisterial y Popular (Teachers and Popular Guelaguetza), which many locals refer to simply as “the Guelaguetza Popular.” Conflict between thousands of protestors and government forces continued over the next four months, and federal police forces were called in to restore order. By late November, hundreds

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had been injured. Tragically, over two dozen Oaxacans and journalist Brad Will of New  York were killed. In the ensuing decade, Local 22 teachers have mobilized dozens of times in the capital, and other regions of the state and nation to protest government educational reforms.5

Local 22 Street Art in 2006 I have elaborated elsewhere the solemnity and irony that Local 22 members infused in broad categories of imagery listed above that appeared during the 2006 conflict (Howell, 2012). These were produced within the context of Oaxaca’s complex political matrix and a diversity, including fourteen indigenous populations that creates a unique cultural tapestry. According to MMO activist Pedro, these visuals are a “fundamental tool of resistance” used to “educate the public.” The sections below examine continuity between images created in 2006 and subsequent Local 22 actions, including the 2015 Guelaguetza Popular.

Imagery of Violence and Repression Images reflecting an ongoing conflict emerged in response to the desalojo and amid claims of disappearances and injuries that occurred during it. This intentionality was perhaps most apparent in reference to helicopters that had dropped tear gas during the desalojo. In addition to wearing t-shirts with images of helicopters in marches, a number of teachers carried miniature helicopters during marches. Local 22 also constructed a large helicopter, replete with URO as the pilot, which hung from the gazebo in the Zócalo for months. The name “Ulises” was written on it followed by the number 666 (e.g., the mark of the devil in popular culture) and the word “repressor” (Fig. 1). Other images depicted URO as a soldier or Nazi, or contained tanks, soldiers, and riot police. In a case that reifies these local interpretations, an Oaxacan businesswoman in her fifties read an image that portrayed URO dressed as a Nazi as reflecting his “betrayal” of his constituents, because, she said, he should “be protecting citizens, and fighting for

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Fig. 1  “URO as Represor” (Photo by author)

them, not killing them.” One poignant image contained a noose and text with variations of the words “We will not forget June 14.” (All translations here are the author’s.) Use of the date of the desalojo in this way was a reminder of the 2 October 1968 massacre in the Tlatelolco area of Mexico City, when police forces shot at and killed a still undetermined number of civilians during a peaceful student protest just weeks before the XIX Olympiad. Historian Eric Zolov (2004) has argued that prior to and after that tragedy, social activists inverted imagery the government produced to promote the spectacle on an international stage. In one telling image of resistance, the rings in the Olympic logo became the wheels of a tank. The parallels are not surprising given that many teachers I interviewed who are in their forties and fifties today spoke of “coming of age” and “having [my] consciousness raised” during the aftermath of the Tlatelolco tragedy. A set of Local 22 graphics referenced what URO’s government described as the “renovation” of a number of culturally significant public spaces (including the zócalo), with protestors decrying the reconstruction as a “destruction” of cultural patrimony. In addition to inserting these

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landmarks into their graphics, Local 22 members also incorporated images of historic figures who symbolize the possibility of social and politic transformation, including Father Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla (who issued the Grito de Dolores—Mexico’s cry for freedom) in 1810, Che Guevara, and Oaxacan native President Benito Juárez García (1806–1872). As the only Mexican president raised in an indigenous community, Juárez is revered in Oaxaca as a liberal president (and as Mexico’s only “Indian” president) associated with issues of social justice. Reifying his importance, images of Juárez were used both by the state tourism office SECTUR and anti-government protestors to highlight that the 2006 Guelaguetza fell during the bicentennial of his birth. In keeping with the Mexican practice of incorporating humor and popular culture into street art, these and other symbolic figures, including the Virgen de Guadalupe and Virgen de la Soledad (patron saints of Mexico and Oaxaca City, respectively), and images of violence and repression were juxtaposed with cartoon figures, including Mickey Mouse and superheroes.6 Still other images blended sobering graphics of violence with humor, which Oaxacans recognized as imbued with irony in an attempt to ridicule (burlarse) the governor and government by showing them as incompetent or corrupt (see also Sadlier, 2016). Governor Ulises Ruíz Ortiz (URO) was, indisputably, the face of multi-faceted graphics, consistently inserted into flyers, three-dimensional figurines, and paintings on mantas and vinyl with comical graphics of rats, spiders, and snakes. Locals interpreted images of this type as representing that URO was, on the one hand, “creepy,” “scary,” and “toxic” or, in the case of the latter, “slippery.” However, artists’ attempts to portray him as “sinister” often came across as comical, in part because they frequently exaggerated his trademark glasses and mustache. A deliberately humorous drawing depicted him wearing ears of a burro (donkey) juxtaposed with text alleging corruption and the misuse of state funds. Teachers and other Oaxacans who are not educators alternately interpreted this as reflecting that URO “didn’t listen” (as seen in the irony of “big ears”) or that he was a “stupid jackass.” Other politically tinged images featuring animals including a pig (which was universally ­interpreted as representing “greed”) and dinosaurs that Oaxacans said

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they recognized as a invoking the “dinosaurs” who run the Institutional Revolutionary Party (Partido Revolucionario Institucional, or PRI) political party that dominated Mexican politics from the Revolution for seven decades following the revolution). Intentional humor of this type is recognized as a critical “weapon” of resistance during times of political conflict (Scott, 1990; Speier, 1998), or what social and union activist Pedro termed “a fundamental tool or resistance” that Local 22 uses to “educate the public.” One can also interpret these images as a visual demonstration of Michael Fischer’s (1986) reading of ironic humor used in texts as a “survival skill” that serves as a “means of exposing or subverting oppressive hegemonic ideologies” (p.  224). In the Oaxacan case, teachers’ iconography and performance aims to contest, if not thwart, forces of globalization and neoliberalism deemed harmful to Oaxacan culture and residents. Resistance was clearly evident in graphics related to the official Guelaguetza and creation of a Local 22-APPO sponsored Guelaguetza Popular.

 eclaiming an Invented Tradition: R The Guelaguetza Popular A successful boycott of the official Guelaguetza and initiation of a still active alternative festival was one of the landmark events that occurred in Oaxaca in July 2006. Widespread flyers paralleled the SECTUR practice of presenting unnamed men and women dressed in the dress associated with indigenous men and women of different regions to promote tourism. Among the most biting and widely circulated of these was a caricature of URO clad in the luxurious embroidered dress worn by Zapotec-speaking women of the Isthmus of Tehuantepec (Fig. 2). Text encouraged tourists and locals to instead celebrate—“dance and autochthonous ceremonies, traditional music, exchange of artistic and food products, bridging of knowledge, interactions between indigenous cultures and towns, the benefit of being part of ”—the free Guelaguetza Popular. Although for casual viewers this played on the prominence of this clothing style in tourist propaganda, it had a deeper meaning to cultural insiders who were aware that URO was raised in the Isthmus and had his power base there. This image is also significant as it embodies what has arguably been the most lasting

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Fig. 2  “URO as Tehuana” (Photo by author)

cultural production of the 2006 movement: the free Guelaguetza Popular that has run concurrently with the state-sponsored festival for the past decade (Howell, 2012). Festivals are spectacles imbued with the potential to unite political actors or fracture communities (Hall, 2012), with “rebellious” festivals like the Guelaguetza Popular attempting to upend and invert the state’s power, as Mikhail Bakhtin (1984) writes of spectacles in medieval Europe. I summarize below a number of salient symbolic elements in this festival that attempts to provide a more “authentic” alternative to the state sponsored Guelaguetza festival in an effort to contextualize the imagery that promotes and symbolism tied to it.

Reclaiming an Invented Tradition The state-sponsored event in many ways exemplifies Eric Hobsbawm’s discussion of an “invented tradition” with a “set of practices…and overtly or tacitly accepted rules of a ritual or symbolic nature, with repetition of customs maintaining a narrative of “established continuity with a suitable historic past” (Hobsbawm, 1983, pp. 1–2). In contrast, the Guelageuetza

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Popular was organized as a “free” event and drew attention to ticket prices that ran to more than five times the daily minimum wage for the official Guelaguetza. It is supported by a nominal contribution (twenty pesos each in 2015) from Local 22 members who claim that is more authentic than the official festival. Paco, an organizer of the 2006 event, reflected on the philosophy behind the Guelaguetza Popular as one where, “We wanted to offer people a bit of healthy recreation, where they could learn about our state’s cultures through authentic dances and music.” Paco’s remark resonates with others’ criticisms that the official event misleads tourists by giving the impression that is an historic indigenous festival. Rather, they note, wealthy Oaxaca City businessmen and politicians of European and mestizo (mixed) ancestry first organized this event as Lunes del Cerro in 1932 to commemorate the quadricentennial of the founding of Oaxaca City. In a move that further appropriated indigenous culture, in 1974, it was renamed “Guelaguetza,” a Zapotec term for “mutual aid” that that does not refer to dances or festivals but rather reflects an ethos of communal cooperation and reciprocity. Promotional materials for the official Guelaguetza produced by the state Ministry of Tourism emphasize ties to the region’s indigenous past through images of archaeological ruins including Monte Albán (which overlooks the capital) constructed by the pre-Hispanic Zapotec civilization and the dress styles associated with the state’s different regions. Social critics decry the glorification of indigenous cultures in advertisements that mask the marginalization and discrimination that thousands of indigenous Oaxacans experience (see Lizama Quijana, 2006; Poole, 2011). Compounding critics’ concerns, the selection process and oversight provided by an “authenticity committee” of elite appointees remains a point of contention for many locals.

Imagery Surrounding the Tenth Anniversary of the Guelaguetza Popular The desire to provide a non-commercialized, “authentic” event has been a recurring theme in Local 22 graphics and promotional materials in the decade since the first Guelaguetza Popular was held in in 2006 and at the

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base of the Cerro Fortin where the government constructed an 11,000 seat Guelaguetza Auditorium in 1974. The tenth incarnation of the Guelaguetza Popular was held on 18 July 2015  in a stadium at the Oaxacan Institute of Technology at the foot of the Cerro Fortin, which has become home to Oaxaca’s professional futbal (soccer) team the Alebrijes. The poster announcing the Popular and a parade held the day before it (in parallel to festivities at the “official” festival) iterated Local 22’s goal of providing a free festival that was neither commercialized nor inauthentic. Inverting the displays of dancers that promote the official Guelaguetza, the regional dancers highlighted are at times dressed in homemade costumes and the women are often without make-up. This can be read as a jab at the controversial authenticity committee of the official festival whose standards are often at odds with what they see in and are told by the members of the communities in which they teach. The philosophy and goal is expressed in a four-minute promotional video for the 2015 festival that is posted on the Local 22 Center of Social Media website (http://www.cencos22oaxaca.org/fotografia-y-video/galeria-defotos-marcha-magisterial-y-popular-mayo-15-de-2016/), which can also be accessed through YouTube. The jubilation teachers expressed at the end of the celebration was short lived. The following morning saw a dramatic turn in Local 22’s reality with what many declared a “betrayal” by Governor Gabino Cué Monteagudo. Cué had lost to Governor Ulises Ruíz in the highly contested 2004 election but won handily in 2010 with wide support from Local 22. He appeared at an early-morning press conference in Mexico City to announce an executive order that restructured the Oaxaca State Institute of Public Education (abbreviated “IEEPO” in Spanish). Among other drastic changes in the “New IEEPO,” Cué returned determination of teaching assignments to the state government rather than Local 22. Soon after, Local 22 posted renowned caricaturist Gonzalo Rocha’s drawing of Governor Cué dressed as Tehuana on the www.educaoaxa.org website. Noting the parallels to 2006 images of URO in this dress style, a Local 22 member raised in the Isthmus of Tehuantepec smiled when I showed her this image and said, “If you saw the 2006 boycott sign, the meaning is obvious.”7

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Imagery showing support for Local 22—produced by members of the public—began appearing in the capital and across the state. Local 22 president Ruben Nuñez Ginez and other maestros proclaimed Governor Cué a “traitor” in flyers and banners, and in parallel to the 2006 protests, effigies of Cué and federal Minister of Public Education Emilio Chauyffet were hung from elevated footbridges in and around Oaxaca City. A 27 July mega-march of an estimated 10,000 participants included Local 22 members and representatives from union chapters in over a dozen other states. A typical sentiment on placards carried by marchers appeared on a sign carried by a teacher from Yucatán, which read simply “Oaxaca, your friend Yucatán is with you.” Another sign showed an image of a police officer in riot gear beating a civilian wearing a t-shirt and jeans. On it, the handwritten word “Chiapas” was inserted above typeset text of a phrase used in protests across Latin America that read, “Of all the slaves, he who defends the master is the biggest coward.” This image invoked the recurring graphics and sense of a repressive government evident in prior strikes and marches. Going deeper, an educator with over twenty years in the labor force said upon seeing the 2015 image that “on one level this clearly represents the solidarity within CNTE, that Chiapas is here to support its’ neighboring union chapter. On another, you can see that it criticizes those teachers like [now imprisoned former-SNTE president] Esther Elba Gordillo Morales who have sold out their union and their principles to the federal government.”8 Other graphics echoed the text and imagery seen during the 2006 movement. One marcher I photographed carried a sign that read “More Schools! Less Military! No to Gabino Cué’s spurious decree” below a papier mâché helicopter with a picture of Gabino Cué pasted on it (Fig. 3). This can be interpreted as simultaneously invoking the 14 June 2006 desalojo and concerns about the heightened military presence in the capital. One fifty-year-old Oaxacan social activist opined that this imagery reflects Gabino’s betrayal of the teachers after they helped him achieve his power. But he made a pact with the federal government to accept proposed educational reforms [discussed below]. And the federal government has

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Fig. 3  Helicopter with image of Cué (Photo by author)

threatened them. So to me it represents that he sold out the movement to the federal government. But the teachers will continue their struggle, to prevent the federal government from implementing what [the government] claims is an educational reform in the entire country.

Another culturally relevant symbol that simultaneously integrated and inverted local customs consisted of one of the “gigantes” (giant papier mâché figurines) that can be carried or are worn by dancers in parades promoting the Guelaguetza with a cut out fist and a handwritten message that read “People judge teachers for protesting, but not politicians for stealing.” In addition to clenched fists seen on signs and displayed by

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teachers (and other activists) in solidarity, many signs also contained the letters “CNTE” or displayed the SNTE symbol: a black-and-white image of the faces of four male teachers (although sixty percent of Mexican teachers are women) on a map of Mexico. Still other graphics published in the press and on websites by artists who were not identified as teachers included text and images that poked fun at what many other citizens also described as an excessive security presence in the state. Teachers addressed this in handwritten signs that read “El Chapo isn’t in Oaxaca,” a reference to the drug kingpin Joaquin Guzman, whose controversial July 2015 escape from a federal prison made him the nation’s most wanted fugitive. (His January 2016 recapture following an interview with US actor Sean Penn and Mexican actress Kate del Castillo, and subsequent escape a few weeks later, continues to attract media attention on both sides of the border.) Creation of the new IEEPO split public opinion. It was supported by many teachers—including the few thousand who had formed a separate Local 59 union chapter in 2009—who disagreed with Local 22 practices where teachers accumulated the “points” requisite to transfer through participation in marches and other union actions. More commonly, sentiments supporting this action—both from the public and a number of teachers—were evident in printed signs with messages such as “In the New IEEPO, your union points don’t count.” Despite the pointed political content of these images and text above, and the visibility of over 5000 federal police stationed around the downtown area and moving through other parts of the city in trucks, there was little sense of “danger” in the air. Rather, many of the photographs I took contain vendors selling toys, parents, march participants, tourists, or locals walking with or carrying young children. Many of these children were carrying balloons, eating ice cream, or smiling and laughing.

“La Lucha” Continues In May 2016, Local 22 members once again maintained plantones in Oaxaca City’s zócalo, and engaged in rolling work stoppages accompanied by familiar actions such as marches and bloqueos at commercial

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c­enters and government buildings. Sentiments displayed in the zócalo and carried in marches have themes consistent with the previous year at the same time, and run parallel to many of the anti-government phrases seen in 2006. Banners and other materials proclaim a demand for “Complete Rejection of the Educational Reform!” These messages are part of a larger stance against a federal controversial reforma educativa. The messages expressed reflect the seriousness of the state of affairs for Local 22 members and, many argue, for poorer Mexicans. For the first time, the government threatened to fire teachers participating in protests who missed more than three  days of classes. (A November 2016 legal judgment rescinded orders to fire 3000 in various states.) A photo posted on a Local 22 Website showing a child in school uniform holding a placard reading “I support my teachers’ [fight for] an education that is totally free” is illustrative of the parents and children who showed support for striking teachers. At the same time, there were abundant Local 22 signs charging government oppression. A typical message was displayed on the gazebo in the zócalo: “The corrupt and repressive government will never silence teachers’ protests! Long live Local 22.” With the Mexican government having ratified the Educational Reform legislation, messages expressed in street art addressed two fundamental aims of the lucha that, ironically, would preserve elements of the status quo, namely (1) teachers’ commitment to protecting citizens’ access to free public education as decreed in the 1917 Constitution, and (2) defending normal school graduates’ guarantee of a teaching position that offers opportunities for social mobility. Despite the gravity of issues in the CNTE stance, the humor inherent in Local 22 resistance remains and in many cases parallels the 2006 protests. In one instance, amid Local 22 claims that the federal and state governments had withheld salaries of approximately 5000 teachers for a year, teachers occupied the state education office (IEEPO). They hung a sign on the door that read “Colleagues—there won’t be any service for a year. Don’t be worried about your salaries.” This was complimented by an image of small hand-­drawn burro (donkey) shown to be saying “I am [IEEPO director] Moises Robles.” The pairing of serious messages with humorous, playful imagery resonates with Stephen Sadlier’s (2016, p. 22) description of the movement as imbued

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with “hyperbolic” or “heteroglossic mockery” that relies on puns and wit to “assault” political figures linguistically and visually though multiple perspectives (pp. 321, 324). In contrast to the levity and irony, a somber tone underscored dozens of banners, graffiti, and artwork that commemorate the missing or deceased. A sense of overwhelming sadness and anger especially emanates from all references to the forty-three students who “disappeared” from the normal school in Ayotzinapa, Guerrero (in September 2014), and are presumed dead at the hands of local security officers. Imagery includes the number #43, drawings of skulls, or phrases such as “Justice for the 43” and “Justice for Ayotzinapa.” This tragedy is an unwelcome but compelling reminder of the risks to those who challenge or upset the power structure.

Conclusion As discussed here, the early twenty-first century has seen a dramatic increase in international interest in Oaxacan street art and graffiti that coincides with the ongoing social movement in the state and a broader overall interest in public art. One change seen at the local level is that although many Oaxacans continue to consider graffiteros (graffiti artists) to be “vandals” or “delinquents” in parallel to stereotypes reported elsewhere in this volume (e.g., Nielsen, Vieira Zanella), there is increasing respect for the quality of Oaxacan protest art that has garnered international recognition and been displayed in international museums, the focus of numerous books, and glorified on dozens of websites. A new dimension of this is that a website written in English offers a map with images of graphics and a map that designates their location ­(https://www.google.com/maps/d/viewer?mid=1gNtb6GLpeavQoeSxp v0d0Yx57iE). This is one of many examples of artists’ awareness of the need to keep up with changing times and new venues of effective communication. One result is that in addition to graphics that are printed on paper, cloth,

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or walls, a number of artists and activists volunteered that new forms of technology—including laser printing and the Internet—are changing ways that Local 22 gets their messages across. In parallel to the reliance on social media in social movements, which owes much to the prominence of the Internet during the 1994 Zapatista uprising in Chiapas, when the Zapatista National Liberation Army (abbreviated EZLN in Spanish) declared war on the Mexican government (see Nash, 2004), Tami Gold and Gerardo Renique (2008: 11) make a similar observation in Oaxaca. They wrote that the 2006 movement relied heavily on the Internet and radio to communicate with supporters and get their message to the public. It is hard to argue with their assertion that “videos are today’s political murals.” As modern actors in a globalized world, Local 22 has increasingly used video, as in the aforementioned promotional video for the Guelaguetza Popular or images of marches sold on DVDs in the zócalo and posted online. Local 22 members told me that they know their art is not well received by all sectors of the public, yet supporters state that their graphics do reflect and at times shape the local discourse regarding social justice in one of Mexico’s poorest states. Many with whom I spoke drew parallels between the MMO fight for justice in the twentieth century and the Mexican Revolution (1910–1917) of a century earlier. As is well documented, during this “genuinely popular movement” (Knight, 1990, p. xi), the masses changed the course of history, often carrying signs demanding “bread and schools” (Tannenbaum, 1950). In keeping with this, the artists and activists with whom I spoke insisted that their preferred medium of expression remains direct interaction on the streets, where teachers join with other social activists to keep the flame of resistance burning. As one elementary school teacher in her sixties told me, “I will be out there carrying my banners for as long as there is a lucha.” This sentiment is perhaps best expressed by a graphic that appeared one block from the zócalo in the summer of 2016 that proclaimed Oaxaca to be a region “where God and resistance never die. Oaxaca Resists” (Fig. 4).

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Fig. 4  Oaxaca: The land where god and the resistance never die (Photo by author)

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Notes 1. Even as artists, activists, and art critics embrace the purity of this type of artistic expression, for others it has commercial appeal. Indeed, in recent years it has become possible to sign up online for organized graffiti tours in Mexico City, including with Street Art Chilango (http://www.streetartchilango.com), 8 Great Graffiti Art Tours (and Workshops) (https://blog. shermanstravel.com/2015/8-great-graffiti-art-tours-and-workshops/) and other firms offering comparable tours.  2. Data were collected during continuous fieldwork conducted from May through November 2006 and May 2008–September 2009, and during fieldwork of shorter durations (from 2 weeks to 2 months between 2010 and 2016) through participant observation and interviews with a cross-­ section of adult Oaxacans of both sexes, including over two dozen educators and members of their families, as well as students and Oaxacans employed in a number of fields. 3. The regions named are named for geographic features or indigenous populations (Mixteca). The 300,000 speakers of Zapotec and quarter of a million Oaxacans who speak Mixteco are the most numerous and widely distributed indigenous populations. 4. Local media report that many have since returned to Local 22. 5. Though APPO still lends support to Local 22 and other political causes, since 2007 it has been a relatively amorphous organization most whose membership dropped in number as the civic organizations resumed more particular activities. 6. The Virgin of Guadalupe has been a politicized image since she appeared to Aztec farmer Juan Diego in 1531 on the hill of Tepayac in contemporary Mexico City. She was a symbol of the nation during Mexico’s quest for independence from Spain in 1821, and was carried by peasants in the 1910–1917 revolution. More recently, Guadalupana imagery was a staple of images produced during the 1994 Zapatista movement (Stahler-Sholk, 2010; Weinberg, 2000) and a “Virgin of the Barrikadas” incorporating Gualalupe emerged during the 2006 protests (Norget, 2010). 7. Rocha’s impressive catalog of caricatures includes images of URO as a Tehuana, other artists and pop culture icons, and numerous politicians or political issues (https://illustrationconcentration.com/tag/gonzalo-rocha/). 8. Gordillo is a controversial figure who is consistently ridiculed in CNTE graphics, popular culture, and political cartoons. In February 2013 she was imprisoned on charges of embezzling over 200 million dollars.

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Sadlier, S. (2016). La Parte Chusca of a pedagogical here and now: Oaxacan teachers’ heteroglossic joking about state repression and educational reform. Journal of Latinos and Education, 2016, 1–13. Salopek, P. (2011). Conflict graffiti: The art of war. Foreign Policy, 189, 94–95. Scott, J. (1990). Domination and the arts of resistance: Hidden transcripts. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Speier, H. (1998). Wit and politics: An essay on power and laughter. The American Journal of Sociology, 103(5), 1352–1401. Stahler-Sholk, R. (2010). The Zapatista social movement: Innovation and sustainability. Alternatives: Global, Local, Political, 35(3), 269–290. Street Art Chilango: Mexico City’s Street Art and Graffiti Website. (2016). Retrieved from http://www.streetartchilango.com Tannenbaum, F. (1950). Mexico: The struggle for peace and bread. New  York: Knopf. Weinberg, B. (2000). Homage to Chiapas: The new indigenous struggles in Mexico. London: Verso. Zolov, E. (2004). Showcasing the ‘land of tomorrow’: Mexico and the 1968 Olympics. The Americas, 61(2), 159–188. Jayne Howell holds a Ph.D. in Anthropological Sciences from the State University of New York at Stony Brook, and is Professor of Anthropology and Co-Director of the Latin American Studies Program at California State University Long Beach. She has conducted ethnographic research regarding schooling and employment opportunities in the Mexican state of Oaxaca for the past quarter century. In 2007 she was the recipient of the Guillermo Vigil Prize from the journal Studies in Latin American Popular Culture for her research on indigenous identities in Oaxaca. A fellow of the Society for Applied Anthropology, she served as co-editor of its journal Practicing Anthropology. For 2016–2018, she is President of the Society for Urban, National, Transnational and Global Anthropology (SUNTA) of the American Anthropological Association.

The Democratic Potential of Artistic Expression in Public Space: Street Art and Graffiti as Rebellious Acts Cecilia Schøler Nielsen

Introduction This chapter explores graffiti and street art in public spaces of Denmark’s larger cities. Since it is common for Danish graffiti and street artists to distinguish between the two practices, graffiti is here defined as writings in public space—often expressing the writer’s name. Street art is, here, defined as stencil works, paste-ups, and stickers—often to be experienced in urban areas. This is a sightseeing tour of the messages and motivation behind these artistic expressions, which are often tied to a social and political context. In order to understand this context, it is important to delimit the use of the complicated term “political” further. I distinguish politics, established political communities, from the political, in this case cultural concepts and psychological phenomena and introduce the reader to the concept of political exclusion, the feeling of being left out of the democratic decision-making process. The empirical part of this paper consists of interviews with three Danish graffiti artists. Their thoughts on politics, graffiti, and street art C.S. Nielsen (*) Aalborg University, Aalborg, Denmark © The Author(s) 2017 S.H. Awad, B. Wagoner (eds.), Street Art of Resistance, Palgrave Studies in Creativity and Culture, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-63330-5_13

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function as a scaffolding guiding the structure of the chapter. With a political focus, I discuss the idea of Danish street art and graffiti as having a fundamental democratic potential as the practices can be used democratic tools. This is demonstrated through an analysis of a few stencil works recently spotted in the city of Aalborg. In order to understand what issues these works address and to discuss the importance of the messages I turn my head to exploring what social and political issues the Danish society currently faces. Here, I argue that citizens are experiencing growing democratic, financial, and social insecurity. Lastly, I present an example of how the democratic process can be a symbolic exchange between artist and observer. This chapter is not an attempt to unconsciously defend the rights of graffiti and street art to exist in public space, nor does it claim that graffiti and street art needs to exist; that all graffiti and street art is good and interesting. It investigates the elements of the mindset of subcultures that are part of our society. Instead of spending excessive amounts of energy on condemning and belittling graffiti and street art, I focus some on why these practices occur and the messages they are trying to convey. I further talk about movements within the graffiti and street art environments. This is a way of assembling the relevant observed thoughts, theory, and actions into unified movements. It is important to note these movements do not universally speak for all of the graffiti and street art environments but are limited to the empirical data and theory I have had access to.

The Political In a book from 2015 Isaak Holm, professor in literature, argues that the work of Franz Kafka was highly political, even though Kafka rarely directly wrote about politics. Holm differentiates between politics and the political. While politics is about the arrangement of the political community in parliaments and political parties, the political is in a much broader sense about the boundaries and definition of these political communities—the ideas that govern a society (Holm, 2015). In this chapter I will describe a model relevant to the Danish graffiti and creative image environments.

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The political can be understood as a hierarchy of concepts starting with cultural concepts (Ratner, 2012), which here are defined as ideas shared by a broad community or a society, for example the idea of democracy or nationality, as well as complex and often hyper-generalized concepts like freedom and justice. Within the span of cultural concepts are psychological phenomena (Ratner, 2012), which cover a wide range of different concepts closely tied to the individual or smaller communities, for example the concept of narratives, individuality, identity, and memory. Cultural concepts also relate directly to politics. Consider nationality, a cultural concept, which when narrowed down to a psychological phenomenon is national identity. The Danish Congress is able to regulate the Danish national identity by defining and restricting what it means to be a Dane and who gets access to becoming Danish. The definition of a Danish National Identity then becomes accepted/and or rejected as a psychological phenomenon by different groups in the political sphere. The political also regulates politics. The Danish political system is based on a representative democracy, which is expressed when we vote. The political and politics are always in a close dialogue with each other. They both constitute our “folk psychology” or culture, how we structure and understand society and our roles in it (Bruner, 1993). When I separate politics from the political it is because I work with the term politically excluded. It happens voluntarily as is the case with many of the graffiti artists I interviewed. But it also happens involuntarily with, for example, refugees and other socially vulnerable minorities in Denmark. When someone is politically excluded they are excluded from politics— from the politically established community, the actual legislative power. The problem is that the legislative power can regulate cultural concepts but different groups may be excluded from regulating politics. By leaving out some groups interests entirely from the political decision-making process it creates an imbalance in the relationship between politics and the political. What do you do when you want to contribute to society but no longer believe in politics? Or you wish to reach out and be heard? You work around the established political system. In order to better understand the worlds of street art and graffiti I interviewed three Danish graffiti artists K, Ralle, and 42. They all identify

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as graffiti artists, but Ralle and 42 have also enjoyed engaging in street art and all three artists describe their engagement in other artistic activities such as drawing or painting canvasses. As practicing graffiti is far more often an illegal activity, unless painting on legal walls, the community is, in general, very closed and difficult to enter. The interviews were semi-structured and the data were analyzed with Thematic Network Analysis (Attride-Stirling, 2001), resulting in four global theme networks: human creative activity is social; the relationship between street art and graffiti and society is dynamic; politics is a part of the street art and graffiti movements and; graffiti is an explicit reaction to society. The two latter themes are of relevance to this paper and will be used as implicit structures guiding the general outline of the chapter.

Danish Graffiti and Street Art There are multiple intertwined motives for engaging in both graffiti and street art—be it political, impressing your peers, or beautifying an urban area. The Danish graffiti practice is much about exposing your name and winning the respect of your young painting peers through different styles and techniques (Hedegaard, 2007). Graffiti has traditionally consisted of tags, throw ups, and the bigger pieces representing the artists name executed in old school or new school styles. Tags are seen almost everywhere and function as a way of claiming a space, an object, or an area (Hedegaard, 2007). Not all graffiti artists are competing for “publicity” only. Spyo, who painted ‘One man’s trash another man’s treasure’ (Photo 1), says it is a political commentary as well: “Apart from being a rebellion against society, the bourgeois and conformity, it’s much more than letters. ‘One man’s trash, another man’s treasure’ is a comment on how a hood like Nørrebro1 is a dangerous place to people outside Copenhagen while its home to the people who live here. A place they cherish and fight for,” he says in an interview with the Danish newspaper Politiken (Vuorela, 2010). Spyo’s contribution can be seen as political graffiti—a graffiti type that focuses on social and political commentary, as described by Jarbou (this volume).

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Photo 1  by Cecilia, Copenhagen 2010

Photo 2  by Jonny Hefty, Aalborg 2015

Street art is the phenomenon of an unauthorized artistic expression of public urban space and can be observed through the creation of freestyle or stencil-based paintings, as seen in Photo 3, paste-ups as seen in Photo 2, stickers, or other ways of trying to create ways of unexpected interaction between the environment and the observer (Hedegaard, 2007).

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Photo 3  by Jonny Hefty, Aalborg 2015

This idea of artistic interaction has, according to Hedegaard, also have had an impact on the graffiti movement in Denmark. Contrary to old-­ school graffiti, many new-school graffiti artists care more about the aesthetic expression of their pieces and how they communicate with observers and the general public, who are not artists themselves (Hedegaard, 2007, 2014). Sometimes the reason for painting graffiti is founded in the need for beauty. Some graffiti artists want their pieces to improve public city space and, as 42 says, “It [graffiti] opens people’s eyes to the fact that a wall doesn’t just have to be in a soft grey shade.” While K talks about how he feels about modern city planning and how he feels graffiti improves it: “On a cultural and artistic level it [graffiti] is able to create a world that doesn’t look so boring and empty (…) that makes you depressed.”

Differentiating Graffiti and Street Art It is important to understand why graffiti and street art exist as movements that insist on occupying urban space, and to discuss the differences between the practices, since both creators of street art and graffiti draw strict lines between the two.

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Street art explicitly portrays a specific political message, and graffiti, according to the interviewed graffiti artists, is more often about the action in itself. The expression of non-political graffiti often does not work explicitly as social or political commentary but, as Ralle explains, the action of painting graffiti in itself can be a way of sending a message: “It becomes political because one still relates to the society you’re painting in (…) and because it is to say ‘Fuck you’ to the system.” He refers to the way the action itself is representing a public statement—in this case how he has lost faith in the political system: “We won’t allow them [authorities] to solely set the standards for how society should be or look or standardize everything (…) I pay my taxes like everybody else and think I have the right to use those stupid grey walls we see everywhere.” We see here how Ralle positions himself as a graffiti artist against the system. Positioning theory is a social psychological approach to how communication shapes identity. In this process people claim and ascribe rights for and place duties on themselves and others (Harré, Moghaddam, Cairnie, Rothbart, & Sabat, 2009). In this case, Ralle believes that as a tax-payer he is doing his civic duty and so he claims the right, in a moral sense, to express himself in public space in a way he can relate to. Since the system won’t let him do that, Ralle seems to place himself in a position where it is him, a civilian, against oppressive authorities, the system, and as a graffiti artist Ralle is able to claim some of the rights he believes he doesn’t have as civilian. Graffiti artists often position themselves differently from street artists. In the street art movement, the message is often represented explicitly. The focus is on the product rather than the action: “I would say street art often makes me think and the themes are often focused on political topics (…) I think it has a more artistic role,” as K explains. Ralle elaborates: “It [the street art movement] plays a massive role because it instantly makes people relate to something (…) everybody appreciates street art because they’re pretty.” We clearly see how these interviewees distinguish graffiti from street art, as well as position themselves differently from street artists. Street art is pretty and street artists create pretty art works often in a sociopolitical context. Graffiti artists are aware that they don’t always create pretty pieces, their traditional pieces may not be expressing

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a political message within a sociopolitical context, and they highlight that is not the point of graffiti. Street art does not deviate from the purpose of interacting with the urban environment, but according to the artists, it often has a slightly different function. It, more often than graffiti, focuses on beautifying or portraying a political message (Hedegaard, 2007), a point the media shares as well. In an article from Berlingske with the headline: “Politicians love artistic vandalism.” The article explains how politicians “discriminate” between “traditional graffiti” (often tags and throw ups, but also bigger graffiti pieces) and street art, for example, paste-ups, stencil works, etc. The latter are perceived as being more beautiful and therefore more valuable, even though the law doesn’t differentiate between “beautiful” and “less beautiful” pieces of work (Nyhus, 2009). What is interesting in this regard is, as mentioned before, how a new generation of graffiti artists strive harder to create beautiful graffiti that also interacts with the viewer who might not be familiar with decoding graffiti writing (Hedegaard, 2007, 2014). Thus, even though the graffiti and street art movements sometimes overlap with each other, the process and the finishing product of the two practices may be different, but more often than not the intention serves the same purpose; being easily accessible, criticizing relevant social and political issues and sometimes disseminate new ideas in an artistic, uncensored, and symbolic way. These three aspects are what I will refer to as the democratic potential of art.

Street Art and Graffiti as Democratic Tools In this chapter the democratic potential of graffiti and street art is defined as both practices having a shared democratic nature. A democratic nature, in this case, consists of the idea that everybody is a potential graffiti or street artist. This view is, in some way, a contrast to the view of the established art institution, where the definition of art itself, good art and in general artistic production is carefully determined by a few individuals (Thornton, 2009).

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Furthermore, street art and graffiti are often available to the public in urban spaces in contradiction to works in museums where a fee often is charged (Jacobsen, 2015; Thornton, 2009). This democratic essentiality is important to the graffiti artists 42, K, and Ralle:  alle: “I’m alert when it comes to huge established, governmentR supported museums because it’s all the same (…) art needs to be publicly accessible.” 42: “I think a lot of museum art is boring but I think a lot of graffiti art is boring too (…) make it publicly accessible for everybody rather than telling people what is good or bad art.” K: “I think art at museums are boring. When I’m thinking about it, entrance fees and people in suits come to my mind.”

Practicing unauthorized graffiti and street art opposes the institutional way of perceiving artistic productions as a commodity. The democratic nature of, especially, street art furthermore often manifests itself through the tools used to create the works, for example cardboard, paper, LEGO, a simple wall, etc., which are recognizable materials from everyday contexts. Street art is, so to say, thematically closely tied to the everyday life and events of most people (Jacobsen, 2015). While graffiti is often painted with a spray can (Hedegaard, 2007)—a tool not everybody can identify with—its democratic nature manifests itself, like street art, through being non-institutionalized, often unauthorized, and easily accessible. 42 mentions an example of what the graffiti and street art environments can do. The story takes place in Germany during the World Cup in Brazil 2014: “There were graffiti companies [spray can manufacturers] they started running a hashtag saying ‘Fuck FIFA’ and ‘instead of ­watching football, go paint’ and they got huge attention.” The anti-FIFA movement grew into a social justice movement where, especially, Brazilian citizens expressed their dissatisfaction with their government spending huge amounts of money on football games instead of spending on, for example, food supplies, education, and other basic needs. The works, in general, portrayed themes showing the discontent with corruption, greed, social inequality, etc., as seen in one piece of work that portrays a starving Brazilian boy saying; “Need food. Not football”2 (Meredith, 2014). It is

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a good example of how graffiti and street art can give voice to groups that are politically excluded in a society, as Latorre (this volume) also describes. Likewise, in Denmark stickers and paste-ups saying “Welcome Refugees” have been spotted in major cities supporting the arrival of new minority groups, as well as stencil works that draw attention to flaws in the Danish political system, as we will come back to in later sections.

Political Street Art In early 2015, I discussed politically oriented street art and graffiti in Denmark with Ralle, K, and 42. They all thought neither the Danish street art nor the graffiti movements were especially focused on political topics. When I asked them to reflect on why, their answers were surprisingly similar; “Well, we are a fairly wealthy society, whether you want it or not, so people in this country are not really in trouble as much as in other places of the world,” said Ralle. 42 answered in a similar way: “I think it’s because, well we’re too comfortable here in Denmark. The good life has more or less pacified us (…) it’s only relevant to paint political stuff if there are some who really are against something (political issues) and it doesn’t seem to be the case in Denmark.” It is interesting to note that both 42 and Ralle identify as “We Danes” and being “part of a wealthy society,” but while “we Danes”—referring to the majority of the population, are too comfortable to really confront social and political issues, Ralle and 42 yet distinguish themselves from the comfortable majority by painting graffiti. In that way, they’re able to position themselves as different from the rest of the herd—as more radical and individually free.

Corruption, Action, and Greed? In this section I will comment on two pieces recently spotted in Aalborg, which story and message I find interesting from an artistic, social, and political point of view. They both draw attention to the representation of cultural concepts like freedom, duties, and ideology.

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The first image, Photo 2, is a paste-up. The combination of text and image is interesting as it leads me, the observer, to think of rebellion. The person is holding a flag and his/her fist is stretching towards the sky which leads me to think of determination and victory. The text “Power is poison” suggests that (I’m assuming the Danish) political system is flawed and corrupted and “If not us… Who? If not now…When?” could be a call to fight the system. The “us” could be a movement—an imagined community of like-minded people. Other civilians who want change as well. It encourages the observer to rebel and participate in overthrowing the current system. The If not now…When? expresses a sentiment that things will not get better until we all decide to do something about it— we won’t be free. As it was the case with Ralle, the artist positions herself as being against the system. Not a particular system, not an ideology or a specific party but the system in general. There is an anarchist sense to the paste-up. It positions “us”—a potentially like-minded community against the people in power. There is an underlying argumentation at play here: if power is poison the people in power are poisoned. If so, do we trust poisoned people to make decisions benefiting the majority of the population? It ascribes a right to an imagined community of citizens; it is our right not to be governed by people who are poisoned and it places a political duty on the citizen. Not only is it necessary but it is our duty to act now and remove the people in power. Photo 3 is a stencil-based piece and also a mixture of image and text. Gold isn’t good enough. We want diamonds where diamond is represented by a symbol instead of writing. Below the text are two human-like figures with oversized, wide-open mouths. One of the figures is carrying a book with an image of the Earth. One way of interpreting the photo is that the image is an attempt to draw attention to the greed of the Western world. Gold isn’t good enough. In Western consumer societies, the consumer is constantly encouraged to buy more possessions but this constant demand for resources is damaging the environment. As excessive consumers we swallow everything within our reach in our constant hunt for new objects to possess. Because some of the text is featured in black, whereas the rest is just with a black outline, I wonder if We want diamonds was originally part of the image or if it has been added later on—maybe by someone else.

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Contrary to the other image, this is an ironic social commentary, critiquing the consumer-based capitalistic ideology. It does not encourage a specific action, but by highlighting the idea of an excessive consumer the artist also creates an opposite position, the minimalist consumer. With the current focus on green energy and ethical production of manufactured goods and foods this images hits a nerve in the current political discourse of, so-called green living and ultimately reminds us of the alluring threat of a climate change crisis. To understand these pictures, the observer must group together text and symbols. Together all the different elements create meaning and the symbolic objects represent complex cultural concepts like freedom, greed, or democracy. This process is called recursive semiosis—it creates new signs over and over, which in the end produces an argument. It becomes noticeable when a picture puzzles us and we, as observers, are forced to work out a possible argumentative interpretation (Lonchuk & Rosa, 2011). In this case, both images represent broader political struggles and discourses—from the general political system being corrupted to the focus on capitalistic ideology and its consequences.

The World’s Happiest Country? In order to better understand the take-home messages of the works above, I will draw attention to the current political and social situation in Denmark. In a report from 2013 (and again in 2015) Denmark was considered to be one of the “happiest” countries in the world by the World Happiness Report. With happy the authors refer to an overall “feeling of wellbeing” in people’s everyday lives. This feeling, they argue, is tied to a variety of social factors. Do people feel secure in the country and local area they are living in? Is the national economy good? Are people employed? These dynamics put Denmark at the top of the happiness list (Helliwell, Layard, & Sachs, 2013). The way society was structured provided the citizen with a general feeling of being or feeling secure. Denmark also went through the financial crisis in 2008 well in relation to other countries—the economy did suffer but not as much as it did in other countries (Madsen, 2013).

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The hypothesis, according to the graffiti artists, was that when a country is doing well it makes more sense for street artists and new school graffiti artists to focus on creating beautiful works and pieces and focus less on political and social issues—the pressure simply is not big enough. So to speak, the argument seems to be that the quantity of graffiti and street art that focus on political and social issues are connected to a national wealth surplus and if that surplus is great enough, there will be less of the aforementioned creative expressions on a street level. It seems fitting, on that occasion, to explore the current social and political situation in Denmark. As societal structures are ever ongoing processes their premises also change all the time. Recent analysis and surveys suggest Denmark is heading in a direction where individuals feel more uncertain and scared about their futures, an insecurity that manifests itself as fear in their everyday contexts. The parameters on which “happiness” was measured seems to be crumbling in these years. When I, in October 2015, digitally caught up with the artist 42 he told me how he had changed his view on society: “No, I definitely believe that the conditions have changed since last time we spoke. Both in relation to the rising number of refugees and the rising numbers of idiots in the Danish Parliament.” What 42 is referring to is the European refugee crisis and a growing mistrust in Danish politicians and politics (Olsen, Plough, Andersen, Sabier, & Andersen, 2014), which is expressed in different levels of insecurity.

Insecurity—A Growing Problem In 2015 Klassekamp fra Oven (Class Conflict from Above) was released. It examines and accounts for what the authors argue is a general growth of inequality and insecurity in Denmark. The researchers argue that a growing percentage of Danish citizens feel insecure in their everyday context and that Danish society is becoming more and more unequal. The book focuses mostly the Danish class society. A society where classes do not exist is most likely an utopia—some will always have more than others, but in a country where most of the population for decades

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have been perceived as being one big middle class, it is important to raise awareness about growing poverty and insecurity that manifest themselves as everyday struggles to an increasing number of Danish citizens (Olsen et al., 2014). When talking about insecurity I refer to financial, democratic, and social insecurity. Insecurity has always been part of human existence, but these insecurities are noticeable in a Danish context because it has, for decades, been an official political goal to fight inequality and secure the well-being of the individual within a strong community. But as the goals in society have changed, from the welfare state encouraging and educating its people to become good democratic citizens to a competition state educating its citizens to become good consumers and workers to secure Denmark on the global market, it has given rise to conflicts (Pedersen, 2011). In order to understand why some of the issues, that the two works above focus on, are currently expressed in society the next section explores the growing insecurities in the Danish society.

Democratic Insecurity The concept of democratic insecurity covers how much people trust politicians. During the chaos that followed the economic crisis in 2008 a still increasing mistrust in politicians was one of the major points made in Class Conflict from Above. Olsen et  al. (2014) argue that in 2013 only twenty-six per cent of the population had faith in the politicians, whereas forty-five per cent had little trust and twenty-three per cent very little trust in the politicians. Mistrust is tied to two factors: one is severe economic and social insecurity experienced by people in their everyday lives have huge political consequences—the greater insecurity the greater mistrust in politicians. The other factor is skepticism in relation to political reforms. The general public doesn’t believe political reforms will improve their general welfare and the greater skepticism, the greater mistrust in politicians. This has, in 2015, led to the common assumption that most politicians are not at all grounded and familiar with the everyday lives of common

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Danish citizens but that politicians live in their own parallel world (Olsen et al., 2014). When Ralle, K, and 42, during interviews in early 2015, explained their political discontent, their discontent with authorities, and how painting graffiti partly helped them overcome the feeling of political exclusion, their feelings were actually shared by a great deal of the general population. Ralle pointed out the, sometimes, absurdity of the political system through an anecdote: Well, when Bush came to Berlin while he was on top of things and most hated there were 800,000 people who greeted him with boos and the only thing he did was to greet them back and say “I’m glad you’re using your democratic right.”

What Ralle expresses here is his discontent with the way the current political system is practiced. He further continues to talk about how he feels about the situation in Denmark: (…) but in Denmark it’s not, you have to fight if you want changes and then you’re told that you’re stupid (…) nothing happens (…) therefore it’s even more important that you keep going because they have to know that we’re here but it doesn’t lead to anything else but them knowing somebody doesn’t agree with them.

Here, Ralle positions himself as being against the political system. He expresses his frustration of not feeling heard by the people in power—the people in power are oppressive. But instead of identifying as a victim, he paints. To him, painting graffiti is an empowerment; a mere tool to create awareness, call for help, or express his discontent with or love for something in public space. As mentioned before, by being a graffiti artists, he is able to claim rights he doesn’t feel he has as a civilian. In that way, both graffiti and street artists can be particularly rebellious and political. It is a fight for the rights of self-expression and to be heard. The feeling the graffiti artists seem to experience each time they decide to paint in public, is the right to express oneself and the right to be heard by, especially, the people in power. 42 describes how he thinks “they [authorities] don’t like that people take initiatives to create something on

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their own.” Thus, they describe the feeling of democratic insecurity and how they end up feeling politically excluded—not being seen or heard and unable to participate in the political decision-making process. The artists choose to politically exclude themselves because they experience that the imbalance between politics and the political is growing too big.

Financial Insecurity The term of financial insecurity covers how different social classes in Denmark experience financial hardship. Class Conflict from Above revives a social class that, for many years, has believed to be extinct in Danish society—the lower class. This term, in this case, mainly refers to families where the majority of the adults are on long-term welfare (SU3 and paternity/maternity leave excepted). It divides the Danish population into five classes: the upper class; the upper middle class; the middle class; the working class; and the lower class (Olsen et al., 2014). The rising inequality is the result of an upper class that in terms of income and personal wealth is eloping from the rest of society: Upper class Upper middle class Middle class Working class Lower class

1985

1997

2008

2012

884 226 161 100 88

1169 290 161 100 82

891 293 173 100 44

1291 369 178 100 65

Index 1 portraying the difference in personal wealth of family units across the social classes where the Working Class is = 100 (Olsen et al., 2014, p. 17)

The index shows how the personal wealth of typical families of the upper class in 2012 was thirteen times as big as a typical family from the lower class and how the wealth of the upper class is slowly but steadily increasing—this despite the fact that Denmark doesn’t officially acknowledge that a class society even exists (Jensen, 2014). Olsen et al. argue that because of the decreasing wages and unemployment, less money is, in general, circling middle- and working-class households, whereas the upper class has experienced a financial improvement, even during and after the economic crisis in 2008 (Olsen et al., 2014).

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Social Insecurity The term social insecurity is an attempt to describe how financial insecurity and democratic insecurity is felt when combined and how it impacts people in their everyday lives. An analysis from 2015 indicated that the percentage of people feeling insecure in 2015 was the highest in 10 years—from 2.5% in 2005 to 17.7% in 2015 (Astrup, 2015). It was highest amongst the working and lower classes when relating to private economy where about thirty per cent of people felt very insecure and fifteen per cent felt relatively insecure. Among the working class fifteen per cent felt very insecure and about seventeen per cent felt relatively insecure. The analysis also showed that about four out of ten people from the lower class on welfare income chose not to buy prescribed medications as a result of financial hardship (Olsen et al., 2014). The insecurity is related to other areas as well, for example job security, crime rates, and general welfare services. Four out of ten people in the analysis were afraid they wouldn’t receive the necessary medical assistance should they become ill (Astrup, 2015) and forty per cent of people across all classes felt very or relatively insecure whether they will receive the necessary assistance when they grow old. Among the lower class and working class, respectively, forty-nine per cent and forty-three per cent felt insecure in everyday life (Olsen et al., 2014). You could say social insecurity is the outcome of the imbalance between politics and the political. Politicians have access to regulating cultural concepts. Citizens have the opportunity of regulating the politicians, but the imbalance is created when the trust between citizen and politician is broken. The mistrust politically excludes citizens by limiting citizens’ access to regulating politics—not by saying they can’t vote but by creating a what does it matter mentality. A mentality born when politicians repeatedly break their promises and make decisions that are not supporting the welfare of the majority of the population, as Olsen et al. argue is currently the situation in Denmark (ibid., 2014). Maybe that was also part of the message of Photo 2—Power is poison. “It doesn’t matter what we vote so we might as well overthrow the system in general.”

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Photo 4  by Cecilia, Copenhagen 2008

In 2008 the Danish artist, HuskMitNavn, did a piece addressing, especially the issue of financial insecurity, as well the gentrification, of cities. It was posted at the square in front of the city hall of Copenhagen which is one of the busiest areas in the city. With his humorous paste-up he portrayed the shortcomings of society and where it seemed to be heading (see Photo 4). The text says “Køb En Havn—og smid de fattige i vandet.” It refers to the capital of Denmark, Copenhagen (in Danish København), which, if the word is broken up into three parts, spells “Buy A Habour” with a text beneath saying “and throw the poor people into the water.” It is a social comment on how Copenhagen as a city is becoming more expensive to live in; apartments and houses, activities in the city, and basic necessities are becoming more expensive. All in all the living expenses in Copenhagen are growing (Astrup, 2014). This all happens while the lower class is growing, the working and middle classes are diminishing and while people from all three classes, in general, have less money to spend.

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When HuskMitNavn comments on this issue it might be because there used to be areas in the city, which were affordable for people with a smaller income but this is all changing. Nørrebro, a former poorer working district in Copenhagen, is now one of the most popular places to live and that is reflected in rental prices (Astrup, 2014). This gentrification of city districts pushes the poorer out of the certain districts, and in cities in general and creates rich or poor “ghetto-like” areas, making the separation between rich and poor even bigger (Thiemann, 2014).

 he Refugee Crisis and the Stickers T of Good Will Another example of how especially stickers have been used to utter a public opinion in relation to a specific situation, is the phenomenon of the ‘Refugees Welcome’ stickers. A statement also seen as posters and paste-ups floating around the urban environment during 2015. Europe is experiencing mass migration of people, especially from Syria. Roughly nine million Syrians have in current years been forced to flee their home country owing to civil war (Ross, 2015). On 7 September 2015 Syrian refugees were walking on the Danish motorways from the German borders in order to reach Sweden (Reich, 2015). As the right-­ winged Danish government wishes to reduce the number of asylum ­seekers in Denmark and have further restricted the immigration laws (Skærbæk & Kristensen, 2015), individuals have reacted to the migration crisis by posting “Refugee Welcome” stickers on the streets to show refugees their support. This sticker (Photo 5) is one example of the democratic potential of street art. The piece is relatively simple and easy to relate to. The text is clear and straightforward, it doesn’t take much interpretation and the materials, tusch on paper, being everyday tools, and the DIY spirit simplifies the piece even further. The democratic power of this piece and its message lies within this simplification: that they could be made by anyone anywhere, and the fact that it most likely was made by “anyone,” who wished to address the issue of war and mass migration and remind the observer that it most certainly is an issue we need to solve as a society.

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Photo 5  by Cecilia, Odense 2015

What Now? As I believe to have demonstrated in this chapter, Denmark as a nation has issues that need to be attended to from a political decision-making point of view. The social, political, and financial insecurity is increasing. While it is important for the balance between politics and the political that the politicians and political decision-making processes are in sync with the majority of the population, there are arguments suggesting that Denmark seems to be heading in the opposite direction, where groups and small communities would rather politically exclude themselves from politics. I believe Danish political and non-political graffiti and street art can be seen as an artistic alternative to the media—voicing these groups that otherwise feel they have no say in the political decision-making process, introducing the observer to an idea—inviting the observer to think or ponder over certain aspects of social and political life. These practices are empowering, democratic tools that give value and voice to people, who might otherwise feel insignificant and unimportant. The

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practices, at times, represent an anonymous, non-institutionalized, potentially critical voice of the common person—a voice that is not necessarily represented in the media. We see how street art and graffiti in Denmark respond to social, political, and financial struggles with humor and, in all seriousness, with anger. Together these form powerful works that, through argumentative argumentation, potentially encourage the observer to act or think about the issues, society faces, in an artistic way where complex cultural concepts are simplified into a specific, symbolic context. Street art and graffiti are important social tools that measure the temperature of a society. When a society struggles there is a good chance those struggles are reflected on the streets. The persistence of graffiti and street art, the artists insisting on expressing themselves, the simplicity of the materials, the political and social commentary, and the resistance that lies within the act of painting and creating makes a powerful, democratic tool out of the street art and graffiti images. We can thus expect to see more Danish street art movements in the future that raise awareness about political and social issues of the society, if the issues with inequality, insecurity, and poverty are not attended to in a political and democratic manner in the years to come.

Notes 1. A district in Northern Copenhagen. 2. For photos of the artworks mentioned above, go to: http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/2014/05/29/world-cup-2014-anti-fifa-graffitibrazil_n_5408811.html 3. A welfare service to financially support students while they study (Olsen et al., 2014).

References Astrup, E. (2014, March 7). København er verdens 10. dyreste by. Politiken. Retrieved November 21, 2015, from http://politiken.dk/oekonomi/privatoekonomi/ECE2228345/koebenhavn-er-verdens-10-dyreste-by/

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Astrup, E. (2015, October 23). Et stigende antal danskere føler sig utrygge. Politiken. Retrieved October 27, 2015, from http://politiken.dk/indland/ ECE2899099/et-stigende-antal-danskere-foeler-sig-utrygge/ Attride-Stirling J. (2001). Qualitative research: Thematic networks: An analytic tool for qualitative research. London: SAGE. Bruner, J. (1993). Acts of meaning: Four lectures on mind and culture. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Harré, R., Moghaddam, F.  M., Cairnie, T.  P., Rothbart, D., & Sabat, S.  R. (2009). Recent advances in positioning theory. Theory & Psychology, 19(1), 5–31. Hedegaard, M. (2007). Graffiti som engagement (1st ed.). Aarhus: Forlaget Klim. Hedegaard, M. (2014). Exploring tension and contradictions in youth’s activity of painting graffiti. Culture & Psychology, 20(3), 387–403. Helliwell, J. F., Layard, R., & Sachs, J. (Eds.). (2013). World happiness report 2013. New York: UN Sustainable Development Solutions Network. Holm, I.  W. (2015). Stormløb mod grænsen; Det politiske hos Franz Kafka. Denmark: Gyldendal. Jacobsen, S. T. (2015). Kandidatspeciale: DANSK GADEKUNST I EN KUNSTOG KULTURPERSPEKTIV. Copenhagen: University of Copenhagen. Retrieved November 1, 2015, from http://sensuous.dk/wp-content/uploads/2013/10/ Speciale-Dansk-gadekunst-i-et-kunst-og-kulturarvsperspektiv.pdf Jensen, K. (2014, November 18). Overklassen sticker af. Politiken. Retrieved October 27, 2015, from http://www.information.dk/databloggen/516206 Lonchuk, M., & Rosa, A. (2011). Voices of graphic art images. InDialogicality in focus: Challenges to theory, method and application (pp. 129–146). New York: Nova Science Publishers, Inc. Madsen, P.  G. H. (2013, November 12). Danskere gik glade gennem krisen. Politiken. Retrieved March 10, 2015, from http://politiken.dk/oekonomi/ dkoekonomi/ECE2128466/danskere-gik-glade-gennem-krisen/ Meredith, C. (2014, May 29). World Cup 2014: 14 powerful pictures of anti-­ FIFA graffiti in Brazil. Huffington Post. Retrieved October 26, 2015, from http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/2014/05/29/world-cup-2014-anti-fifagraffiti-brazil_n_5408811.html Nyhus, A. (2009, October 13). Politikerne vilde med kunstnerisk hærværk. Berlingske. Retrieved June 13, 2015, from http://www.b.dk/koebenhavn/ politikerne-vilde-med-kunstnerisk-haervaerk Olsen, L., Plough, N., Andersen, L., Sabiers, S. E., & Andersen, J. G. (2014). Klassekamp fra Oven: Den danske samfundsmodel under pres (1st ed.). Denmark: Gyldendal.

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Pedersen, O. K. (2011). Konkurrencestaten (1st ed.). Denmark: Hans Reitzels Forlag. Ratner, C. (2012). Macro-cultural psychology. In J. Valsiner (Ed.), The Oxford handbook of culture and psychology (pp. 207–235). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Reich, O. K. (2015, September 7). Stor gruppe flygtninge går på motorvejen ved Rødby. Politiken. Retrieved November 1, 2015, from http://politiken. dk/udland/fokus_int/Flygtningestroem/ECE2830463/stor-gruppe-flygtningegaar-paa-motorvejen-ved-roedby/ Ross, J. (2015, September 11). The politics of the Syrian refugee crisis, explained. The Washington Post. Retrieved November 1, 2015, from https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/the-fix/wp/2015/09/11/the-politics-of-the-syrian-refugeecrisis-explained/ Skærbæk, M., & Kristensen, F. B. (2015, July 1). Regeringen klar med asylaftale. Politiken. Retrieved November 1, 2015, from http://politiken.dk/indland/ politik/ECE2740727/regeringen-klar-med-asylaftale/ Thiemann, P. (2014, March 7). De største danske byer får flere ghettoer for rige og fattige. Politiken. Retrieved November 21, 2015, from http://politiken. dk/oekonomi/dkoekonomi/ECE2237017/de-stoerste-danske-byer-faar-flere-ghettoerfor-rige-og-fattige/ Thornton, S. (2009). Seven days in the art world (1st ed.). London: Granta Books. Vuorela, M. (2010, June 7). Graffitimaler skriver slagord fra byens tage. Politiken. Retrieved August 16, 2015, from ­http://politiken.dk/kultur/ECE988468/ grafittimaler-skriver-slagord-fra-byens-tage/ Cecilia Schøler Nielsen  BA in general psychology and MSc in cultural psychology, Aalborg University. She has spent the past two years researching and exploring the art world from a psychological point of view. Of great interest is, especially, Danish street art and graffiti as it is seen as a contrast to the institutionalized art world. Her master’s thesis centered on voicing Danish graffiti and street artists while exploring the meaning behind the practices by looking at the process of painting and the relationship between artist and society. Of further interest are the narratives of the artists, political graffiti, and street art works, as well as explicitly exploring the power structures between authorities and artists.

The Aesthetics of Social Movements in Spain Óscar García Agustín

Whilst social movements arose for democracy and fought against dictatorship during the Arab Spring, in May 2011 vast mobilizations in Spain claimed for real democracy and rejected the role played by economic and political elites. The movement, called indignados or 15 M owing to the date of the first day of protests (15 May), was characterized by taking squares and organizing assemblies open for all as a way of practicing direct democracy. The image of the diversity of people gathering and talking about politics contrasted with that of the parliament as the only space for deliberation within the tradition of representative democracy. These spatial practices, taking the square as the space of deliberation, raised the question of what is “public” and how. Is a public space just a space, which apparently is not owned by anybody—although the state or the municipality appear as public owners? And how can this space, being public, be used by the people? These questions became even more evident when the police tried to evict the protesters gathered in the squares, as happened in Barcelona and Madrid. Apparently some uses of the “­ public,” Ó.G. Agustín (*) Department of Culture and Global Studies, Aalborg University, Aalborg, Denmark © The Author(s) 2017 S.H. Awad, B. Wagoner (eds.), Street Art of Resistance, Palgrave Studies in Creativity and Culture, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-63330-5_14

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such as discussing democracy, could not take place in public spaces. Furthermore, the alterations of the public space, by means of posters, tents, and banners, were seen as attacks against public property, revealing a narrow understanding of the “public” to ownership and excluding the people who use the space from constituting part of the public. It is no surprise that those most annoyed by the encampment were the owners of the surrounding stores who were concerned about how the occupation would affect their businesses negatively. What is important here is that the notion of “public” cannot be reduced to the space but must also include those who use the space. As shown by the taking over of the squares, social movement practices not only transform public spaces, but also social movements themselves and the way of doing politics (Martin Rojo, 2016). It would be more appropriate, in this sense, to talk about common spaces rather than public ones. The spaces become “owned” by the community in order to experiment with alternatives models of democracy, namely participatory, deliberative, or direct democracy. For this reason, subjectivization, as argued by Marina Prentoulis and Lasse Thomassen (2013) following the concept of Jacques Rancière, is essential to account for how the protesters are constituted as subjects who claim to have a voice, implying also that the others have to listen to them, that they should count, and be counted as equal. This means that the irruption in public space is both a way of appropriating it (making it “really public” or, in other words, common) and of giving voice and visibility to those who think that their voice has been excluded from the “public” and is not being taken into account. In this regard, it was anecdotic and nonetheless significant that Puerta del Sol, the central square of Madrid, was dominated by a gigantic advertisement by L’Oréal featuring the Spanish actress Paz Vega before the occupation. The advertisement was maintained during the camp but it was gradually appropriated by the protesters (Fig. 1) and became an icon for the movement. First a banner of the Nazi Heinrich Himmler, with Mickey Mouse ears and a symbol of the Euro in the middle of his forehead, was put next to Paz Vega’s face, with the text “They do not represent us.” In the following days new messages were incorporated reclaiming more democracy, rejecting the system, or showing the expanding international solidarity with 15 M. Even the figure of Paz Vega was reproduced

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Fig. 1  María González Amarillo

on other posters characterized as Che Guevara with the logo “Until L’Oreal, always!,” replacing the famous “Until Victory, always!” The protestors thus transformed the privatized public space (a commercial that interacted with the public) into a common space, where the community congregated around the square deployed the gigantic banner as an open window to express their grievances and demands. This case shows that spatial distributions tend to influence the way people act. However, these distributions can be challenged or undone through the introduction of disagreement, meaning the voices of a community that has felt excluded and without access to the public (their voices do not count and are not counted). The emergent community of the 15 M appropriates itself of the symbolic distributions drawn up in a central square of Madrid and modifies them. This is, in sum, the conceptualization of politics and aesthetics presented in this chapter. Drawing on the work of Rancière, I explore how consensus on the surface is q­ uestioned through the introduction of conflict by a community (politics), who challenges the ways of doing, acting, saying, and feeling (aesthetics).

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The objective of this chapter is to analyze how social movements in Spain after the 2007–08 economic crisis deploy aesthetic practices in urban spaces in order to make the political conflict visible and enhance a new sense of community. These practices are obviously collective and the figure of the artist (or artists) as such is embedded within this collectivity (see also Glaveanu, this volume). To account for how the aesthetics of social movements become ways of doing politics, I first present Rancière’s reflections and later apply them to three cases that illustrate how Spanish social movements are responding to their exclusion from the public space and, more generally, the public sphere.

Politics and Aesthetics of Social Movements In order to understand the connection between politics and aesthetics, and how it can be applied to the case of social movements, I draw on the work of Jacques Rancière, who offers an interesting approach to these issues. First of all, his definition of politics and aesthetics differs from traditional ones. According to Rancière politics is the interruption of the “natural” order of domination by those who have no part. This means that politics is conflict about the existence of a common scenario and about who can and cannot be included within such a scenario. When a group (those who have no part) questions the established order and claims its equal right to be part of a common scenario, the introduction of the conflict contributes to changing the sense of political community, since such a community is shaped precisely when the conflict emerges. In other words, the community does not pre-exist but is constituted by the act of politics. This is reflected in the process of subjectivization, which refers to how groups, communities, and identities are named (and linked) to forge other groups. This process creates new relations within and between groups. When Richard Seymour (2012) states that “We are all the precariat,” he stresses that various groups (the working class, as well as the bourgeoisie and the professional middle class) can be named (and interpellated) as group in opposition to the capitalist class. The notion of politics as interruption, conflict, or disagreement can be better understood by explaining the dichotomy presented by Rancière

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between “police” and “politics.” “Police” would not be reduced to the “pretty police” but acquires a wider sense as a system of distribution and legitimization. It includes all procedures to achieve consent (and become legitimate) through the organization of powers and the distribution of places, roles, and systems. Thus, the police defines the parts: what is visible or sayable, which are the conditions for that, and how the word, the social meaning, must be interpreted. In opposition to this notion of police, Rancière defines “politics” in the following sense: “whatever breaks with the tangible configuration whereby parties and parts or lack of them are defined by a presupposition that, by definition, has no place in that configuration -that of the part of those who have no part” (1999, pp. 29–30). Politics enables, in this sense, the emergence of new groups that question the existing order, including its distribution and categorizations. The police divides the community into groups, and assigns them functions, positions, and rights. By doing that it creates a divided community between those who take part and those who have no part (and are excluded), which is grounded in other (sensory) distributions: what is visible and invisible; sayable or unsayable; doable and undoable. Rancière refers, indeed, to the police as the “distribution of the sensible” since the “sensible” is related to perceptions (visible, sayable, audible, doable). Consequently, politics entails the interruption of such distribution of the sensible through the modification of the “sensible,” that is, the perception of what can be said or seen.1 As noticed by Jan Philipp van Wees (2016), the idea of distribution of the sensible implies the intertwined relation between politics and aesthetics. Police and politics are the domain of distribution, and aesthetics is the domain of the sensible. Therefore, Rancière stresses the existence of aesthetics at the core of politics. The distribution of the sensible reveals what is common to the community based on the activity, time, and space of its performance. Aesthetics is, in this sense, “a delimitation of spaces and times, of the visible and the invisible, of speech and noise, that simultaneously ­determines the place and the stakes of politics as a form of experience” (2004, p. 13). This is important since the symbolic order is not merely a matter of representation but of sensory experience, the partition of the perceptible, since it is “embodied as perceptive universe” (Rancière, 2011). The ­aesthetic

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practices are thus ways of doing and making that intervene in the distribution of the sensible and have the potential to reconfigure it by allowing for new ways of saying, doing, thinking, and seeing. This can be seen in the usages of masks by several movements, from Zapatistas to Global Justice Movement or Anonymous. The embodied aesthetic practice of wearing masks undoes the distinction between visible and invisible and opposes distributions upon which the established order relies (the logics of police). Thomas Nall (2013) talks, in a similar manner, of the politics of the mask, since the movements through their practices of using the mask reject political representation and identity and instead propose direct democracy and equality. A sense of equality, for example, is created since the usage of the mask contributes to shape an anonymous collective political agency. The space of the common (what is included and excluded) can be reshaped. When those who have no part claim their voice, they reconfigure the space by starting a process of political subjectivization. The political subject rejects previous ways of classification or of exclusion through the interruption of the parts fixed by the established order. In its redefinition of the field of experience, political subjectivization decomposes and recomposes ways of doing, being, and saying, which define the perceptible organization and the community. The aesthetic contributes to the rupture or displacement between two logics: the logic of police (determining spaces, distributions, and functions) and the logic of politics, which modifies the former. Rancière stresses this point when he attributes to political subjectivization the ability to produce polemical scenes where the contractions between both logics are brought out. The way in which the protesters of the Occupy Wall Street Movement named themselves “the 99’” to change the distribution of the sensible, by introducing a new political subjectivization and rejecting imposed classifications (which excluded them until then), is a good example of that process. The relationship between politics and aesthetics, as elaborated by Rancière, is very relevant when thinking of the aesthetics of social ­movements. Since aesthetics affects the “sensible,” as well as politics interrupt the established order, the aesthetics of social movements consists in making visible what was before invisible (the part that has no part) and in revealing the arbitrariness of boundaries and classifications that have been considered “natural.” The ways of doing and making of social movements

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constitute the modification of such order (the distribution of the sensible) and the constitution of new political subjectivizations, which are capable of connecting different demands or functions, which did not exist before. Applying this to public spaces, this kind of aesthetics makes the modes of exclusion and domination visible and shows how the “public” is shaped around an exclusive definition of the “common.” Indeed, the aesthetic practices of social movements open up a space in which the common is redefined and previous political subjects enter in contact with other subjects. In the following sections, I present the practices of three social movements in Spain which illustrate how aesthetic practices contribute to modifying the perceived social order which they come into conflict with, as the conflict is introduced by the logic of politics.

The Crisis and the Aesthetics of Resistance To explain the wave of protests of 2011, Michael Hardt and Antonio Negri (2012) refer to the previous political and social conditions, since they consider that the crisis produces dominant forms of subjectivity. Social movements react against these subjective figures and try to invert them into figures of power (of democratic action). In the Spanish case, this became clear with the 15 M rebellion, which carried out a “democratic turn” (Flesher, 2015a) combining practices of radical democracy with claims for basic social rights. Since the latter is not guaranteed by the representative democratic institutions, movements denounce the illegitimacy of the institutions. The crisis is thus not only an economic crisis but also a crisis of legitimacy, of confidence in the representative institutions. The Spanish movements combine complementary actions against institutions with others aimed towards modifying the existing institutional framework. The former are necessary to interrupt the political consensus and redefine what was perceived as common, whilst the latter use this social rupture (which generates a new form of legitimacy) to achieve concrete changes within the established order. The aesthetics of resistance implies making visible emerging political subjects, which reject the imposition of dominant forms of subjectivity

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and lead to reconfiguring the “common” political space. As pointed out by Cristina Flesher (2015b) the Spanish movements offer an invigoration of the public sphere and, as resistance movements, they contest the meaning of “crisis” and its justification. I analyze three movements that contribute to making the political conflict visible and develop new processes of political subjectivizations and deploy aesthetic practices to undo the distribution of the sensible. The three movements are connected with the 15 M and share the common interest in deepening democracy: Platform for People Affected by Mortgages (PAH), Invisibles, and No Somos Delito (“We are not Crime”). I identify three kinds of subjectivization that they develop as a consequence of interrupting the dominant order: the part which has no justice, the part which has no visibility, and the part which has no voice. It must be clarified that the aesthetic practices I present are only some of the many practices these movements deploy. This means that the movements cannot be reduced to these performances, since they have their organizational dynamics, dialogue with institutions and other actions of protests in the streets. However the aesthetic practices show, in concrete settings (i.e., the street as public spaces), how they contribute to change perceptions, and modify the sense of shared place by introducing new subjectivities.

PAH: The Part Which Has No Justice The Platform for People Affected by Mortgages (PAH) was founded in 2009 as a response to the severe difficulties experienced by indebted citizens in paying their mortgages. The Spanish housing crisis can be explained by two factors: on the one hand, the overproduction of dwelling and the risk assumed by bankers financing construction entrepreneurs and households with variable interest loans (Gentier, 2012); and, on the other, public policies fostering the indebtedness of the population by guaranteeing easy access to credit and prioritizing the advantages of private property instead of renting (Colau & Alemany, 2012). The number of foreclosures and evictions increased enormously since people could not afford their mortgages. The core claim of the PAH movement is the right to housing, which must not be detached from the rejection of debt.

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Indeed, the indebted has been considered one of the subjective figures created by neoliberalism (Hardt & Negri, 2012), accentuated by the economic crisis. The PAH reacts against the imposition of debt and claims its illegitimate nature. For this reason, I include the PAH as the part which has no justice, because they dispute the ideas of justice and legitimacy, intertwined with other essential components of their subjectivization such as housing and debt. The program of the PAH can be summarized in three points (Agustín, 2015): stopping evictions, allowing dations-in-payment (to cancel the debt after leaving the house), and establishing social rents. Its protests combine claims to institutional reform with direct action in the streets; sometimes through campaigns that are intertwined. In this case I focus on the campaign “Trial and Punishment” (“Justicio y Castigo”), initiated in 2013. A Popular Legislative Initiative to improve housing conditions, collecting more than 1,400,000 signatures, was presented by the PAH in 2013 and rejected by the Parliament, since the ruling party, the People’s Party, opposed it. The PAH decided to step forward and start a new campaign, “Trial and Punishment”, aimed to single out the “real” responsible for the economic crisis: financial institutions as the ones that, in reality, make the decisions. According to the campaign, the government charged the bills (caused by the costs of financial institutions) to the citizens, resulting in social cuts and privatization of welfare services. The working document elaborated by the PAH is aimed at fighting against “financial impunity” and to make impunity and civil society’s determination against it visible. The aesthetics of the PAH is deployed to make the conflict, the core of politics, visible. One of the main leaders of the PAH, Rafael Mayoral (2014), mentioned that the goal of the campaign was “to change the logic of the conflict” since there is a “line because here what has occurred is a systematic violation of human rights.” The discursive and visual axes are used to stress that line and reconfigure the relationship between the part which has no justice (represented by the PAH) and the part which is responsible for the injustice (represented by financial institutions). In other words, it contributes to introduce new ways of perceiving (saying and seeing) the political conflict.

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The graphic material (banners, stickers, t-shirts, pamphlets) was designed to increase the visibility of the campaign in different kind of actions. It consisted of a series of individual portraits of the directors of the main financial institution including their full names and the motto “Trial and Punishment.” This graphic material aims to increase the visibility of the conflict in different actions: direct action protests and rallies. Besides making the conflict visible, these actions are considered as collective means to foster empowerment and “unguiltiness.” As highlighted by the banners, there is a double shift in the perception of the conflict: firstly, responsibility does not rely on politicians or the government (as before) but on the financial institutions (as the ones that decide for politicians); and, secondly, the protest is not only against particular banks (in any case represented by the portraits of the directors) but against their underlying connection as part of the same financial system (which is emphasized by the campaign in general). Like in other PAH campaigns, the graphic elements are inseparable from the public performance and the connection between the collective and the visual identity. Looking at the use of the banners in the rallies, the PAH redefines the distribution of the sensible. The protesters hold the banners over their bodies, thus embodying the accusation. They are not personally responsible for the mismanagement of their mortgage, as pretended by the established order, nor passive victims for not knowing the economic consequences of their decisions. They are accusers and they single out bankers, directors of financial institutions, or the minister of economy as guilty. Furthermore, in their itinerary they hang posters of the accused ones to mark the places (banks) in which the “criminals” operate (Fig. 2). The alteration of the attributed categorizations (responsible/guilty vs. victim) introduces the conflict within a framework, which moves beyond housing: that of human rights. The PAH does not hide that the idea of “Trial and Punishment” is inspired by the Argentinean association H.I.JO.S. and its fight against the immunity of the crimes committed under the dictatorship. It is not about comparing situations as if they were equal but about translating previous practices into a new context, since translation contributes to “reinvent social relations and create a more just speech-situation” (Doerr, 2013). For this reason, I have identified these actions as “the part which has no justice,” since they go beyond housing issues (something that, in ­addition,

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Fig. 2  Contrafoto21

can be applied, in general, to the PAH’s understanding of the political conflict). When the PAH decided to protest against the Spanish Central Bank, two alterations of the established functions occurred. First, the protesters presented in the bank their claims and complaints against other banks for violating their rights. The Central Bank admits demands against entities in case of unfulfillment. The PAH assumes thus already that the banks have committed an irregularity against the people affected by mortgage, although it is not typified legally. Secondly, the protesters place the banners on the fences surrounding the Central Bank to attribute to it responsibility for the violation of human rights. Through these actions the institutional buildings and the streets become the place for a public trial and for demanding a new kind of justice. An interesting “staging” of the public trial was carried out in 2014 in the streets of Madrid when the PAH activists performed a “Trial and Punishment” procession on Holy Thursday. The PAH appropriates a recognizable religious ritual from popular culture, carrying the posters and banners, and wearing hats with the graphic design of the campaign. The “procession” replaced those who were suffering for religious motives (the commemoration of the

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death of Jesus) with those suffering for losing their houses. At the same time, the image of the guilty ones was made visible by way of posters along the entire itinerary. The appropriation of the religious ritual caused mixed emotions about the performance: some people clapped whilst others booed the protesters (Diso Press, 2014). As emphasized by Iker Fidalgo (2015), when the PAH deploys their graphic work in public spaces the context is something that must be conquered in order to influence public opinion. The graphic elements are integrated in the urban spaces and alter the existing codes to interfere in the “naturalized” perception of the space. The aesthetics of the analyzed PAH campaign holds the function of altering the perception of the space, as well as of the distribution of the sensible: what is included and excluded, respectively, and which functions are attributed to which parts. Undoing social categorizations, the PAH opens up a new political space which allows them to claim for justice within the framework of human rights, including the right to housing.

Invisibles: The Part Which Has no Visibility The Invisibles of Tetuán, Madrid, is an organization created in 2013 by the Popular Assembly of Tetuán, born after the diversification of the 15  M, when the main square, Puerta del Sol, was abandoned and the movement decided to act more locally in the neighborhoods. At the end of December of that year the municipality decided to shut down the “food bank” led by the Assembly. In an ulterior meeting, the municipality assured that they “did not see” needs in the neighborhood and, in any case, nothing that could not be covered by public expenses. This story is used by the Invisibles as an explanation for its need to exist as an organization. Indeed, the narrative shows how the sensible is distributed between the part which takes decisions and the part which is not seen. The existing reality, even more so after the economic crisis, provoked in a neighborhood such as Tetuán (152,523 inhabitants) difficulties in getting access to (or economic resources for) basic services (water, electricity, gas), food (three meals per day), housing, or health. As stated in the manifest of the organization: “They do not want us to see it in order to avoid that we

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become aware of the misery and precarity into which they have transformed our lives. But we are not going to hide; we are not going to be ashamed anymore. We are going to show up; we are thousands and we are going to fight for our dignity” (Invisibles de Tetuán, 2013). There is a redefinition of the way in which the political conflict is distributed: now between the invisible and those who marginalize them to invisibility. Being invisible is constituted through a process of political subjectivization in which the Tetuán neighbors shape a new subjectivity which refuses to be marginalized or condemned to increasing conditions of poverty and precarity. The Invisibles aim to enhance networks of solidarity, in response to individualization, and to make the conditions of poverty and marginalization visible, since they are being hidden from “official” discourse. The work of the Invisibles unfolds two complementary dimensions: one about knowledge, by means of self-elaborated reports, which reflect the objective conditions of poverty in the neighborhood (owing to the lack of specific surveys about the area); and another one about the sensible, that is, how the public space is structured and how to intervene in it in order to show the subjectivity, the invisible inhabitants of Tetuán, that remains invisible in that space. Although I focus on the redistribution of the sensible, it must be emphasized that both dimensions (knowledge and the sensible) are imbricated: the intervention in the streets, the physical public space, opens up the possibility of discussing the issue (poverty, precariousness, invisibility) in the public sphere. The first campaign of the Invisibles of Tetuán consisted of five posters placed on the walls of the neighborhood. In each of them there was a picture of a woman, a brief text, and the name “Invisibles of Tetuán” (Fig.  3). The text offers some information about the situation of the women, connecting in most of the cases the individual situation with the collective one: “They cut our water—for 1700 people in Tetuán”; “I’m one of the 23,000 persons in Tetuán who either eat or pay electricity and water”; “My daughter, my grandchildren and I live badly with the 600 euros pension”. The portraits are far from being idealized and pretend instead to maintain an image close to reality: reflecting “ordinary” people living in their material conditions. Straight look, wrinkles, seriousness (increased by the dark background of the pictures). The glance directly at the observer is an appellation to be seen or even to identify with them.

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Fig. 3  @redesycalles

As emphasized by Martin Irvine in relation to street art, the posters can be interpreted as “statements about visual culture and the effects of controlled visibility in the lived environment of the city” (2012, p.  237). Whilst advertising has the function of embedding images of their products and controlling the visible expressions in public space, the campaign of the Invisibles has the opposite goal: to challenge that control of ­visibility and embed images of subjectivities relegated to invisibility. In other words, the means of privatization (advertising) of the streets are appropriated as means of commoning (transforming the public into a space for practices of the community), meaning the introduction of the part which is not visible and the redefinition of the community through political subjectivization. The process turns into subjectivization since, as it happens with street art, agency cannot be restricted to the artist (Glaveanu, this volume). In the case of the Invisibles the artist(s) is integrated within the collectivity. This anonymity contributes to put the predominant focus on the people represented and the act of making them

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visible. Aestheticizing spaces goes beyond displacing the “recognized art space” and cannot be dissociated from visibilizing (excluded) subjectivities since both the structure of visibility and its agency are undone. Moreover, the campaign entails a feminization of the crisis. The notion of feminization of labor has usually been discussed in terms of increased exploitation, low wages, flexibility, and part-time and temporary work, etc., owing to the association of women’s labor conditions with precarity. The economic crisis has only worsened labor conditions, particularly those of women. It must be added that there is an emotional value attributed to women, in functions of household and care, that becomes more important since precarity affects various (if not all) members of the family. The irruption in the public spaces reverts this process, which can be considered as a feminization of resistance. It implies that the subjectivization of invisibility is feminized and takes the figure of precarious women as the starting point to build up a collective resistance, based on the vindication of their dignity and the reshaping of networks of solidarity. The interruption of social consensus is remarkable in contrast to the representations of the economic crisis made particularly by politicians but also the mass media. These representations portray a gender-blinded crisis, reduced to economic figures and statistics, and narratives of individuals who are represented as victims in isolated dramas. Putting posters on the walls of Tetuán challenges that representation of the crisis and reflects a spatialized resistance against it. Although the campaign consists of posters, there were writings all over the neighborhood (Fig. 4) marking the space, in some cases by making the conflict between the corporate economic interests and the political subjectivity visible. The combination of the campaign and the writings (where references to “the Invisibles” also appeared) entails an opening up to a different agency through what Luisa Martin Rojo and Cristina Portillo (2015, p.  75) call “reterritorialization,” which is a process “whereby what has been done is undone.” The undoing takes place “through resignifying the space through the discourses generated therein.” In contrast with the perception of the urban spaces as mere scenes, without any agency, the reterritorialization, through posters and writings, resignifies that space and makes people aware of its inhabitants but also of the conditions of precarity which are determining them. The writing of “Invisibles” next

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Fig. 4  @redesycalles

to a fast-food restaurant, a supermarket or on the corner of two streets change the perception of space. It is not about everyday actions such as walking, eating, or buying, disposed of any connection with social and economic conditions. It is about who the people occupying the streets are and how their subjectivity is constructed and, in this extent, how the economic crisis and feminization are affecting them.

 e Are Not Crime: The Part Which Has No W Voice In 2014 a new law, approved by the conservative government of the People’s Party, came into effect. After years of protests and demonstrations, the law, entitled The Citizens’ Security Law, attempted to diminish the degree of protests by criminalizing them. The law, which was nicknamed “Gag Law,” was rejected by oppositional political parties and

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­ ultiple civil society organizations. By shifting the name (from Security m to Gag Law), its opponents want to emphasize that the objective of the law is not to guarantee security but to hinder any kind of protest against the government. Right to assemble and freedom of speech are thus restricted and the fines and penalties for acts of protests vary from €100 to €600, in case of minor offences, to €30,000 and €600,000 if it is considered as a very serious offence. In Rancierian terms, it implies an imposition of consensus, since the capacity of the police, through expanding the administration and police force, to divide the community (the part which is crime and that which is not) and to reduce the spaces in which political disagreement can be expressed (the ways of perceiving, saying, doing, and thinking) is stronger. It shows quite evidently how the political constrains aesthetics, that is, the distribution of the sensible. In this context, preceded by the government’s intentions to reform the Criminal Code, the platform “We are not crime” (“No somos delito”) emerged against this environment of increasing criminalization of protests. It is a platform composed by more than 100 organizations. According to the platform, the reforms aim to create two kinds of justice, one for the rich and another one for the poor people, besides obstructing civil liberties, punishing peaceful social protest, and situations of poverty and precarity. Whilst corruption is not a main concern of the reform, the target groups are activists, immigrants, and precarious people. Therefore “We are not crime” makes visible the part which has no voice, those who cannot speak out, protest, or show their disagreement against authorities. The subjectivization, in this case, is constructed against the reinforced established order, which rejects the possibility of doing politics by criminalizing it. The restriction of these liberties is particularly significant in relation with the uses of the public spaces, since protesting in them is strongly penalized and considered a crime. “We are not crime” deploys different aesthetic practices, from theater to humoristic memes, in order to reveal the repressive effects of the new legislation. However, I focus here on the performance, which has had the biggest repercussion and operates directly, but not only, in the physical public sphere. In April 2015 “We are not crime” decided to celebrate a very unusual protest in front of the Parliament. According to the new legislation demonstrating near the Parliament, Senate, or regional parliaments could

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lead to fines of up to €600,000. To denounce this situation and appeal to further mobilizations, the platform decided to organize the first holographic demonstration before the application of the law. Seventeen thousand people, mostly from Spain but also from other countries, participated. The website created for the event, Holograms for Freedom (http://www. hologramasporlalibertad.org) offered three different ways of participation: to write a message, to create a hologram (via webcam), and to leave a shout (via microphone). Thus, the recorded voices and holographic bodies of the protestors would be projected during the performance. The participatory moment of the demonstration relied, so to say, on the moments prior to the performance, since the performance consisted only of holograms. The demonstration (Fig. 5) as such was projected onto a transparent screen in a loop, including audio, so there were no people at all physically present. The spokespersons conducted interviews with the attending journalists in a hologram, in a holographic cubicle in order to maintain the disembodiment of the participants. According to the organizers, the

Fig. 5  Alberto Escudero, No Somos Delito

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performance must be understood as a sort of prefiguration of the future: a disembodied and fictional society which only protests and speaks freely in form of holograms. This creates, at least, a couple of paradoxes: an undesired future is prefigured and the virtual replaces the physical, as wished by the “Gag Law.” These two aspects are better explained in the intersection between the virtual and physical spaces. The community, which is absent and substituted by holograms, becomes present, although virtually, in the physical space in which they are not allowed to exist, that is as protesters near the Spanish Parliament. Despite being virtual, the part that cannot express itself and is silenced becomes visible. The way in which power relations are distributed in the streets also becomes visible: the surroundings of the Parliament, a symbol for the people’s will, entail modes of distributing and implementing power to prevent it from, precisely, the people, namely the protesters. The intersection of the virtual and the physical indeed ensures that this demonstration is not so much, or at least not only, about the future, but also about the subjectivization of those who feel threatened in their right to protest and freedom of speech. The virtualization of the protests is what makes them visible as political subjectivity. The holographic figures, in a loop, intervene in the way of perceiving the physical public spaces. I do not consider that there is a replacement of the physical, in spite of the disembodiment of the protesters but, as mentioned, it should be considered as an intersection. Following Rancière’s (2009) reflections on this point about theater, interstices serve to dismantle dichotomies in this performance, that of virtual-real, including that of protester (as performer)–observer. It is not the case of the virtual not being real, or the separation between physical protesters and those behind computers. The performance “Holograms for freedom” contributes to undo two kinds of distributions of the sensible: the first one is that happens in the public space makes the excluded part of the community (in its virtual form) visible in conflict with the established order (symbolized by the Parliament and the impossibility of using the “public” space near it); the second is the distinction between those who watch and those who act. In this regard, there is a reconfiguration of time and space: the present connected with an undesired and repressive (possible but not inevitable) future and

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the space of doing politics, connecting technology, social media, and spatialized protests in the streets (without being incompatible). The hologram, as presence of the absence, projected in the public physical space and blurring the dichotomy virtual-real, has an aesthetic function of making the political conflict visible. This conflict questions the police as system of distribution and legitimation which reduces democracy to representativeness. As pointed out by Flesher (2015c), a spokesperson of the movement: “The claim for the right to protest is part of a bigger claim, that of the people’s right to be heard in a system which has indeed very few mechanisms for political participation, besides ­voting every four years for one or another of the usual political parties.” Thus, the claim of “We are not crime,” and the objective of the holographic protest, implies a struggle over the meaning of democracy. In this sense, the part which has no voice must be understood as the need of creating spaces of participation and debate in which disagreement can be expressed.

Conclusion: Public Spaces and Public Opinion? In this chapter, I have presented a conceptualization of the aesthetics of social movements and its application to the case of Spain after the economic crisis. The applied notion of aesthetics draws on the work of Jacques Rancière. As underlined, politics and aesthetics are intertwined and affect the distribution of the sensible, where the conflict (politics) and the perception (aesthetics) are at stake. Rancière even claims that consensus (as the inscription within given roles, possibilities, and competences) is the main enemy of political creativity, since the main question is “to explore the possibility of maintaining spaces of play. To discover how to produce forms for the representations of objects, forms for the organization of spaces, that thwart expectations” (quoted in Carnevale & John Kelsey, 2007, p. 263). The three movements analyzed question such organizations of spaces and the attribution of roles and functions. They actually undo the distribution of the sensible and carry out different processes of subjectivization of the parts which have been excluded from what the political ­community

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is by the established order. The cases of aesthetic practices by social movements must be understood within larger practices and strategies, as well as organizational forms, since it would not reflect reality fairly if the actions of these movements were reduced exclusively to a few protests and performances. However, it is relevant to look at how the movements maintain and open up spaces of play by changing the way they are perceived. The movements count on the collaboration of artists and graphic designers, but the figure of the artist is attached to the collective identity and embedded within practices. This strengthens the idea that politics and aesthetics are intertwined and share a common goal. The aesthetics on the streets differ according to the movements and their strategies and tactics, although all of them share the intention of making a political situation (the part which has no part) visible and of confronting the established order (and its distribution through the police). The PAH occupied the streets through demonstrations and even processions embodying the accusation against banks and marking with posters and stickers significant buildings; the Invisibles reterritorialize the space through posters and writings and make a reality which is excluded from media representations, and also from the everyday interactions between neighbors, visible; and, finally, “We are not crime” creates an intersection play between the virtual and the real in which the hologram, as absence of bodies, opposes the attempts to eliminate disagreement from public spaces. Finally, I want to address the issue of publicity. These performances modify the perceptions of the sensible in the streets; this affects not only the streets as space of power, but also social categorizations, political subjectivization, or discourses. However, the actions likewise aim to transcend spatiality and move from the public (physical) space to public opinion. The movements and their actions cannot be fully accounted for without taking into consideration the role played by social media and how they interact. Furthermore, the aspiration of being reflected in the mass media is a sign of the need of increasing visibility. What is complicated in this case is that in order to get public attention the actions (protest in the street) lose the political component of the aesthetics and is replaced by being only spectacular. All the cases presented above are exposed to becoming depoliticized if the focus is reduced to the visual or aesthetic component and

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disembedded from the movements’ practices and from their conflictual position against the established order. There are risks implied in becoming part of the mass media agenda, i.e., the appropriation of a religious procession can be seen as an offence; “victims” of the crisis can be framed as people in need of charity or individual support rather than political solutions; and the impact of the repressive law can be erased by emphasizing the innovative use of visual elements such as holograms. For this reason, it is essential to consider the aesthetic of social movements as part of a larger process of social and political change in which the performances and protests cannot be isolated and only acquire meaning in their attempt to foster political conflict and modify the ways of perceiving the organization imposed by the established political and economic order. Acknowledgments  I would like to thank the editors of this volume for the invitation to contribute to it, Brady Wagoner and particularly Sarah H. Awad for her encouragement, interest, and patience. My thanks also to all the participants of the “Street Art and Resistance” seminar in Aalborg for the debate and interesting comments. Finally, I want to thank María González Amarillo, Santi Espinosa, Soledad Gálvez, Cristina Flesher, and Alberto Escudero for allowing me to use their pictures.

Note 1. It must be emphasized that distribution has also been translated as “partition” since it consists of creating parts (for those included and excluded).

References Agustín, Ó. G. (2015). Sociology of discourse. From institutions to social change. Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Carnevale, F., & Kelsey, J.  (2007). Art of the possible: In conversation with Jacques Rancière. Artforum, 45(7), 256–269. Colau, A., & Alemany, A. (2012). Vidas hipotecadas. De la burbuja inmobiliaria al derecho a la vivienda. Barcelona: Cuadrilátero de libros.

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Diso Press. (2014, April 18). La PAH organiza su ‘procesión’ para exigir ‘Juicio y Castigo’ para los estafadores hipotecarios. You Tube. Retrieved from https:// www.youtube.com/watch?v=oKTe0RX2KkI Doerr, N. (2013). Between Habermas and Rancière: The democracy of political translation. EIPCP. Retrieved from http://eipcp.net/transversal/0613/doerr/en Fidalgo, A. I. (2015). Evolución del escrache en el entorno urbano. El uso de lo gráfico en lo político. In C. M. Llopis (Ed.), La otra ciudad: recorridos de una gráfica disidente (pp.  219–244). Ciudad Juárez, Chihuahua, México: Universidad Autónoma de Ciudad Juarez. Flesher Fominaya, C. (2015a). Debunking spontaneity: Spain’s 15-M/indignados as autonomous movement. Social Movement Studies, 14(2), 142–163. Flesher Fominaya, C. (2015b). Redefining the crisis/redefining democracy: Mobilising for the right to housing in Spain’s PAH movement. South European Society and Politics, 20(4), 465–485. Flesher Fominaya, C. (2015c, April 22). España: El holograma como protesta. Democracia Abierta. Retrieved from https://www.opendemocracy.net/democraciaabierta/cristina-flesher-fominaya-andrea-teti/espa%C3%B1a-el-hologramacomo-protesta Gentier, A. (2012). Spanish banks and the housing crisis: Worse than the subprime crisis? International Journal of Business, 17(4), 342–351. Hardt, M., & Negri, A. (2012). Declaration. New York: Argo Navis. Invisibles de Tetuán. (2013). ¿Quiénes somos? Retrieved from http://invisiblesdetetuan.org/sobre-nosotros/sample-page/ Irvine, M. (2012). The work on the street: Street art and visual culture. In I.  Heywood & B.  Sandywell (Eds.), The Handbook of Visual Culture (pp. 235–278). New York: Berg. Martin Rojo, L. (2016). Taking over the square: The role of linguistic practices in contesting urban spaces. In L. M. Rojo (Ed.), Occupy. The spatial dynamics of discourse in global protest movements. Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Martin Rojo, L., & Portillo, C. (2015). The transformation of urban space. Agency and constraints in a peripheral district in the post-industrial city of Madrid. AILA Review, 28, 72–102. Mayoral, R. (2014, July). ‘Juicio y Castigo’ a los responsables de la estafa hipotecaria. Retrieved from https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QciDm8PfJGk Nall, T. (2013, December 12). The politics of the mask. The Huffintong Post. Retrieved from http://www.huffingtonpost.com/thomas-nail/the-politics-ofthe-mask_b_4262001.html

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Prentoulis, M., & Thomassen, L. (2013). Political theory in the square: Protest, representation and subjectification. Contemporary Political Theory, 12(3), 166–184. Rancière, J.  (1999). Disagreement: Politics and philosophy. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Rancière, J.  (2004). The politics of aesthetics. The distribution of the sensible. London: Continuum. Rancière, J. (2009). The emancipated spectator. London: Verso. Rancière, J.  (2011). The thinking of dissensus: Politics and aesthetics. In P.  Bowman & R.  Stamp (Eds.), Reading Rancière (pp.  1–17). London: Continuum. Seymour, R. (2012, February). We are all precarious—On the concept of the ‘precariat’ and its misuses. New Left Project. Retrieved from http://www. newleftproject.org/index.php/site/article_comments/we_are_all_precarious_ on_the_concept_of_the_precariat_and_its_misuses Van Wees, J. P. (2016). Rancière, una filosofía estética impolíticamente política. Revista Letral, 16, 54–66. Óscar García Agustín  is associate professor at the Department of Culture and Global Studies at Aalborg University, Denmark. With Christian Ydesen he has co-edited the book Post-Crisis Perspectives: The Common and its Powers (Peter Lang, 2013), and with Martin Bak Jørgensen he has co-edited Politics of Dissent (2015, Peter Lang) and Solidarity without Borders: Gramscian Perspectives on Migration and Civil Society (Pluto Press, 2016). He is author of Discurso y autonomía zapatista (Peter Lang, 2013) and Sociology of Discourse: From Institutions to Social Change (John Benjamins, 2015).

Sheherazade Says No: Artful Resistance in Contemporary Egyptian Political Cartoon Mohamed M. Helmy and Sabine Frerichs

Introduction Humor played a powerful role in the Egyptian, or Laughing, Revolution of 2011 (Salem, 2012). Shared and expressed in manifold ways, it flipped the balance of power on the street, and helped sustain the spirit of resistance in Tahrir Square (Helmy & Frerichs, 2013). Outside the Square, the spirit of the Revolution was spread by word of mouth, and public and social media. Political cartoonists sharpened their pencils to comment on the course of events, which included three televised speeches by then-­ President Hosni Mubarak,1 who had ruled the country for almost thirty years. In these announcements, Mubarak turned to his “fellow citizens” and, especially, the rebelling youth, speaking as a “father to his sons and

M.M. Helmy (*) • S. Frerichs Neurobiology of Aging and Disease, Lee Kong Chian School of Medicine, Nanyang Technological University, Singapore, Singapore Department of Socioeconomics, Vienna University of Economics and Business, Vienna, Austria © The Author(s) 2017 S.H. Awad, B. Wagoner (eds.), Street Art of Resistance, Palgrave Studies in Creativity and Culture, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-63330-5_15

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daughters”. But he did not say what they were longing to hear. Couched in much constitutional rhetoric, the president’s speeches basically contained three messages: (1) that he considered the ongoing protests not an expression of democracy but a security threat; (2) that a potential transfer of power would not take place before the next presidential elections; and (3) that he, who had dedicated his life to serve Egypt, would “not separate from its soil until buried underneath”. The people in the Square, and their sympathizers all over the country, who unmistakably requested Mubarak to leave immediately, received the political arrogance and constitutional hypocrisy of his messages with a mixture of anger and despair, which resolved into ridicule. This is well illustrated in a cartoon published in Al-Masry Al-Youm, a privately owned newspaper, at the peak of the Revolution—a few days before the president had to resign (Cartoon 1; Seleem, 2011). It shows a group of Egyptians, including a small dog, who

Cartoon 1  From right (the dog) to left (the girl): “Haa haay…Until the last breath hahahaay…Until the last beat of my heart, ha ha ha, oh my heart…the parliament is master of its decision hohoho…Gamal is the driver of modernization, haha, my heart will stop from laughter…”

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cannot stop laughing at the president’s hilarious second speech, which, for them, only added to the caricature of a constitutional democracy. Writing in 1971, Marsot underlines the importance of political cartoon in Egypt (Marsot, 1971, p. 15). Political cartoon is deeply connected with the Egyptian national character, and, in a post-Revolution Egypt where government censorship is relatively impotent, the art form is now showing an outburst of novel explorations, in print, Internet media, and on the street. In this chapter, we study political cartoon as a form of art and resistance, in which cartoonists speak for their ‘cherished community’ (Press, 1981). In Arabic, the job of the caricaturist consists of tankeet, which etymologically connects the symbolical activity of ‘joking’ or ‘criticizing’ with the much more physical activity of hammering or upsetting; figuratively, of ‘poking’ sensitive zones with many insolent and intrusive fingers. Taking sociological and psychological aspects seriously, this chapter explores the cultural psychology of Egyptian political cartoon.

 nalytical Frameworks for Political Cartoon: A A Literature Review The social function of political humor is much discussed in the literature, with different accounts complementing and contradicting each other. One popular idea is that political humor acts as a ‘safety valve’, relieving the stress of living a life complicated by political intrigue, a coping strategy (Aguilar, 1997; Marsot, 1971; Press, 1981). Another idea is that ridiculing figures of power takes them down a notch or two, thus making them less terrifying, and simultaneously acting as a check on their behavior (Eko, 2007; Press, 1981). Others downplay the effect of political cartoons on the public, as a group separate from cartoonists and editors, and suggest that cartoons largely reaffirm opinions already present in society, or otherwise have little effect (Bormann, Koester, & Bennett, 1978; Gamson & Stuart, 1992; Kemnitz, 1973; Manning & Phiddian, 2004). At times, political cartoons may also simply convey the message, “…‘That’s life,’ or perhaps ‘Brace yourself,’ or ‘Get ready for trouble,’ or some other bit of comment suitable for passengers on a plane that is possibly, but maybe not, on its way to a crash landing…” (Press, 1981, p. 67). Like the

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metaphor of ‘sword and shield’ suggests (Helmy & Frerichs, 2013), political humor can be positive and affectionate (Coupe, 1969, p.  89), or negative and aggressive (Alba, 1967, pp.  121–122; Bostdorff, 1987, p. 46). It can sway between confirmation and negation of the political system in place (Press, 1981), between art which is simply to be looked at (Topolski, 1943) and propaganda whose purpose it is to indoctrinate (Boime, 1988; Demm, 1993; Huxley, 2006; Press, 1981; Schwoerer, 1977). As a rhetorical form that draws on the “…available cultural consciousness…” (Medhurst & Desousa, 1981, p.  219), political cartoon may, in theory, exploit and eventually perpetuate stereotypes, which could reinforce the status quo instead of serving change and resistance. Various studies highlight the cultural significance of political humor in Egypt, and in the Arab world more generally (Booth, 1992; Crabbs, 1975; Helmy & Frerichs, 2013; Kishtainy, 1985; Shehata, 1992). In her genealogy of Egyptian political cartoon, Marsot argues: “…Humour may be a universal trait, but its content and practice vary from place to place depending on history and tradition…” (Marsot, 1971, p. 3). One could expect that the study of political cartoons would therefore have a strong cultural and comparative bent. However, the analytical frameworks used often disregard the cultural and historical context from which political cartoons emerge. A sociological approach that is saturated with context is proposed by Streicher (1967). A ‘theory of caricature’ would consist of the following elements: (1) the general nature of political caricature and its relation to nations, personalities, and social structures; (2) the caricaturist, his or her personal background, publics, and sponsors; (3) publishers and their relation to power, propaganda, and the caricaturist; and (4) the appeal of political caricature and its impact on the publics (Streicher, 1967, pp. 444–445). Inasmuch as this includes “…consideration of the kind of social structure and the historical epoch within which caricature emerges and has a place…” (p. 431), we can speak of a ‘structuralist’ approach. This sharply contrasts with the invisibilization of the cartoonist and his or her publics in much contemporary work, which can be considered ‘post-­structuralist’ instead. In contemporary literary theory, it is common to distinguish between author, reader, and text, each of which may have different ‘intentions’ guiding interpretation (Eco, 1991, p.  145). Applying this approach to political cartoons, Diamond (2002, p. 253), distinguishes three ‘herme-

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neutical’ strategies, namely: (1) author-oriented, “…analyses of the cartoonist and his or her historical context…”; (2) reader-oriented, “… sociological and public opinion analyses of cartoon readers…”; and (3) text-oriented, “…semiotic analysis of the text itself…”. It is suggested that these are alternative analytical frameworks each of which “…leads the study of political cartoons in a different direction…” (Diamond, 2002, p. 270). Such an approach fragments the psychological, sociological, and historical contexts in which the cartoon is embedded. Applying a ‘text-­ oriented’ approach to post-September 11 political cartoon, Diamond (2002) eventually lumped together cartoons from Egyptian, Saudi Arabian, Pakistani, and Iranian sources, as emanating from the ‘Arab/Muslim world’ These four countries have hugely different histories and power structures. Indeed, two of the four countries studied are not ‘Arab’, and differences in a ‘Muslim’ identity between the countries are not subtle. To us, it seems that disregarding the situatedness of political cartoon allows for (Western) academics to impose their own readings and categorizations on the ‘text’. Similar shortcomings can be found in studies of political cartoons as ‘rhetorical form’ (Medhurst & Desousa, 1981), ‘visual rhetoric’ (Morris, 1993), or ‘visual news discourse’ (Greenberg, 2002). Medhurst and Desousa’s (1981) argument is that political cartoons share core elements of oral persuasion, which is combined with techniques specific to graphic persuasion, such as “…the use of line and form to create tone and mood; the relative size of objects within the frame; the exaggeration or amplification of physionomical [sic] features (caricature, in the narrow sense)…” and so on (Medhurst & Desousa, 1981, p. 212; original emphasis). Even though this approach is refreshing and artistically thorough, it is obviously de-contextualized. Morris (1993) takes a more sociological approach, in which he distinguishes four rhetoric imperatives: pouvoir (practical knowledge), savoir (intellectual knowledge), devoir (political knowledge), and vouloir (emotional knowledge). He suggests that political cartoon can be analyzed based on whether knowledge vs. desire acts as base for action, and whether the observer is part of vs. detached from the group being studied (Morris, 1993, pp. 198–199). While this classification scheme is interested in the cartoonist’s role and message vis-à-vis his or her readership, its focus is still on rhetorical techniques. Building on this approach, Greenberg’s study likewise remains a “…primarily textualist analysis of cartoon dis-

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course…”, its sociological framing notwithstanding (Greenberg, 2002, p. 195). The structural and cultural link between authors, or artists, and readers and viewers, is preserved in Press’ (1981) theory of political cartoon, which we take as a starting point to develop our own approach. According to Press, cartoonists act as communicators between the governors and the governed, and for whom the question of how a cherished community is being treated is of major importance: a “…community of fellow spirits that they value…” (Press, 1981, p. 58). Press uses an analytical scheme in which the artist’s purpose, or projecting mood, in creating a cartoon falls into three categories: descriptive, laughing satirical, or destructive satirical. A descriptive cartoon is a representation of a perceived reality, which is simply saying “…the way it is…” (Press, 1981, p. 75). The main variable, such as political campaigning or corruption, cannot be changed. A cartoon that is laughing satirical presents an incongruity between real and ideal in a humorous and playful manner. The caricaturist accepts the legitimacy of those criticized; however, if the cherished group is attacked, “…bitterness creeps in…” (Press, 1981, p. 79). In contrast, destructive satirical cartoons present the incongruity between real and ideal in a manner that projects hatred and loathing. The enemies of the cherished group are depicted as “…monsters…creatures (that) are not human and should not be allowed to exist…”, and the hate towards them “…shines through…” the cartoon (Press, 1981, p. 76). If governors, then they are without legitimacy. There is little “…hope for redemption…” or collective resistance (Press, 1981, p. 77). The polar opposite of such cartoons, glorifying or idealizing propagandistic cartoons, also fall in the destructive satirical category. In order to classify cartoons along this scheme, three questions have to be asked of the cartoonist’s representation, or caricature, of reality: (1) Is the ruling system regarded as legitimate or illegitimate? (2) What are the methods seen as required to bring about change? (3) What are the goals for the cherished group? Methods to bring about change range from legal and democratic means to violence and rebellion. Goals for the cherished group can either be maintenance of the status quo and moderate change (if the system is regarded as legitimate), or radical change (if the system is regarded as illegitimate). Applying this scheme to his material, which includes nineteenth- and twentieth-century cartoons from the USA, the

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UK, France, Germany, and a number of other countries, Press observes that, in democratic societies, cartoons mostly fall into the laughing satirical and descriptive categories. As an ideal type, the Democratic Cartoon Critic generally supports the current distribution of power, or does not expect change for the better. The legitimacy of the system is largely acknowledged. The cartoons are a means of peaceful change. In contrast, the Totalitarian Cartoon Critic, who lives and works in a totalitarian system, often produces propaganda. This can be negative, and directed against a group, such as “…the horrible Jew…”, an enemy which must be eliminated by any means, or, in a milder form, against the lazy people and drunkards of society as the root of local evil. Positive propaganda may portray a person, party, ideology, or race as “…harbingers of light…”. Located between democratic and totalitarian regime types, authoritarian systems seem to be the most active arena for a cartoonist. According to Press, it is here that “…political cartoon reaches its full glory…” (Press, 1981, p. 54). Authoritarian leaders govern by repressive means, but they “…no longer (have) complete control over the critics…”, which nurtures resistance (Press, 1981, p.  54). According to Press, the Authoritarian Cartoon Critic has little or no regard for “…[t]he Establishment’s moral legitimacy…”, and therefore often resorts to destructive satire. Aiming for radical change for his or her cherished group, the artist assumes, through his or her cartoons, the role of an activist.

 tudying Egyptian Political Cartoons: S The Question of Legitimacy The Constitution The question of legitimacy, which is highlighted in Press’ classification scheme, is obviously salient on Egypt’s way to a constitutional democracy. As a form of government, democracy enjoyed outstanding support in Egypt long before Mubarak was toppled (Inglehart, 2007; Osman & el Masry, 2010). If the 2011 Revolution marked the beginning of a transition, rewriting the constitution (and living up to it) is key. The first

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constitutional movement in Egypt dates back to the second half of the nineteenth century, when Khedive Ismail sought domestic support against foreign influence (Vatikiotis, 1980, Chap. 7). The first liberal constitution, which was adopted in 1923, established a constitutional monarchy under British occupation. The 1952 Revolution brought both Egyptian monarchy and British occupation to an end. The modern Republic of Egypt was first established under socialist premises, but later aligned with the principles of economic liberalism. This is reflected in constitutional developments: from the 1956 Constitution under Nasser, to the 1971 Constitution under Sadat, and its amendments under Mubarak. Since “…Sadat publicly committed to the ‘rule of law’ in a highly dramatic fashion…” (Shalakany, 2006, p. 849), repressive policies were concealed by constitutional rhetoric (Moustafa, 2007, p.  198). With the perpetuation of emergency law, the state of political freedoms remained precarious (Khafagy, Kandil, & El Baradei, 2008, p. 90). The Supreme Constitutional Court, which was formally established by the 1971 Constitution, slowly gained power over time, albeit its “…bounded activism…” would not touch on the state’s security interests (Moustafa, 2007, p. 232). However, the genie of constitutionalism was outside the bottle. El-Ghobashy quotes a lawyer saying that the 1971 Constitution was “…a joke that turned serious…” (El-Ghobashy, 2008, p. 1598). By the 1990s, activists had started to exploit the constitution’s ambiguities in litigation against state officials, and intellectuals were discussing farreaching ­constitutional reforms. With the 2005 and 2007 constitutional amendments, which allowed more than one candidate to run for presidency, but which also compromised the judicial supervision of elections, constitutional awareness heightened in the wider public as well. The supervision of elections by independent judges had long been a bone of constitutional contention in Egypt (Brown & Nasr, 2005; El-Ghobashy, 2010; Meital, 2006; Moustafa, 2007). The issue came up again ahead of the 2010 parliamentary and 2011 presidential elections. The constitutional game is depicted in a cartoon published in Al-Masry Al-Youm in March 2010 (Cartoon 2; Hasanain, 2010). What the judges must do, is to use their heads to keep the constitution/football up in the air, knowing that what really is at stake is to keep Mubarak and his son in power.

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Cartoon 2  Two judges, wearing the Green Sashes of Judiciary Honor, are head-­ butting a football to each other. On the air-borne football is written ‘The Constitution’. The caption reads ‘Professionals playing with the Constitution of Egypt’

Constitutional contention culminated in the 2011 Revolution, and continued after. The Supreme Council of the Armed Forces suspended the 1971 Constitution and issued the Constitutional Declaration of 2011, which was put to a popular referendum in March 2011. The purpose of this document was to set the framework for parliamentary and presidential elections. This was done, at short notice, by amending the old constitution. A cartoon published in Al-Dostoor, an oppositional newspaper, depicts what the Egyptian people were called to vote upon as a very unattractive, yellowed, patched, and cobwebbed constitution (Houssien, 2011). The question of how (this should work) is vocalized by the Egyptian singer Mohamed Mounir, whose song “How?” had become ‘the anthem of the Revolution’.2 The constitutional declaration, which was only devised for a transition period, stipulated that after the parliamentary elections, the new parliament would set up a drafting committee for a new constitution,

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which would then be permanent. As it happened, the first parliament was dominated by Islamist forces (Muslim Brotherhood and Salafi), who then also controlled the constituent assembly elected in March 2012. In response, cartoons in Al-Masry Al-Youm represent the writing of the constitution by a solitary pencil with eyes, nose, mouth, and a large beard (El-Adl, 2012a), or by an oversized bearded man, who is sitting at a table with a pen and whose huge behind is spilling over all the chairs provided for the drafting committee (El-Adl, 2012b). In April 2012, the constituent assembly was ruled unconstitutional, and a new one elected. After Muslim Brotherhood-candidate Mohamed Morsi had won the highly polarized presidential elections of June 2012, the constituent assembly proceeded to draft a new constitution that would fortify his position. Hence, Islamist dominance became an issue again, and the representatives of liberal secular groups and religious minorities left the committee in protest. The one-sidedness of the consultations was reflected in the final document, which was put to a referendum in December 2012. Under the caption ‘Withdrawal of civilian factions from the committee forming the Constitution’, a cartoon published in November 2012 shows the lower part of a book torn in half, with a perky citizen pointing out, “That way, what’s left of the constitution is its bottom half only.” In colloquial terms, the Egyptians had to contend themselves with the arse of a Constitution (Cartoon 3; Andeel, 2012). The Muslim Brotherhood-led regime was short-lived. Massive protests and military support forced Morsi to leave his post one year after he had taken office. The 2012 Constitution was suspended and replaced, half a year later, by the 2014 Constitution, which is still in force today. As opposed to the 2012 Constitution, cartoons in Al-Masry Al-Youm do not question the coming-into-existence of the 2014 Constitution but focus on its implementation. In contrast to the amended 1971 Constitution, the judicial supervision of election is now guaranteed. However, the election law adopted for the first presidential elections, which the former Chief of the Egyptian Armed Forces, Abdel Fattah El-Sissi, won with a large majority, foresaw that decisions of the Presidential Election Commission, the judicial body in charge of overseeing the whole electoral process, could not be challenged before a court. Opinions were split as to whether this was in line with the constitution, since the electoral committee itself was a judi-

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Cartoon 3  Text at top: ‘Withdrawal of civilian factions from constitution-­forming committee’. Bubble, man saying: “That way, what’s left is its bottom half only!”

cial body, or against it, because no administrative act should be exempt from judicial review (International Foundation for Electoral Systems, 2014, p. 4). A cartoon published in March 2014, right after the presidential election law was adopted, illustrates the critics’ position on the ‘immunization’ of the Presidential Election Commission. It depicts a knowledgeable citizen (with white collars and glasses) throwing the constitution expressively and artistically (in high arc backwards over his shoulder) into the rubbish bin (Anwar, 2014). Another cartoon published in July 2015 sums up the shortcomings in the implementation of the 2014 Constitution, which is personified as a distraught patient lying on a chaise longue in a typical psychiatrist setting (Cartoon 4; Anwar, 2015).

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Cartoon 4  The red book, ‘Constitution of 2014’, is saying: “It’s like, doctor, I have a problem…I feel I’m not taken seriously…I feel useless…and the comers and goers keep slapping me around…”

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The constitution complains to the doctor, “It’s like, doctor, I have a problem…I feel I’m not taken seriously…I feel useless…and the comers and goers keep slapping me around….” Is the ruling system regarded as legitimate or illegitimate? The message of the cartoons seems to be that the legitimacy of any new regime is contingent on the quality of the constitutional process. What the cartoonists demand, in the name of their cherished group, is an inclusive and effective constitution. In this sense, they are constitutionalists. How this goal is to be attained is not obvious. The chosen imagery best qualifies as laughing satirical, a category which Press considered typical of democratic systems, the workings of which are generally regarded as legitimate. Since this cannot be taken for granted in Egypt, as illustrated by the above cartoons, they ultimately escape Press’ logic. One could say that Egyptian cartoonists have adopted the style of Democratic Cartoon Critics like many of their Western counterparts, while the ruling system in Egypt still has authoritarian traits. On the other hand, it is under these very conditions that the artists also turn into activists, whose job it is to nurture the spirit of solidarity and resistance. Yet in order to qualify as Authoritarian Cartoon Critics, in Press’ understanding, the work of the Egyptian political cartoonists under scrutiny in this chapter is lacking the destructive dimension. The imagery is overall benign and even playful at times.

The Cartoonists This impression is confirmed by a series of more complex cartoons, which we selected because they approach the question of legitimacy from the perspective of the cartoonist as an activist. Interestingly, in some cases, the cartoonist includes him- or herself as a character in the picture. We do not know how common it is for artists elsewhere to draw themselves into the picture. But we do think that this feature helps us to understand the relation that the Egyptian cartoonist has to his or her readers, and life in general. The history of Egyptian political humor (Helmy & Frerichs, 2013) can be condensed in the legacy of Salah Jaheen (1930–1986), who was

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the prototype of an artist: poet, songwriter, playwright, actor, and cartoonist. The importance of his work, and the intimate relationship Egyptians have with cartoon, is emphasized by Jaheen’s contemporary, Marsot: “…a large majority of al-Ahram’s readers turn to the inner page to glance at Salah Jaheen’s cartoon before they even look at the front, for his cartoon is not only funny, but is ‘news in brief ’ and gives the gist of what preoccupied people most…” (Marsot, 1971, p. 14). Jaheen was a staunch Nasserian, and nationalistic while trying to find a place for Egypt in the international community. He was fearless in his condemnation of the national state of affairs, while retaining respect for the leader. Thirty years after his death, he is a cultural symbol very much alive in the hearts of Egyptians young and old, idolized and revered. Jaheen was big. In his oeuvre, his obesity was a recurring theme. When asked in a radio interview (Abu Zeid, n.d.) to comment on ‘Salah Jaheen’, he said, “I did not digest that question,” and when asked why, he replied, “It has too much fat.” In the same interview, when asked who the greatest cartoonist was, Jaheen replied: “Indeed, when I look in the mirror, I know that the greatest cartoonist is God.” In one cartoon, he draws a massive and rotund form of himself, next to a tiny car, arms raised, thanking God for not being appointed Minister; otherwise, how would he have managed to stuff himself into the small cars Ministers are seen to be driven in (Jaheen, 1978)? One legacy Jaheen has passed on to younger generations of cartoonists is this necessity for the cartoonist to hold up a mirror to him or herself, and question one’s own identity in Egyptian and international society. Mostafa Houssien (1935–2014) was only slightly younger than Jaheen but became much older. He published thousands of cartoons in books, magazines, and newspapers, namely ones controlled by the State, which is why some of his work seems to assume propagandistic quality. However, Houssien was far from uncritical. Working with satirical writer Ahmad Ragab, they chronicled political life in Egypt fairly accurately, through characters such as The Eloquent Fellah, who sat at the dangling feet of the short and stumpy Atef Beck (Atef Ebeid, long-serving Head of Parliament during Mubarak’s era), and made clever quips in reply to Atef Beck’s corrupt policies which he pushed through Parliament, as well as Kamboora of the Parliament, a scoundrel and roué through-and-through, who navigated

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political life through bribery, shady deals, sex and drug scandals, and so on, through the Mubarak era. Mubarak and his family, of course, were off limits. A day after Mubarak was ousted, Houssien drew himself into a cartoon, where, as an anchorman, he calls on the people to stay sane in times of extreme agitation, not an easy task in the post-­revolutionary information war (Houssien, 2011). Amr Seleem, a contemporary Egyptian cartoonist, can already be regarded as a ‘veteran’. In many ways, Seleem is similar to Jaheen. In style, both give the impression of something hurried. In political terms, both lean to the left, while strongly supporting national unity. Having started publishing in the oppositional Al-Dostoor in 2005, Seleem had a great share in presenting Mubarak as a comic character: “We started drawing him from the back, and bit-by-bit we turned him around, until making a cartoon of him became the norm. Then we drew his sons, Gamal and Alaa.” (Andeel & Elwakil, 2013). Also El-Sissi is made fun of many times, and in naughty fashion, proving expectations to the contrary wrong (Kingsley, 2014). That the current president is not exempt from mockery and criticism is well illustrated by a cartoon published in August 2016, in which Seleem draws himself as the cartoonist that he is. The cartoon shows an encounter between El-Sissi and Seleem. The president had recently met the staff of State newspapers only. In the cartoon, meeting Seleem, El-Sissi states, in a paradoxical manner, that he does not see the representatives of private newspapers (Seleem, 2016c). Doa El-Adl, a female artist, likewise acknowledges strong influence by Jaheen (El-Karmouty, 2014). Her cartoons are often full of detail, and one must take time to look at them carefully, to appreciate a kind of humor that builds up slowly. With many of her cartoons, one is left with a feeling of unease, as if something has been left unresolved, unapprehended. Unapologetically feminist, some of her work is openly mocking of the local and international phallic society in which we live. El-Adl frequently draws herself into her cartoons as a little girl, DoDo, who views the insanity of the world in wonder, or receives general idiomatic advice from her father regarding the tumultuous state of affairs. In some of her cartoons, female characters have an accentuated role. In December 2012, a group of women in Tahrir Square cut their hair in protest against the adoption of the 2012 Constitution, which would not

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sufficiently protect their rights. Commenting on this event, El-Adl published a cartoon that shows Pharaoh Akhnaton’s daughter in the original act of protest, cutting her plait, which forms the Arabic word for ‘No’ (El-Adl, 2012b). The female ‘No’ is central also in a cartoon featuring Sheherazade, the protagonist of One Thousand and One Nights. In the original tale, Sheherazade cured the betrayal-crazed Sultan Shahryar, who had married a virgin every day only to kill her after the first night, by telling him spellbinding stories, which do not end when the cock has crowed, and need be continued on the next evening. After 1000 nights, Sheherazade has run out of stories, but won the love of the Sultan. In El-Adl’s cartoon (Cartoon 5; El-Adl, 2011), a modern Sheherazade, sitting at her desk, writes ‘No…No’. A large black slave holds a huge sword over her head, which is labeled ‘Military courts’. Speaking on the phone, as if to a friend, she says, “I don’t know why I feel Shahryar is

Cartoon 5  On the sword: ‘Military Courts’. Writing on paper: ‘No…No’. Sheherazade is saying: “I don’t know why I feel Shahryar is not dead” 

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not dead.” A suited arm coming in from the edge of the cartoon indicates to the slave to cut down. The modern Sheherazade, with her lamp and teacup, contrasts sharply with the archaic slave. The imagery of the cartoon is carefully balanced between ‘civilized’ and ‘barbaric’, projecting a conflicting mood of imminent death and casual regard for the facts of life. In this cartoon, El-Adl turns the original tale on its head by assuming Shahryar must have died. It is as if Sheherazade has progressed, and now understands that her role (as a female?) is not to tame and win the love of Shahryar, but rather have him dead. While the modern Sheherazade may want to believe that the time of gruesome Sultans is over, she rightfully suspects differently. Turning to Press’ questions: Is the ruling system regarded as legitimate? It is out of question that military courts, which are ‘justified’ by a state of emergency, are incompatible with constitutional democracy. Nevertheless, the modern Sheherazade responds in a calm and collected manner. There is no suggestion that she should attack the slave. Her protest is civilized, in writing. What are the goals for the cherished group? What are the means to attain them? The cartoon acknowledges the presence of an unseen commander we thought was dead, but feel is still alive. There might be hope—but it is just as reasonable to argue that there is not any.

The Citizens A recurrent theme in Seleem’s work is the confusion of the normal citizen, who has to cope with the ambiguities of the transition process, and for whom it is, indeed, hard to stay sane in the crossfire of information, conjectures about political developments and events, and difficult conditions. A simple, but powerful, illustration of the citizen’s predicament is Seleem’s comment on how to assess the ‘achievement’ of the New Suez Canal (Seleem, 2015). It shows an Egyptian citizen, bare-footed and wearing a patched shirt, caught between two groups of opinion leaders— representatives of the government, including Al-Azhar on the left, and Muslim Brotherhood and Salafis on the right—who try to infuse him

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with opposite opinions about the New Suez Canal: whether it is “Equivalent to the construction of the Great Pyramid of Giza,” a comment from the left, or “Like my mother’s washing basin,” a comment from the right. The fact that all the statements included in the cartoon were actually made (Abdel-Aal, 2015; Mehwar, 2015), shows that the artist really only condenses reality: reducing it to absurdity. The poor citizen is left confused, puzzled, and alarmed. The risk of insanity only mounts in matters deliberately obfuscated in media. Another cartoon by Seleem (Seleem, 2016a) shows two citizens in gray suits walking about their business with their heads in newspapers; one headline reads ‘The Russian airplane incident’ (referring to the 2015 crash over Sinai, presumably caused by a bomb), the other reads, ‘The Italian young man incident’ (referring to discovery of the mutilated body of a PhD student, presumably involved in underground activities). In the middle, it depicts a fellah (peasant) with his family, who have travelled from the countryside into the urban domain, apparently to get some paperwork done. In his hand, he carries a document with ‘The Truth’ written on it. With shocking levels of illiteracy in Egypt, it is not uncommon for an Egyptian citizen from rural areas to ask for directions by presenting the document he wishes to process, in this case, to a member of the police in charge of traffic. The policeman is saying to the fellah, “Did they tell you in Egypt?” The expression, ‘Did they tell you in so-­ and-­so?’ is a turn of phrase used when responding to someone asking for directions, who was obviously misled. This is a polite but not very subtle way of informing the questioner that they are, indeed, quite lost and significantly far away from where they wish to be. Forming part of the cartoonist’s cherished group, the fellah and his family are in desperate need of finding the truth, but they are informed by the authorities, in a lapidary way, that the truth is not in Egypt. Other cartoons by Seleem show how the citizens might feel about the outcome of the protests and the regime change five years after the 2011 Revolution. This includes the experienced weakness of the rule of law, which the Egyptian people had put so much faith in, such as the failure of the legal system to effectively take Mubarak & Co. to justice for the crimes they committed during their time in office. A cartoon by Seleem (Seleem, 2016b) shows a citizen in patched clothes holding a newspaper,

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with the headline, ‘Court ruling on Presidential palaces does not return money embezzled outside Egypt’. This news makes the citizen crack into an insane kind of laughter: “And they told us let’s avoid revolutionary courts, so that we would be able to bring back (from outside) the looted money…and after that…ha HA HAA.” The argument had been that the cooperation of foreign banks could only be ensured in ordinary legal proceedings. The message of the cartoon is accentuated by a small, cute dog in the corner of the cartoon, lifting his leg and urinating. What to do about this insanity? In a cartoon published on and dated in the picture 24 January 2016 (Seleem, 2016d), the day before the fifth anniversary of the 2011 Revolution, a citizen has turned to a psychiatrist. Stretched out on the chaise longue, he confesses to the doctor that he simply does not know what to feel about the imminent anniversary: should he be happy or scared? The challenge posed by Press’ classification scheme was, first, to determine if the cartoonist regards the ruling system as legitimate or not, and, second, what goals the cartoonist has for his or her cherished group, be it radical change, moderate change, or maintenance of the status quo, and, relatedly, what methods he or she considers suitable to bring about change, ranging from force and intimidation to formal procedure. In our material we find the following: (1) The legitimacy of governors has constantly and severely been questioned in contemporary Egyptian political cartoon, certainly since 2010, and continuing to the present day; (2) No hate or loathing is expressed in the phenotype of the cartoons, so they do not qualify as destructive satirical, as would be typical of authoritarian cartoon critics. At the same time, the messages of the cartoons are piercing and scathing enough to disqualify them from being purely descriptive or merely ‘joshing’, which is supportive of the status quo, as in the case of Democratic cartoon critics; and (3) Methods and goals are neither absent from the cartoons nor overtly obvious. Inasmuch as the cartoons question the legitimacy of old and new governors, undermine their threatening aura, and keep up the spirit of solidarity and resistance among the cherished group, goals and methods intersect. The fact that contemporary Egyptian political cartoon remains elusive to Press’ universalist classification scheme tells us as much about the distinctive quality of the cartoons as about the inherent limits of the classification

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scheme. We sit and stare at the cartoons, and cannot think what exactly (or vaguely) it is the cartoonist wants to change, and how he or she is proposing we change it. We step back and try to understand why Egyptians are drawing cartoons, arguably, since they first started drawing anything at all, a very long time ago (Marsot, 1971). Were the cartoons meant to change anything? Have they? They must be meant for something, or they would not occupy the exalted position in Egyptian society they do now. What are Egyptian cartoonists doing? What is the poking, hammering, criticizing, upsetting, messing up, castigating, upbraiding, and ridiculing, implied in the form of tankeet, for? We have seen how this activity of literally pummeling the object/subject cannot be captured by any theory of political cartoon present in the literature. The analytical frameworks that we found are preoccupied with the text or the context, they classify and dissect, measure and generalize, but they cannot make sense of what Egyptian political cartoon is all about. We are in a position where “…the axiomatic basis of…” political cartoon analysis has become “…worn out due to the misfit of its basic assumptions with the nature of the phenomena under study…” and so “…a major overhaul in the methodological domain of that science is in order…” (Valsiner, 2007, p. 359).

 n Alternative Approach: Egyptian Cartoonists A as Socio-Psychoanalysts The fact that Jaheen and his followers appear as characters in their own cartoons can be understood in a more profound way than simply making fun of themselves. A cultural-psychological approach to political cartoon analysis would emphasize “…the inseparability of the person and the social environment…” (Valsiner, 2007, p. 342), which addresses one of the major shortcomings of conventional political cartoon analysis: its failure to grasp the inherent relatedness of the governors and the governed, the artists and their publics, which are usually analyzed as discrete groups or individuals, with different interests and intentions. In contrast, a cultural-psychological approach reifies the border between ‘Me’ (cartoonist) and ‘not-Me’ (reader, cherished group, centers of power, the world),

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which can better be understood as an ‘area of tension’, of negotiation and interaction (De Luca Picione & Freda, 2016, p. 33). Viewed through the lens of cultural psychology, contemporary Egyptian cartoonists are insightful observers of the here and now, integrators of past and present signs and pattern-recognizers, as much as they are players, actors, and unique individuals in unique times. The legacy passed onto them by Jaheen and others preceding him is to tirelessly ask, in the same breath, ‘Who are you (the governor)?’ and ‘Who am I (the governed)?’ and ‘What is going on between us?’ As participant observers, Egyptian cartoonists seem to sit well on the blurry lines between Self and Non-Self, or psychic and social reality. In practice, a cultural–psychological approach to political cartoon analysis requires immersing oneself in a field of cartoons, and the conditions in which they emerge, rather than the node of one cartoonist, one period of time, one subject matter, and so on. This obviously goes against a classification of cartoons according to “…the European, classical logic mindset that researchers have superimposed onto people from other cultural contexts…”, and which easily loses sight of the complex phenomenon under study (Valsiner, 2007, p. 155). Moreover, through the lens of cultural psychology, political cartoon is less about the communication of a concrete message, and more about creating fields of meaning, which are affective in nature: “…We make sense of our relations with the world, and of the world itself, through our feelings that are themselves culturally organized through the creation and use of signs…” (Valsiner, 2007, p. 301). As semiotic constructions, political cartoons always remain ambiguous, navigating the boundaries “… between Me and the not-Me, between inside and outside, between before and after…” (De Luca Picione & Freda, 2016, p. 33). The concepts or values that are invoked are not discrete, measurable entities but form part of a dynamic, nebulous, and irrational Gestalt, which can only be perceived and understood as a whole. Albeit they are produced for the moment, the meaning of political cartoons is negotiated between a past which is constantly being reconstructed, a future which is highly uncertain, and a present which is alive with daily events of import. As a second inventory of ideas, we find overlap and congruence of such views of political cartoon in depth psychology. In his work on The Political Psyche, Samuels highlights the parallels between (real?) democracy and

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psychotherapy: “…The political tasks of modern democracy are similar to the psychological tasks of modern therapy and analysis. In both areas, there is a fight between consciousness, liberation and alterity on the one hand and suppression, repression and omnipotent beliefs in final truths on the other…” (Samuels, 2016, p. 4). In psychoanalysis, we have a sort of language to describe our unconscious, where “…(t)here is an interplay between language, social and political institutions, and phylogeny…” (Samuels, 2016, p. 56). Political cartoons, which draw not only on the “…available cultural consciousness…” (Medhurst & Desousa, 1981, p. 219), but also on the collective unconsciousness, constitute excellent material for political psychoanalysis. To make symbols emerging from the unconscious “…available to the consciousness and without idealizing the image…” allows psychological processes to occur which may strengthen, enhance and ‘immunize’ individual and collective mind against the insanities of the time (Samuels, 2016, p. 62). Hence, one idea that we find attractive is that political cartoonists are using methodologies similar to those employed by some psychotherapists. A relevant concept in this regard is countertransference. Whereas transference is the projection of “…problematic figures from the past…onto the person of the analyst…” (Samuels, 2016, p. 25), countertransference could be conceived of, broadly speaking, as the mental and ­emotional states experienced by analysts while they are working with a patient or client. For some, it is a powerful and necessary therapeutic tool to allow oneself to be influenced by the “…patients’ psychological emissions…” since “…[a] nalysis and therapy result from an interplay of subjectivities…” (Samuels, 2016, pp.  25–26; original emphasis). Applying this to the (democratic) practice of political cartoonists, what they might be doing is countertransferring the ‘emissions’ of reality and whatever is occupying the social psyche onto cartoons. While psychotherapists may be forbidden from communicating their perception of countertransference to the client, no such qualms inhibit the action of cartoonists: they go ahead and publish it. It is a sharing of the impossibly objective/necessarily subjective perception of political and social reality, with a celebration, rather than attempted amputation or concealment, of the analyst’s/cartoonist’s “…political neurosis…his or her unresolved conflicts and so forth…” (Samuels, 2016, pp. 31–33). This interpretation is quite in line with the themes Samuels develops in his book (albeit he mentions only one cartoon), such as of subjectivity

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having a “…monitoring function, scanning social and political reality, as well as having been fashioned by such realities…” (Samuels, 2016, p. 27), and of “…providing therapy for the world…”. In this way, cartoonists “…participate in social transformation…on the basis of being analyst…” (Samuels, 2016, p. 33). Indeed, they may, like “…depth psychologists have acquired the power and legitimation to operate out of a feeling state, to ‘use’ feelings…” for therapy (Samuels, 2016, p. 32). In much of the work of Egyptian cartoonists, this feeling is a “…personal pain as a statement about social conditions…”, and perhaps it is a “… pain as a spur to analyze those conditions, and…as the motive force in changing those conditions…” (Samuels, 2016, p.  73). In this sense, Egyptian cartoonists are both analysts and activists. As some of the cartoons clearly convey, the pain is ultimately situated in the collective mind, or collective body, of the cherished group. The question of legitimacy bears heavy on the Egyptian mind, and if the cartoonists are at once informing us of how important ‘the law’ is and how completely irrelevant it is, well, there is precious little more we can comment upon— except to say that the pain is apparently and fleetingly transformed into its polar opposite: a silly kind of laughter. This is not necessarily a means to change, but it does have a meaning. Something changes, but what exactly has yet to be defined. Caricaturists are semiotic reconstructors and presenters par excellence. For whatever reasons, in being, their attention mechanisms are more acutely capable of sieving through the perceptual bombardment which is the lot of those who live in Egypt, and in distancing, they create meaning in cartoon, a medium unusually suited to people who appreciate a message scribbled out pictorially, succinctly. As cultural psychology helps us to understand and develop, caricature forms part of the “…transformation of culture in real-time by participants in the social discourse…” (Valsiner, 2007, p. 36) and of the “…articulation between the personal/ subjective and the public/political…” (Samuels, 2016, p. 63). Acknowledgments Mohamed Helmy was funded by the Ella and Georg Ehrnrooth Foundation (Finland). We thank xxxxx xxxxxxx for wading through thousands of cartoons, and for expert advice; Deena Samir Dakroury for acting as our contact at Al-Masry Al-Youm; and Shahinaz Hammouda for making the connection.

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Notes 1. For dubbed versions of the videos see: http://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=9DtOr6BBOHg (first speech, 28 January 2011); http://www. youtube.com/watch?v=nz5ZkO2jb4s&feature=related (second speech, 2 February 2011); http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CS7RBGvKyyM&fe ature=related (third speech, 10 February 2011). 2. For a recording of the song, see: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v= Wy6Zq1ZlvII; for a translation of the lyrics, see: http://www.shira.net/ music/lyrics/ezzai.htm

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Manning, H., & Phiddian, R. (2004). In defence of the political cartoonists’ licence to mock. Australian Review of Public Affairs, 5(1), 25–42. Marsot, A. L. A.-S. (1971). The cartoon in Egypt. Comparative Studies in Society and History, 13(1), 2–15. Medhurst, M. J., & Desousa, M. A. (1981). Political cartoons as rhetorical form: A taxonomy of graphic discourse. Communication Monographs, 48, 197–236. Mehwar. (2015, July 25). Mehwar TV channel. Retrieved from https://www. youtube.com/watch?v=TYae2c5hn4U Meital, Y. (2006). The struggle over political order in Egypt: The 2005 elections. Middle East Journal, 60(2), 257–279. Morris, R. (1993). Visual rhetoric in political cartoons: A structuralist approach. Metaphor and Symbolic Activity, 8(3), 195–210. Moustafa, T. (2007). The struggle for constitutional power: Law, politics, and economic development in Egypt. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Osman, M., & el Masry, S. (2010). Youth and social values: A reading into the world values survey. In Egypt Human Development Report 2010: Youth in Egypt: Building our future (pp.  57–74). United Nations Development Programme and The Institute of National Planning, Egypt. Press, C. (1981). The political cartoon. Toronto: Associated University Presses. Salem, H. (2012). Narrating the Egyptian Revolution through jokes: Is it still a laughing revolution? Paper presented at The Egyptian Revolution, one year on: Causes, characteristics and fortunes, Oxford University. Retrieved from http:// podcasts.ox.ac.uk/panel-3-language-revolution-narrating-egyptianrevolution-through-jokes-it-still-laughing-video Samuels, A. (2016). The political psyche. London: Routledge. Schwoerer, L.  G. (1977). Propaganda in the revolution of 1688–89. The American Historical Review, 82(4), 843–874. Seleem, A. (2011, February 8). Until the last breath. Al-Masry Al-Youm. Retrieved from http://arabcartoon.net/en/gallery/egyptian-revolution-arabcartoons Seleem, A. (2015, August 5). The new Suez Canal. Al-Masry Al-Youm. Retrieved from http://www.almasryalyoum.com/caricatures/details/9133 Seleem, A. (2016a, February 17). The truth. Al-Masry Al-Youm. Retrieved from http://www.almasryalyoum.com/caricatures/details/10174 Seleem, A. (2016b, January 19). Revolutionary courts. Al-Masry Al-Youm. Retrieved from http://www.almasryalyoum.com/caricatures/details/10031 Seleem, A. (2016c, August 23). President Sissi receives editors of state newspapers only. Al-Masry Al-Youm. Retrieved from http://www.almasryalyoum. com/caricatures/details/11344

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Seleem, A. (2016d, January 24). Schizophrenia. Al-Masry Al-Youm. Retrieved from http://www.almasryalyoum.com/caricatures/details/10060 Shalakany, A. (2006). ‘I heard it all before’: Egyptian tales of law and development. Third World Quarterly, 27(5), 833–853. Shehata, S. S. (1992). The politics of laughter: Nasser, Sadat, and Mubarek in Egyptian political jokes. Folklore, 103(1), 75–91. Streicher, L. H. (1967). On a theory of political caricature. Comparative Studies in Society and History, 9(4), 427–445. Topolski, F. (1943). Contemporary comment and caricature. The Burlington Magazine for Connoisseurs, 83(484), 164–168. Valsiner, J. (2007). Culture in mind and societies. Foundations of cultural psychology. New Delhi: SAGE Publications India. Vatikiotis, P.  J. (1980). The history of Egypt from Muhammad Ali to Sadat. London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson. Mohamed M. Helmy  attained his PhD in physiology and neuroscience at the University of Helsinki. A generalist, his interests embrace psychology, sociology, and everything in between. Having collected jokes in the streets of Cairo as a child and adolescent, he was intrigued by Egypt’s “Laughing Revolution,” and, in collaboration with Sabine Frerichs, published findings on the fundamental role of humor in the square, in overcoming fear, and consolidating collective will against hardship (“Stripping the Boss: The Powerful Role of Humor in the Egyptian Revolution 2011”). He continues to question the unusual part played by humor as an historically internalized, and dynamically evolving, repertoire of contention expressed by Egyptian society, especially in times of political turmoil, and in the context of resistance to established power structures. Helmy is a Research Fellow at Lee Kong Chian School of Medicine, Nanyang Technological University, Singapore. Sabine Frerichs  obtained her PhD in sociology from the University of Bamberg. She collaborates with Mohamed Helmy in building a bridge between (neuro) biology and (macro)sociology, and is co-author of “Stripping the Boss.” In addition to her interest in the humorous constitution of the Egyptian national character, she has published work exploring how the dominant ideology during the various periods of modern Egyptian history re-interpreted the country’s economic constitution, and the impact this had on Egypt’s society. Sabine is Professor of Economic Sociology at Vienna University of Economics and Business.

Index1

A

Activism, 12, 19–21, 24, 25, 29, 30, 32–34, 90–93, 96, 107, 135, 139, 143, 164, 252 Aesthetics, 2, 9, 11–14, 25, 32, 39–59, 63, 88, 89, 94, 98, 101, 108n1, 114, 116–118, 124–126, 128–130, 135, 138, 147, 156, 181, 192, 193, 195, 202–210, 212, 215–217, 231, 238, 239, 252, 256, 260–264, 266, 271n5, 306, 325–346 Agency, 7, 22, 23, 40, 49, 52, 57, 58, 97, 225, 226, 232, 235, 239, 240, 244, 245n10, 262, 330, 338, 339 Answerability, 203 Anti-colonial resistance, 252 Apartheid, 122–124 Arab nationalism, 124, 156, 162

Arab uprisings, 13, 113–150 Arab world Arab spring, 32, 114, 117, 150, 155, 325 Arab uprisings, 13, 113 Middle East, 13, 114, 155, 159 Arabic language, 13, 155–173 Art artistic activism, 2, 11, 19–21, 32, 34 community driven street art, 12 interactive art, 21 participatory art, 12, 32 performing arts, 12, 43 public art, 11, 26, 35, 89, 95, 208, 277, 294 street art, 1–14, 20, 21, 24–27, 32, 33, 39, 63–65, 67–75, 77–81, 87–90, 93, 94, 101, 114, 130, 141, 195n1, 195n2,

Note: Page number followed by ‘n’ refers to notes.

1

© The Author(s) 2017 S.H. Awad, B. Wagoner (eds.), Street Art of Resistance, Palgrave Studies in Creativity and Culture, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-63330-5

377

378  Index

Art (cont.) 202, 251–270, 277–280, 283–288, 293, 294, 301, 338 traditional art, 12, 53, 58, 59 visual arts, 42, 45–47, 206, 209 Artefacts, 183, 266 Australia, 13, 262, 265 B

Bahrain, 115, 116, 119, 127–129, 133, 136, 139–142 Barcelona, 325 Belfast, 13, 179–195 Borders barriers, 1 walls, 1 Brazil, 13, 98, 201–217, 309 C

Calligraphies, 115, 116, 118, 121, 127, 141, 167, 205, 210, 219n12 Canada, 13, 41, 57, 251–254, 257, 258, 261–263, 265, 268, 270n1, 271n6 Caricatures, 14, 135, 286, 297n7, 351–354, 371 Carnivalization, 215 Catholic population, 184 Chile, 9, 52, 53, 87, 89–94, 96–100, 102–106, 108, 108n1, 108n2, 109n3, 109n4, 110n6 China, 46 Colonial decolonization, 13, 14, 95, 254, 264, 268 post-colonialism, 4, 261

Colonialism, 95, 96, 105, 156, 161, 251, 252, 254, 256, 257, 261, 263, 264, 268, 269, 270n1 Communications, 20, 64, 65, 78–82, 91, 97, 115, 125, 126, 134–136, 147, 148, 156, 158, 160, 168, 202, 203, 207, 213, 214, 217, 263, 294, 307, 369 Conflict tourism, 181, 191, 192, 197n11 Conflicts, 13, 22, 31, 32, 44, 47, 59, 66, 70, 81, 116, 125, 143, 149, 169, 181–183, 186, 187, 190–195, 196n9, 197n10, 197n11, 197n13, 282, 283, 286, 314, 327, 328, 331–335, 337, 339, 343, 344, 346, 370 Coptic Christian community, 163 Creativity creative activism, 12, 19–21, 24, 25, 29, 30, 32–34 perspectival model of creativity, 29, 31 D

Democracy, 87, 134, 136, 142, 195n2, 303, 312, 325, 326, 330–332, 344, 350, 351, 355, 365, 369, 370 democratic potential, 301–321 Denmark, 14, 301, 303, 306, 310, 312–321 Dialogical, 2, 6, 8 Dialogues, 1, 5, 7, 10, 11, 20, 27, 28, 32, 108, 134, 143, 172, 192, 196n9, 204, 210, 214, 216, 218n4, 253, 303, 332

 Index    

Dictatorship, 64, 87, 89, 90, 95, 143, 165, 207, 218n6, 219n10, 325, 334 Discourse counter discourse, 91 language discourse, 8 visual discourse, 141 Dublin, 179

379

Germany, 44, 309, 355 Graffiti stencil, 9, 24, 25, 32, 124, 131, 133, 136, 138, 139, 145, 279, 308 tags, 32, 105, 236, 238, 261 Grapixo, 202, 210 H

E

Egypt, 2–7, 9, 14, 34, 122, 125, 131, 133, 138, 142–145, 147, 158, 160–166, 172, 350–352, 355–357, 361, 362, 366, 367 Energy, 63–65, 67, 73, 75–77, 79, 81, 98, 213, 302, 312 Euclidean topography, 226 European colonialism, 254, 262, 267 Experience integral experience, 67 vital experience, 67 Expressive objects, 69 Extended Body Hypothesis (EBH), 240, 242 F

Feminist, 97, 101, 105, 106, 110n7, 143–145, 363 Fluid topology, 226 G

Gender heteronormativity, 105 patriarchal culture, 97 sexism, 48 Gentrification, 213, 214, 318, 319

Heterotopias, 115, 134–138 Hip hop culture, 261, 262 Humor, 14, 135, 285, 286, 293, 321, 349, 351, 352, 361, 363 I

Icon (iconography), 10, 46, 97, 101, 104, 106–108, 119, 124–127, 134, 136, 138, 140, 144, 149, 187, 216, 255, 265, 277–297, 326 Identity collective identity, 13, 20, 22, 155, 345 cultural identity, 13, 115–117, 261, 262, 266 Ideology, 1, 32, 47, 116, 126, 157, 166, 172, 260, 264, 267, 310–312, 355 Illegality, 11 Images, 1–6, 10–12, 14, 20, 32, 33, 49, 63–66, 68, 70, 87–108, 114, 119, 122, 123, 125, 126, 128, 132, 139, 144–147, 149, 167, 180, 187, 189, 190, 195, 207, 213, 214, 216, 219n9, 235, 237, 253, 279, 280, 283–286, 288–295, 297n6,

380  Index

Images (cont.) 297n7, 302, 311, 312, 321, 325, 336–338 Immigration laws, 319 Indigenous indigenous iconographies, 93–107, 265 indigenous motifs, 4 native, 87 Injustice economic-political injustices, 41–45 nexus of injustices, 39 Inorganic skin, 224, 242–244 Iraq, 125, 127, 142, 150n1, 166, 167 Ireland, 179, 180, 189 Irony, 14, 124, 283, 285, 294 Islamic fundamentalism, 156 Israel, 120, 131, 168, 169 K

Knowledge production, 13, 114, 115, 134, 138 L

Labor injustices, 45 Languages, 4, 7, 8, 13, 50, 80, 92, 114, 116, 117, 128, 134, 138–143, 149, 155, 182, 207, 209, 240, 262, 263, 370 Lebanon, 115, 116, 119, 121, 124–127, 130, 131, 133, 141, 145, 161, 169 Legitimacy, 133, 142, 171, 261, 331, 333, 354–368, 371

Liverpool, 13, 226–228 Loyalist British unionist, 180 M

Madrid, 48, 325–327, 335, 336 Marginalization, 1, 13, 14, 88, 92, 105, 107, 109n4, 118, 128, 142, 143, 261, 281, 288, 337 Martyrdom, 126, 129 Materiality, 8, 9, 238 Mediums, 8–10, 12, 65, 69, 76–79, 81, 134, 136, 159, 161, 171, 201, 279, 295, 371 Memory collective memory, 32, 119, 126, 128, 129, 140, 146 commemoration, 124, 129, 184, 189, 192, 335 Mental health, 13, 224–244 Mexico, 10, 14, 277, 280, 285, 292, 295, 297n6 Montreal, 251, 252, 265 Monuments, 2, 7, 73, 208, 264, 269 Murals, 2, 3, 5, 6, 9–13, 47, 72–74, 87–89, 91–100, 102–107, 108n1, 109n4, 118–121, 124, 141, 148, 149, 163, 180–192, 195n2, 252, 253, 257, 265, 266, 271n6, 278, 279 Muslim Brotherhood, 2, 4, 121, 144, 164, 165, 358, 365 N

Narrative counter narrative, 114, 115, 149, 192, 264

 Index    

official narrative, 114 mainstream narrative, 114, 148 National identity, 92, 94, 108, 126, 158, 161, 162, 170, 303 Nazi, 44, 51, 283, 326 Neo-liberal, 12–14, 39, 40, 53–55, 57, 89–91, 96, 105, 279, 286, 333 New York, 47, 118, 260, 283 New Zealand, 262 Northern Ireland, 10, 13, 179, 181, 191, 194, 196n9 Northern Irish Movement for Civil Rights (NICRA), 185 O

Oaxaca City, 280–282, 285, 288, 290, 292 The Oaxacan Teachers’ Movement, 282–283 Occupation, 14, 120, 122–124, 142, 158, 161, 169, 180, 252, 254, 259, 269, 280, 326, 356 Orientalism, 169, 172

381

political conflict, 141, 286, 328, 332, 333, 335, 337, 344, 346 political imagination, 25, 26, 127, 134, 149 Positioning, 4, 307 Power, 1, 2, 4, 5, 8–10, 12, 13, 26, 40, 42, 43, 47, 48, 64, 65, 67, 69, 70, 76, 79, 81, 89, 90, 96–98, 101, 109n5, 115, 117, 118, 124, 125, 134, 135, 137, 138, 142, 149, 150, 155–157, 170, 173, 183, 188, 202, 203, 209, 212, 214, 215, 219n16, 226, 230, 231, 233, 238, 266, 269, 286, 287, 290, 294, 303, 311, 315, 317, 319, 329, 331, 343, 345, 349–353, 355, 356, 368, 371 Protestant population, 182, 185 Protests, 2, 20, 26, 30, 32–34, 72, 74, 87, 122, 131, 132, 139, 140, 142–144, 189, 211, 239, 240, 252, 264, 267–270, 277, 280, 282–284, 290, 293, 294, 297n6, 325, 331–335, 340, 341, 343–346, 350, 358, 363–366

P

Palestine, 115, 116, 118–124, 141, 190 Peace lines, 182, 183, 191–194, 196n6, 197n10, 197n14 Peace walls, 182 Pixação, 205–211 Political cartoons, 14, 297n8, 349–371 Politics contemporary politics, 7, 14

Q

Qurans, 115, 159, 163, 165, 166, 172 R

Race, 45, 79, 80, 97, 355 racism, 48, 105, 254, 259 Reflexivities, 12, 21, 26, 29, 31, 32, 34, 55

382  Index

Refugee crisis, 313, 319, 320 Resistance resistance strategies, 9 resisting forms, 63–82 Resisting forms, 12 Revolution, 2, 3, 32, 33, 66, 74, 131, 132, 135, 138, 150, 160, 164, 165, 286, 295, 297n6, 349–351, 355–357, 366, 367 media revolution, 114 Rio de Janeiro, 201, 218n1 Rural territory, 179 S

São Paulo, 73, 201, 208, 218n1 Saudi Arabia, 136, 141, 146 Semiotic reconstructors, 371 Semiotics, 64, 65, 70, 75, 81, 115, 183, 353, 369 Separatists Irish nationalists, 180 Signs, 2, 7, 25, 33, 50, 64, 72, 73, 75, 122, 136, 197n11, 219n11, 232, 237, 279, 289–293, 295, 312, 345, 369 Social actors, 5, 7, 8 Social change, 5, 11, 12, 19–35, 139, 278 Social groups, 4, 6, 29, 117, 207 Social life of images, 2, 6–10 Social movement, 14, 22, 24, 30, 107, 270, 277, 325 Social representations, 8 Social segregation, 183 Socio-cultural factors, 8 Solidarity, 2, 13, 20, 22, 30, 33, 46, 78, 115, 120, 122, 124, 125, 131, 133, 138, 141, 144, 146,

149, 187, 252, 257, 290, 292, 326, 337, 339, 361, 367 South Africa, 13, 190, 262 Space colonized space, 10 common space, 1, 12, 14, 326, 327 counter space, 115, 130–134 public space, 8, 14, 25, 26, 33, 58, 74, 89, 105, 108, 132, 135, 136, 146, 149, 185, 187, 205, 210, 217, 238, 254, 256, 264–267, 279, 284, 301, 325–328, 331, 332, 336–339, 341, 343–346 urban space, 2, 5, 7, 10, 13, 33, 87, 89, 96, 97, 109n4, 136, 305, 306, 309, 328, 336, 339 Spain, 14, 48, 109n2, 297n6, 325 Status quo, 12, 14, 29, 40, 52, 55, 160, 254, 260, 278, 293, 352, 354, 367 Subjectivity neoliberal subjectivity, 40, 57 political subjectivity, 46, 330–332, 337–339, 343, 345 privileged subjectivities, 39 subjectification, 39, 41, 45, 48–53, 57, 58 Subjectivization, 326, 328, 330, 332, 333, 338, 339, 341, 343, 344 Symbolic power, 157, 270 Syria, 116, 122, 125, 127, 131–133, 138, 142, 149, 161, 167, 319 T

Tagging, 94, 205, 238, 244n2, 255, 256, 260–262, 278

 Index    

Tahrir square, 2, 3, 33, 135, 139, 143, 144, 148, 349, 363 Tattoos, 13, 227, 230, 238, 243 Temporality, 8, 10, 34, 224, 227, 233, 235 Terrorism, 150, 166–171

V

Vancouver, 260, 265, 271n6 Vandalism, 73, 143, 202, 207, 224, 238, 308 Visibility, 3, 9, 14, 71, 105–107, 118, 122, 129, 130, 205, 209, 211, 212, 277, 292, 326, 332, 334, 336–340, 345

U

United Kingdom Liverpool, 13, 227, 228, 230, 232, 233, 236, 245n8 London, 50, 54, 119, 122 United States (USA), 47, 93, 101, 110n6, 229, 261, 262, 265, 266, 269, 270, 355 Urban urban infrastructure, 13, 180, 181 urban polyphony, 13, 33, 202, 208, 217

383

W

Welfare state, 314 Wonder, 12, 19, 106, 311, 363 Y

Yemen, 127 Z

Zapatista, 278, 295, 297n6, 330