The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance: Analyzing Political Street Art in Latin America 9781800731509

Citation preview

The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

Protest, Culture and Society General editors: Kathrin Fahlenbrach, Institute for Media and Communication, University of Hamburg Martin Klimke, New York University Abu Dhabi Joachim Scharloth, Waseda University

Protest movements have been recognized as significant contributors to processes of political participation and transformations of culture and value systems, as well as to the development of both a national and transnational civil society. This series brings together the various innovative approaches to phenomena of social change, protest, and dissent which have emerged in recent years, from an interdisciplinary perspective. It contextualizes social protest and cultures of dissent in larger political processes and sociocultural transformations by examining the influence of historical trajectories and the response of various segments of society, and political and legal institutions on a national and international level. In doing so, the series offers a more comprehensive and multidimensional view of historical and cultural change in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. Recent volumes: Volume 29 The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance: Analyzing Political Street Art in Latin America Lisa Bogerts

Volume 24 Taking on Technocracy: Nuclear Power in Germany, 1945 to the Present Dolores L. Augustine

Volume 28 Political Graffiti in Critical Times: The Aesthetics of Street Politics Edited by Ricardo Campos, Andrea Pavoni, and Yiannis Zaimakis

Volume 23 The Virago Story: Assessing the Impact of a Feminist Publishing Phenomenon Catherine Riley

Volume 27 Protest, Youth and Precariousness: The Unfinished Fight against Austerity in Portugal Edited by Renato Miguel Carmo and José Alberto Vasconcelos Simōes Volume 26 Party Responses to Social Movements: Challenges and Opportunities Daniela R. Piccio Volume 25 The Politics of Authenticity: Countercultures and Radical Movements across the Iron Curtain, 1968–1989 Edited by Joachim C. Häberlen, Mark Keck-Szajbel, and Kate Mahoney

Volume 22 The Women’s Liberation Movement: Impacts and Outcomes Edited by Kristina Schulz Volume 21 Hairy Hippies and Bloody Butchers: The Greenpeace Anti-Whaling Campaign in Norway Juliane Riese Volume 20 A Fragmented Landscape: Abortion Governance and Protest Logics in Europe Edited by Silvia De Zordo, Joanna Mishtal, and Lorena Anton

For a full volume listing, please see the series page on our website: http://berghahnbooks.com/series/protest-culture-and-society

The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance Analyzing Political Street Art in Latin America

Lisa Bogerts

berghahn NEW YORK • OXFORD www.berghahnbooks.com

First published in 2022 by Berghahn Books www.berghahnbooks.com

© 2022 Lisa Bogerts

All rights reserved. Except for the quotation of short passages for the purposes of criticism and review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without written permission of the publisher.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A C.I.P. cataloging record is available from the Library of Congress Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Control Number: 2021062578

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 978-1-80073-149-3 hardback ISBN 978-1-80073-150-9 ebook

For everyone who (still) believes in social change. And those who have risked a lot to fight for it.

Contents List of Illustrations and Tables

viii

Acknowledgments

xiii

Introduction. Political Power, Visual Communication, and Public Space

1

Chapter . From Conceptualizing to Analyzing Visual Power and Resistance

19

Chapter . Street Art as a Medium of Visual Political Communication

50

Chapter . Setting the Scene: Street Art in Latin American Urban Space

79

Chapter . Buenos Aires: “Latin America—Now or Never”

88

Chapter . Mexico City: “Another World Is Possible— Democracy, Freedom, Justice”

126

Chapter . Caracas: “El Comandante” Is Present

155

Chapter . Bogotá: “Exploitation Destroys Life”

183

Chapter . Across the Cities: Strategies of Visual Meaning-Making

218

Conclusions. “The Media Are Theirs, the Walls Are Ours”

235

Appendix A. Shooting Script for Photo Documentation

245

Appendix B. Image Descriptions and Image Sections/Composition from the Detailed Analyses (I Level)

246

Appendix C. Code Frequencies

253

References

316

Index

329

Illustrations and Tables Illustrations 4.1a–b. (a) Mural depicting “resistance” in a scenario of confrontation; location: La Boca, Buenos Aires; producers: Lucas Quinto and others; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (b) Other side of the mural (see illustration 4.1a) depicting “rule” in a scenario of confrontation; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016.

89

4.2a–c. (a) Government-commissioned mural; location: National Ministry of Communication, Buenos Aires; producer: Colectivo Carpani; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (b) Spatial occupation of the main square; location: Plaza de Mayo, Buenos Aires; producer: Madres de Plaza de Mayo-Línea Fundadora; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (c) Mural of Discursos Murales; location: Centro/Monserrat, Buenos Aires; producer: Valeria Orfino; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016.

92

4.3a–h. (a) Stencil “Vultures out”; location: Avenida de Mayo, Buenos Aires; producer: unknown; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (b) Overpainted bicentennial stencil with Néstor Kirchner and “Che” Guevara; location: Avenida de Mayo, Buenos Aires; producer: unknown; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (c) Stencil “No more trafficking”; spatial occupation of the Congress building; location: Plaza de Mayo, Buenos Aires; producer: unknown; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (d) Stencil “Obama out!”; location: Avenida de Mayo, Buenos Aires; producer: unknown; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (e) Stencil “Macri go home”; location: Avenida de Mayo, Buenos Aires; producer: unknown; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (f ) Stencil advertisement Nike and Lenovo; location: Palermo, Buenos Aires; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (g) Stencil advertisement Warner Bros.; location: Palermo, Buenos Aires; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (h) Stencil advertisement Reebok; location: Palermo, Buenos Aires; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016.

95

4.4a–c. (a) Giant mural overpainted by a leftist political slogan; location: Barracas, Buenos Aires; producers: Martin Ron, Izquierda Revolucionaria; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (b) Protest march in front of mural (see illustration 4.5a); location: Avenida de Mayo,

Illustrations and Tables

Buenos Aires; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (c) Mural “Free the political prisoner Milagro Sala”; location: Centro/Monserrat, Buenos Aires; producers: Coordinadora J. W. Cooke Concordia, Movimiento Kultural, Organización Barrial Tupac Amaru; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016.

|

ix

98

4.5a–b. (a) Mural; location: Avenida de Mayo, Buenos Aires; producers: Red Sudakas, Fileteadores del Conurbano, Lucas Quinto, Sergio Condori, Pericles, Eric Chareun, and Ruben Minutoli; stencil (boy) by Stencil Land; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (b) Detail of illustration 4.5a; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016.

104

5.1a–c. (a) Government-sponsored murals; location: Corredor Arte Urbano Buenavista—Guerrero, Mexico City; producers: Liberalia Colectivo Itinerante; © Lisa Bogerts, 2017. (b) Governmentsponsored mural; location: Corredor Arte Urbano Buenavista— Guerrero, Mexico City; producers: Liberalia Colectivo Itinerante; © Lisa Bogerts, 2017. (c) Aztec iconography from the Codex Borbonicus (detail from p. 14); public domain.

127

5.2a–b. (a) Mural “No to the structural reforms—43”; location: Congreso de la Unión, Mexico City; producer: unknown; © Lisa Bogerts, 2017. (b) Mural; location: Congreso de la Unión, Mexico City; producer: La Banda Chilanga; © Lisa Bogerts, 2017.

131

5.3a–d. (a) Whiteners of Unidad Graffiti; “The constitution has died”; location: Mexico City © Charro, 2014. (b) Stencils and slogans; “Justice,” “Burn the prison,” “Assassin government”; © Charro, 2014. (c) Stencils “Another world is possible”; location: Mexico City © Charro, 2014. (d) Slogan “500 years of struggle”; location: Mexico City © Charro, 2014.

133

5.4a–b. (a) Mural “It was us”; location: San Isidro cemetery, Mexico City; producer: unknown; © Lisa Bogerts, 2017. (b) Police tweets about Unidad Graffiti in Mexico City; © Secretaría de Seguridad Ciudadana de la Ciudad de México, 2017.

138

5.5a–b. (a) Mural “Another world is possible—democracy, freedom, justice”; location: Enlace Zapatista CDMX, Mexico City; producer: unknown; © Lisa Bogerts, 2017. (b) Detail of illustration 5.5a.

141

6.1a–c. (a) Mural; location: Centro Histórico, Caracas; producer: Casa Taller de Pintura Tito Salas; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (b) Mural; location: Centro Histórico, Caracas; producer: Corriente

x | Illustrations and Tables

Revolucionaria Bolívar y Zamora (CRBZ) and Patria Para Todos (PPT); © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (c) Mural The Last Supper; location: 23 de Enero, Caracas; producer: Colectivo Alexis Vive; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016.

157

6.2a–d. (a) Stencil “We keep resisting”; location: Centro Histórico, Caracas; producers: Comando Creativo; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (b) Oppositional stencils “Oh Nicolás, I see torture”; location: Chacao, Caracas; producers: unknown; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (c) Right-hand side: Stencil “No to media colonialism”; location: Avenida México, Caracas; producers: Comando Creativo, Red Bolivariana de Artistas Plásticos de Venezuela; left-hand side: stencil “Stop the MUD’s fraud”; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (d) Stencil “We bring war to your home”; location: Centro Histórico, Caracas; producers: Comando Creativo; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016.

159

6.3a–b. (a) Government-sponsored mural; location: El Valle, Caracas; producer: Misión Vivienda; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (b) Slogan “Chavista territory”; location: Centro Histórico, Caracas; producer: unknown; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016.

162

6.4. Mural La quema de Judas (The burning of Judas); location: Maternidad, Caracas; producers: Ejército Comunicacional de Liberación; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016.

165

6.5a–c. (a) Mural; location: UNEARTE, Caracas; producers: Comando Creativo, Nicolay Shamaniko, and Ramón Pimentel; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (b) Mural at La Minka; location: La Pastora, Caracas; producers: Nicolay Shamaniko and others; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (c) State TV report (YouTube screen capture) and tweet about restoration of mural; © Venezolana, 2014.

169

7.1a–d. (a) Mural; location: Calle 26#17, Bogotá; producers: Bastardilla, Chirrete Golden, Ark; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (b) Mural; location: Avenida Jimenez, Bogotá; producer: unknown; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (c) Mural “Our north is the south”; location: La Candelaria, Bogotá; producer: Guache; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (d) Mural “[No] peace”; location: Chapinero, Bogotá; producer: CRISP; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016.

185

7.2a–d. (a) Mural; location: Universidad Nacional, Bogotá; producer: Red Revuelta, PN Identidad Estudiantil Palmira, CTR; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (b) Plaza Ché; location: Universidad Nacional, Bogotá; producer: unknown; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016

Illustrations and Tables

|

xi

(c) Far-right stencils “Join the dissidence”; location: Universidad Nacional, Bogotá; producer: unknown; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016 (d) Overpainted far-right stencil on leftist mural; location: Universidad Nacional, Bogotá; producer: unknown; mural by Grupo Estudiantil Anarquista (GeA); © Lisa Bogerts, 2016.

188

7.3a–b. (a) Mural “Exploitation destroys life”; location: Cl. 20#4-43, Bogotá; producer: Lesivo; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (b) Detail of illustration 7.3a (section 2).

197

7.4a–e. (a) Detail of illustration 7.3a (section 1). (b) Detail of illustration 7.3a (section 3). (c) Stencil pictogram; location: La Candelaria, Bogotá; producer: DJLU; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (d) Stencil pictogram; location: La Candelaria, Bogotá; producer: DJLU; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (e) Stencil pictograms; location: La Candelaria, Bogotá; producer: DJLU; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016.

208

8.1a–h. (a) Mural “Subcomandante Marcos”; location: Congreso de la Unión, Mexico City; producer: unknown; © Lisa Bogerts, 2017. (b) Police officer of the German Special Units (SEK); 2019; Wikimedia Commons, public domain. (c) Far-right stencils; location: Universidad Nacional, Bogotá; producer: unknown; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (d) Maoist poster produced by the Revolutionary Communist Party USA (detail); Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 International. (e) Details of a mural; location: Avenida México, Caracas; producer: Frente Francisco de Miranda; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (f ) Anti-sexist stencil “Shhh . . . I don’t want your compliment”; location: Universidad Nacional, Bogotá; producer: unknown; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (g) Soviet propaganda poster “Don’t chatter!” (original by Nina Vitolina); Wikimedia Commons, public domain Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic. (h) Poster for launch event of the book Calle esos ojos by the Bogotá Street Art collective, 2012; © Bogotá Street Art, courtesy of Lesivo.

221

8.2a–d. (a) Havana Club advertisement; location: Palermo, Buenos Aires; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (b) Adidas advertisement; location: La Condesa, Mexico City; © Lisa Bogerts, 2017. (c) Coca-Cola and Champion’s League advertisements; location: Roma Sur, Mexico City; © Lisa Bogerts, 2017. (d) Comex advertisement for (antigraffiti) paint “Together we beautify and protect life”; location: Coyoacán, Mexico City; © Lisa Bogerts, 2017.

226

xii | Illustrations and Tables

8.3a–c. (a) Most frequent codes across the cities. (b) Code co-occurrence model for theme code “resistance” and coded subjects (min. 15 intersections). (c) Code co-occurrence model for theme code “political parties” and coded subjects (min. 10 intersections).

229

8.4a–d. (a) Government-commissioned mural; location: Centro Histórico, Mexico City; © Lisa Bogerts, 2017. (b) Government-supported mural for the Peace Referendum “With peace we are all winning”; location: Avenida Caracas, Bogotá; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (c) Coat of arms (left-hand side) and advertisement; location: Las Aguas/Los Andes, Bogotá; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (d) Mural honoring the military; location: Palermo, Buenos Aires; producer: Fraternidad de Agrupaciones, Santo Tomás de Aquino; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016.

232

B.1. Sections and composition of illustrations 6.5a (Caracas) and 4.5a (Buenos Aires).

247

B.2. Sections and composition of illustrations 5.5a (Mexico City) and 7.3a (Bogotá).

248

Tables 1.1. Dimensions, operationalization of indicators, and methodological tools.

34

C.1. Code frequencies (all cities).

253

C.2. Code frequencies (Buenos Aires).

269

C.3. Code frequencies (Mexico City).

282

C.4. Code frequencies (Caracas).

292

C.5. Code frequencies (Bogotá).

303

Acknowledgments My special gratitude goes out to the artists, activists, academics, and friends who helped and accompanied me during my research in Bogotá, Buenos Aires, Caracas, and Ciudad de México. Mil gracias por compartir su experticia, experiencia y tiempo conmigo—sin vosotrxs este libro simplemente no existiría: Dexpierte Colectivo, Edwin, Diego, Marcel, Raúl, Badsura, Guerilla Communicacional (especially Josept), Andrés, Valeria, Sergio, Nazza, Red Sudakas (particularly Leo), Lucas, Marina, Miguel, Yescka, Polo, Vlocke, Sergio, and Lapiztola, as well as Michel, Daniela, Orlando, Jerzon, Fede, Rocío, Joaquín, Daniela, Patricia, and Maria. Further thanks for enriching my visits go to Ricardo, Juan, José, and the people from Kasa Azul in La Pastora, Caracas. I am also thankful to the people who facilitated the planning process and shared their experiences, literature recommendations, and contacts with me, including Tome, Ana, and Boris (Interbrigadas). I particularly appreciate the photo courtesy of Charro, which was invaluable for the chapter on Mexico City. Many of my thoughts laid out in this book were inspired by discussions within networks and institutions in the academic, artistic, and activist realm. Beyond the art and activism scenes in Latin America, this included the DFG network “Visuality and World Politics,” the German Association for Peace and Conflict Studies (AFK), the Berlin Institute for Social Movement Studies (ipb), the Center for Artistic Activism (C4AA) at NYU, Parsons School of Design, and Project.Shelter in Frankfurt. Although academia provided me a privileged room for intellectual development, I was often more deeply impressed by activists and practitioners who, beyond mere deskwork, dedicate their time to social change. I would like to thank Professor Kathrin Fahlenbrach and Professor Nicole Deitelhoff for their guidance during the writing process, and Professor Victoria Hattam, who welcomed me in New York at the New School for Social Research (NSSR). I am grateful to my colleagues and friends who inspired me through solidarity and strength, and—once more—demonstrated the importance of alliance among young female professionals. Thank you, Anne Schillig, Eva Ottendörfer, Hawa Noor Mohammed, Bettina Engels, Michaela Zöhrer, Aicha Tamba, Priska Daphi, Regina Hack, Evelyn Pauls, and Anna Leonhardt, to mention only a few.

xiv | Acknowledgments

For their emotional support, inspiration, and sympathetic ears during the writing process, I owe a lot to my friends, particularly Anne, Stef, Eva, Elli, Maik, and Ghiath. Thanks for encouraging me along the way. Further, I would like to thank my parents, Doro and Bernhard, and my grandmother Hedwig (who infected me with her passion for art), for always having unconditionally supported both my professional and private development. Last but not least, my thanks go to the publishers of the Protest, Culture & Society series and the editing team of Berghahn Books. Berlin, January 2022

Introduction Political Power, Visual Communication, and Public Space

To succeed in political conflict, people must make their claims visible. They struggle over visibility and the legitimacy of power in different arenas, including political institutions, mass media, and public space. Although we often use the term visibility in a metaphorical sense, just like vision, imagination, and representation, in politics it matters in the truest (visual) sense of the word. Visual media heavily influence both everyday and political communication. This is why political actors, whether marginalized or in high-power positions, aim to produce strong images to convey their ideas, mobilize support, and attract the attention of the public and the mass media. Aiming to create powerful statements, visual political communication often employs a certain set of aesthetics. Depending on the intended message, the aesthetics allow the viewer to sensually experience and recognize political statements or worldviews. They make visual expressions of politics appealing through sensorial pleasure and with the help of certain tastes, styles, and symbols (Camnitzer 2009; Rancière 2004; Steyerl 2010). In political struggles, particular aesthetics also convey different ideas of resistance. For a political resistance movement, it is crucial that it be able to represent itself both in political and in visual terms. Typical visualizations of discontent range from raised fists and waving banners to masked demonstrators fighting heavily protected police forces. Popular examples of catchy visual symbols are Pussy Riot’s colorful ski masks, Banksy’s flower thrower, the Guy Fawkes mask from the Occupy movement, and the clenched fist in a Venus sign visualizing feminism. Some activists support their arguments by showing the individual faces of historical resistance icons, such as Angela Davis or Ernesto “Che” Guevara, on banners, posters, or photographs. Others prefer the image of the anonymous mass of “the people” that aims to demonstrate public support (Fahlenbrach 2016a: 248–49). At the same time, the aesthetics of resistance are fashionable and ambiguous. Not only do activist groups and resistance movements successfully catch the attention of traditional and social media with the help of powerful imagery, seemingly subversive aesthetics are also used in political marketing and public relations, advertisements, and popular culture to attract the

2 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

audience. The range of producers, financiers, and interests behind such imagery is extremely diverse. For instance, the street artist Shepard Fairey got wide public attention for his iconic “Hope” poster during Barack Obama’s 2008 presidential campaign. The artist’s subversive reputation in the street art scene and his aesthetics of stencil style, pop art, and Russian revolutionary constructivism give the artwork a sort of “street credibility” and a taste of social change. However, it was only in the beginning that Fairey distributed his posters independently; later he was officially commissioned and paid by Obama’s presidential campaign.1 Therefore, the “Hope” poster no longer represented independent popular support or genuine subversive endeavors but served the interests of an established political party in the run for one of the world’s most powerful political offices. While the aesthetics seem to come “from below,” they actually come “from above”—or at least from a combination of both. Apparently, although the style and iconology of an image may come with an aura of resistance at first sight, a closer look at its producers and its purpose all too often reveals its entanglements with power structures. Some might say that powerful players appropriated the aesthetics of resistance. In turn, one may see a risk of depoliticization and a potential devaluation of the political power and the efforts of “real” visual activism. The diverse producers, uses, and interests involved in contentious imagery demonstrate that it is far from obvious whether an image is indeed an expression of “genuine” political resistance. Is it even possible to distinguish the “aesthetics of resistance” from the “aesthetics of rule,” given the assumption that resistance and rule are dialectically entangled phenomena? What exactly makes one image resistance and others not? Is it its specific visual content or the oppositional position of its producers? There is the vague feeling that the function and effect of these images “depend on the context”— a quite unsatisfactory response. In any case, it remains blurry as to what exactly characterizes visual expressions of resistance. This book investigates the phenomenon of visual resistance and its entanglement with power structures. Drawing on approaches in visual culture, I aim to better examine how visual political communication works and to increase visual literacy in our everyday image use and consumption. Who is behind the production of the images we see in everyday life, and who has, thus, the power to influence their content and dissemination? How are images used to legitimize political power, and how is this power scrutinized with the help of the visual? Which specific visual techniques are used to make political claims aesthetically persuasive, and how do aesthetic choices reflect political attitudes and arguments? Images convey political narratives and ideology just as written and oral stories do. But we barely perceive these visual persuasion strategies in a conscious way because we did not consciously learn

Introduction

|

3

“seeing” as we learned reading and writing. This is true for images in news media and in political election campaigns, just as it is for images we see in Netflix shows and in movies, in WhatsApp chats, in Instagram feeds, and on YouTube channels. Everyday images in social media, in popular culture, on the streets, or in other pre-political spheres heavily influence our worldviews—even if in a more subtle way. Therefore in our media consumption we should be more aware of how visual political communication works. A perspective of showing, seeing, and being seen can help us better understand relations of power, as they are addressed by resisters and rulers alike. Such a perspective—as it is offered by the research field of visual culture—goes beyond the rather institutional concept of “the political” that is commonly employed in political science and merely considers the political impact of everyday practices, let alone images. Therefore, based on existing approaches, I develop an understanding of political resistance and rule that is informed by visual culture approaches. Beyond the rather “impressionistic” approach we would use in nonacademic debates about political images, I suggest in this book a scientific approach to systematically analyze images. Therefore I will introduce an analytical framework and explore whether it is useful to understand the interrelation of resistance and power structures. Since street art is a visual medium that perfectly illustrates this mutually constitutive relation, as I will argue, I take it as an example for empirical analysis. The central question of this book is twofold: First, which forms of visual resistance are there, and which visual strategies of persuasion do different political actors employ to express resistance, legitimize themselves, and foster social identification and mobilization? Second, what can we learn about the intertwined relationship between rule and resistance by examining visual material? Furthermore, for rather scholarly readers of this book, I aim to make a methodological contribution by finding out whether my analytical framework and the suggested tools for data collection and interpretation help answer these questions. Therefore, unlike in many social science books, methodology is much more than just instrumental in reaching valid results. Rather, elaborations on the empirical application of research methods are a central contribution of this book (especially in chapters 1, 4–7, and 8). Thus my intention is to provide interested researchers among the readers—those who want to analyze images themselves—with a comprehensive framework and specific methodological tools of visual discourse analysis. How can we approach contemporary forms of aesthetic visual resistance while simultaneously paying tribute to its interrelation with power structures and institutions? As Helle Malmvig points out, much of the existing

4 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

literature “assumes that visual representations readily serve as emancipatory tools that can be appropriated against relations of power and established visual-discursive fields” (Malmvig 2016: 259). By contrast, she calls into question the assumption that the visuals used by a presumed group of dominated subjects—“the people/activists/artists” (Malmvig 2016: 261)—are a democratizing force per se and stand in binary opposition to the ones utilized by a powerful political elite or state agencies. And yet, many scholars claim that activists may contribute “to redefining military, political, and economic power via new visual narratives, which . . . address consumers and citizens in battles for eyes and minds” (Fahlenbrach et al. 2014: 206; see also Nye 2011). To understand how this process works, and to explore the context on which the meaning of an image depends, political scientists, especially, need to widen their disciplinary perspective. In recent years, the political power of protest imagery has received increasing attention in social science, and “art activism” is an emerging research field. However, very little theoretical and empirical work on the specific characteristics of visual resistance has been done so far. Particularly in political science, a field that should inherently be interested in how the political is negotiated in all forms of communication, visual protest media are commonly taken as “byproducts,” fulfilling a merely illustrative role for “real” political resistance. Beyond the social sciences, several scholars have already provided their specific conceptualizations of visual resistance within political power relations. For instance, the visual culture scholar Nicholas Mirzoeff introduced the concept of “countervisuality” to describe how, in times of colonialism and imperialism, the oppressed used visual technologies and media to make visible their claims and their versions of history. His work The Right to Look: A Counterhistory of Visuality (2011) was an essential source of inspiration for writing this book on the interplay of visual power and resistance with a focus on discursive practices and (anti-)imperialism. In this work, Mirzoeff retells the history of imperialism with a focus on how visual technologies and media were employed in the struggle over power between “visuality” and “countervisuality.” He considers visuality to be a power tool used by the Global North to legitimize its hegemony and make it self-evident—it is a “discursive practice that has material effects” (Mirzoeff 2011: 3). However, Mirzoeff assumes that history is not monolithic but structured in conflict. Striving to establish a counterhistory from the perspective of the oppressed, countervisuality scrutinizes that visual classification, separation, and aestheticization of these social differences is as “natural” as it seems. The “right to look” of the oppressed entails as well “a right to be seen” and thus to represent oneself and gain visibility as political subjects. At the same time,

Introduction

|

5

practices of visual resistance are operating in an intertwined relation with power structure. They are therefore at risk of being appropriated and may be “a trap as well as a resource” (Mirzoeff 2011: 150). In this way, he agrees with Michel Foucault in that power always provokes resistance and a “resistance that succeeds simply becomes power” (Mirzoeff 2005: 25). While Mirzoeff’s approach is rather genealogical and focuses on historical forms of visual resistance, he does clearly not intend to systematically analyze empirical visual material of contemporary politics. By contrast, Gillian Rose offers one of the most helpful methodological frameworks in critical visual culture. In Visual Methodologies (2016) she suggests thinking about visual material in terms of four sites: production, the image itself (i.e., its visual content), circulation, and what she calls “audiencing” (i.e., the audience’s active reception and reactions). Inspired by this differentiation into sites, I argue that the resistant character of an image might manifest on various levels or dimensions, which we need to distinguish for analyzing the political context within which the image is operating. Various scholars have already contributed to enriching political science perspectives with theoretical and methodological concepts from visual culture (e.g., Hansen 2011, 2014; Bleiker 2001, 2015; Eder and Klonk 2016; Heck and Schlag 2020). Drawing from diverse academic traditions and disciplines, this research field examines what images tell us about the cultures and the political and economic power structures in which they are produced and perceived. Visual culture approaches do not reduce images to merely illustrating social phenomena. By contrast, they consider them key to how we perceive politics. Visual culture assumes that everyday images inform how we see the world and thus literally shape our worldviews, or world visions. Images are considered part of a visual discourse in which political meaning-making is constantly negotiated. While things are made visible in particular ways, others are made invisible (Rose 2016: 188). At the same time, regarding the entanglement of rule and resistance, “visual culture would highlight those moments where the visual is contested, debated and transformed as a constantly challenging place of social interaction and definition in terms of class, gender, sexual and racialized identities” (Mirzoeff 1999: 4). In this perspective, it is the researcher’s task “[to] explore the ambivalences, interstices and places of resistance in postmodern everyday life from the consumer’s point of view” (Mirzoeff 1999: 9). Against this backdrop I developed my own analytical framework based on visual culture literature to empirically examine visual forms of resistance and its ambivalences. I argue that we can analytically distinguish between seven dimensions of visual media in which resistance can be expressed and,

6 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

in turn, limited by power structures. More precisely, I look at the iconological content of the image (I level), its spatial location (S level), the social position of its producers (P level), its material conditions (M level), its legal status (L level), its reception and reactions by the audience (A level), and the political circumstances of its time (T level). Contradictions arise if an image seems to express resistance on one level but is limited by power relations on another. Given the manifold forms of visual expressions—ranging from photographs, videos, and memes to flash mobs, posters, and banners—we need to focus on a specific medium to exemplify these seven analytical dimensions. Most of the typical protest iconography is derived from images of demonstrations and clashes on the street. Street protests always pose the questions of whose street it is and who claims their right to appear in contested urban space. The artist and author of The Aesthetics of Resistance ([1981] 2005), Peter Weiss, declared in one of his anti-imperialist speeches against the Vietnam War that the streets and public spaces are the legitimate mass medium of the people, offering a counterweight to powerful media monopolies (in Schmidt 2016: 209).2 The global protests triggered by the Black Lives Matter movement in 2020 are a case in point: in various cities across the world, people defaced or tore down monuments honoring colonial or pro-slavery “heroes” and partly replaced them with statues of Black freedom fighters. This way they aimed to challenge—and eventually stop—the ongoing symbolic representation of (postcolonial, White, and male) domination in public space.3 Linking both the urban space of the street and the visual arts, street art is a medium that perfectly illustrates the constant appropriation and reappropriation of visual means between actors of power and resistance. Street art images often come with an aura of resistance. They are frequently associated with illegalized or subversive activities by critical artists or marginalized groups. Assuming this medium was freely accessible for producers and universally understandable for the viewers, it is often celebrated as democratically and creatively representing diverse social actors, which even include illiterate populations who commonly do not consume mainstream media or go to art galleries (Reed 2016: 84; Chaffee 1993; Mirzoeff 2015: 264). However, regarding street art within political conflicts and protests, it is necessary to scrutinize who exactly produced these images, what visual narratives they actually convey, and whether they are indeed political or, by contrast, only utilizing the medium’s subversive label while indeed depoliticizing it. For decades there has been a vivid debate on the increasing co-optation and commercialization of the “street credibility,” hipness, and “resistance

Introduction

|

7

chic” associated with street art. It is commodified on the art market, and corporations excessively use it in advertisements, while city administrations have discovered it as a tool for branding cities and gentrifying urban space. In view of this governmental utilization, it is necessary to ask why states seek to appropriate and neutralize street art (Ryan 2017: 5). Apart from its economic value, do state players consider it a means to maintain their power, a risk for their power, or both? While street art used by state and business players is recurrently criticized as “taming it and making it a part of the system” (Aksel and Olgun 2015: 182), it is often overlooked that street art has never been a genuine resistance medium reserved for use by the marginalized. By contrast, I argue that the powerful have always used wall paintings to convey their ideology and to legitimize their power. For instance, Holly Eva Ryan notes that, in Latin America, political street art has a long history, providing a “mobilizing tool for pro-system and anti-system forces alike” (Ryan 2017: 5; see also Chaffee 1993). In the early days of colonialism, as she underlines, the Spanish Crown and the Catholic Church commissioned wall paintings to present their doctrines to the indigenous population. In the more recent past, muralism was inherent in both authoritarian and socialist revolutionary endeavors (Ryan 2017: 6–7). In this regard, street art is a visual medium that illustrates how images are positioned within power structures, making it sometimes hard to distinguish between the aesthetics of rule and the aesthetics of resistance. In any case, by exploring street art, we can learn something about the political opinions, problems, and struggles in a society. Since, in Latin America, street art has a long tradition as a source of both political power and opposition, I will empirically apply my analytical framework with the example of street art in Latin American urban space. Applying a mixed-methods approach of visual analysis, I will analyze images in the streets of Buenos Aires, Bogotá, Caracas, and Mexico City. Considering various dimensions before assuming an image is a form of visual resistance is particularly crucial to examining the entangled relation between resistance and rule and the image’s situatedness in power relations. Such an analytical framework is a useful tool, enabling us to locate, describe, and differentiate an image’s characteristics on certain levels and thus helping us explain contradictions with more analytical clarity. For instance, one such ambivalence is that the authorities benefit from “supporting” street art—which symbolizes cultural creativity and artistic freedom—while they control which visual (iconological) content (I level), which authors (P level), which spaces (S level), and which specific techniques (M level) are permitted in public space, and which are, in turn, illegalized (L level). In this way, the authorities often aim to neutralize visual resistance by supporting and authorizing street art that is merely beautifying and less political, benefit from

8 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

labeling it “art,” and, in turn, delegitimize images that do not meet their expectations. However, a seemingly “unpolitical” use, when taking a closer look, often turns out to be a subtle strategy of controlling the access to free public political expression and simultaneously bears the risk of depoliticizing a potentially powerful tool of political communication. In other cases, while images convey the aesthetics of resistance by carrying certain iconological content (I level) or material features (M level), they might have been produced with the support and in the interest of the authorities or commercial enterprises (P level). Therefore, they are far from either reclaiming space for activists’ visibility (S level) or questioning law and order (L level). My analysis reveals that street art images express forms of resistance in each of the dimensions. Resistance is frequently directed against the dominance of the monopolized mainstream media, and street art is considered an adequate weapon to circumvent, criticize, and oppose this media control. On the iconological level, many images visualize figures of Mirzoeff’s (2011) countervisuality. These visual figures include “the people” or “the popular hero” as political subjects who are able to represent themselves, as well as anti-imperialist indigenous resistance and “the South” as a site of collaborative solidarity (see chapter 1). By approaching political discourse and conflict through the visual, this book aims to help understand which discursive strategies of persuasion and meaning-making are employed by both rulers and resisters to foster identification and mobilization. To legitimize their power, political elites and economic profit makers visually interlink different discursive strands to subtly convey their narratives and present them as being self-evident. Independently from their social authority and positions of power, producers utilize street art’s “street credibility,” claiming to speak on behalf of “the people” and thus employing the media of the people on “their” streets.

How a Visual Culture Perspective Helps Understand Political Rule and Resistance (and Its Entanglement) In political science the understanding of “the political” has for long been an institutional one, without giving much attention to everyday and discursive forms of political power and ways to challenge it—let alone visual forms of rule and resistance. In critical visual culture studies, however, most scholars apply a discursive understanding of the political, often drawing upon poststructuralist assumptions: “Politics is not only fought out in state houses, workplaces or on battlefields, but also in the language we use, the stories

Introduction

|

9

we tell, and the images we conjure—in short, in the ways we make sense of the world” (Duncombe 2015). Although many social scientists acknowledge that the “power of images” plays a significant role in political communication, the research field of visual culture may still be unbeaten territory for most of them. Before I do my own empirical analysis, it is therefore worthwhile to take a look at the central concepts used in this book—most importantly resistance and rule—to have a joint theoretical starting point for the question of how a perspective of showing, seeing, and being seen that is common in visual culture studies can enrich a social scientist understanding of rule and resistance and their entangled relationship. How we see the world is affected by how we make meaning through images, although we are commonly unaware of that process. Visual culture is an interdisciplinary, subject-oriented research field that aims to understand both this meaning-making by visual media and technologies and the social practice of looking in its political, social, and economic contexts. Studies in visual culture may either focus on images themselves and what they tell us about society, on spectatorship and responses by the audiences, or on the circulation of images across social arenas, institutions, or national borders in a globalized world. Visual culture examines how this meaning-making operates in visual, pictorial systems of representations. To explore how images (more or less subtly) convey ideology and how representation is political, we need to look at the basic idea of semiotics.4 As we live in a world of signs that we interpret to make meaning of them, we constantly use semiotics, although we are commonly unaware of our interpretative labor (Sturken and Cartwright 2001: 29). From a semiotic perspective, a sign’s connotation (that is to say, what we associate with it) depends on the social, historical, and cultural context of the image and its perception and varies individually according to the spectator’s personal knowledge and experiences. Further, it depends on the context in which the image is presented and in which the audience perceives it. The crucial point here is that meanings are often made to seem universal and “naturally” given, although they are socially and historically specific and follow a hidden set of norms, rules, and conventions. Understood in this way, it becomes clear that seeing is a social practice that needs to be learned and that involves relationships of power. We can only see the world through these systems of representation, be it linguistic or not, which mediate and construct our understanding of the world and influence our emotions and imagination (Sturken and Cartwright 2001: 13, 19–20).5 Just like Marita Sturken and Lisa Cartwright do in Practices of Looking: An Introduction to Visual Culture (2001), most approaches in visual culture assume that images are produced within dynamics of power relations. For

10 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

many, the potential of images for maintaining authority and power structures lies in their ability to convey ideology. Ideologies are systems of belief and values that help us interpret and assess our everyday lives and the world around us. They are formed and affirmed by social institutions, such as the entertainment and media system, where visual representations are utilized to categorize behavior as “good” or “bad,” to provide evidence, and to foster identification. People and institutions use images and media representation to persuade others to see the world through their eyes. Hence the key characteristic of ideologies is their subtlety, because societies function by masking their ideologies as being “natural,” for instance in the case of nationalism or monogamous romantic love. In the vocabulary of semiotics, “ideologies are . . . connotations parading as denotations” (Sturken and Cartwright 2001: 22). Consequently, we tend to be unaware of our own ideologies and only recognize them when looking at other contexts, cultures, or times in history. In this understanding of ideology, the “power of images” is often explained by its ability to make things look evident and natural—or in Antonio Gramsci’s words, to make it “common sense” in the struggle for hegemony (Gramsci [1971] 2014: 323–33). Images play an instrumental role in discourses of knowledge and truth. We commonly think we can only know something for sure if we can “see it with our own eyes” (Kamecke 2009: 11; Schade and Wenk 2011: 98, 103). For instance, photographs are attributed with documentary quality when we assume that they are evidencing reality. And yet, images are never “reality” but representations of it and, accordingly, are anything but “innocent” and merely illustrative. This (neo-Marxist) understanding of ideology may sound disempowering because it leaves no room for escaping dominant ideologies and ubiquitous power structures.6 However, many approaches in visual culture assume that we are always part of a power structure but can simultaneously oppose it through small interventions. The entanglement of rule and resistance is emphasized by theorists who focus on more subtle forms of domination, in which the governed citizens cooperate with the power institutions to some extent. Most notably, numerous approaches to power and visual categorization and representation build on Michel Foucault’s discourse theory. Foucault’s thoughts significantly influenced visual culture approaches to the (discursive) power of images even before visual culture was institutionalized as a research field; thus, they serve to theoretically bridge social science and visual culture understandings of visual resistance. At the same time, both research fields often refer to Foucault’s famous quote: “Where there is power, there is resistance, and yet, or rather consequently, this resistance is never in a position of exteriority in relation to power” (Foucault 1978: 95).

Introduction

|

11

Foucault believed that the governed individual is subjugated and objectified through relations of power and knowledge (Rose 2016: 188; Fuery and Fuery 2003: 2). He argued that, in democratic political systems, power structures are subtle because they work through cooperation instead of coercion and make citizens self-regulate their behavior according to dominant norms, values, and laws. In terms of images, the power to shape visual discourse determines what can be thought and said, seen and shown, and what is made invisible (Evans and Hall 1999: 311; Rose 2012: 191). Foucault considered the visual to be one of the regulating and ordering techniques employed by institutions, such as the “medical gaze” as applied in the clinics’ visual categorization of bodies into “normal” and “sick” (Foucault 1963), public punishment in cities’ marketplaces for display and deterrence, or his concept of panopticism to effectively surveil and (self-)control a society (Foucault 1975). From a Foucauldian perspective, during their creation of subjectivity, individuals may produce antagonistic strategies by refusing objectification and thus shift power relations of what can be seen and shown in the struggle against domination, exploitation, and subjection (Fuery and Fuery 2003: 1, 3). At this point, the question of what exactly I mean when I talk about resistance, and what “rule” means for me, arises. If a Foucauldian view sees resistance everywhere where there is power, what do I include into my considerations when I discuss these political phenomena? In this book, I understand “rule” to be “a structure of institutionalized superordination and subordination through which basic goods and influence are distributed and expectations are stabilized, regardless of whether these structures are primarily of a sociocultural, an economic or a military nature” (Daase and Deitelhoff 2014: 1).7 Regarding the definition of resistance, some scholars see it everywhere, while for others it needs to fulfil a lot of criteria to qualify as “genuine.” Since in this book I aim to include a variety of phenomena, I draw on a rather broad concept: resistance is an action/active behavior, whether verbal, cognitive, symbolic, or physical, and a form of opposition that is thus directed against something (Hollander and Einwohner 2004). For this broad understanding, the action does not necessarily need to be intended as resistance by the persons who carry it out, nor does it need to be recognized as such by the target group or the public. However, the aspect of recognition (that is often used interchangeably with visibility) does play a role when differentiating resistance from protest as another related term that is frequently used in the context of the aesthetics of resistance and visual activism. Especially in social movement studies, protest is investigated as public and collective activities by nonstate players express-

12 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

ing dissent and critique related to a social or political concern (Neidhardt and Rucht 2001: 537). As I will, in this book, limit my attention neither to collective action by nonstate actors (but potentially consider actions by individual artists or state actors too) nor to strategically developed or planned repertoires of contention,8 I prefer to speak of resistance instead of protest. Studies of contentious politics and social movements commonly assume that it is exclusively nonstate players who take measures of protest. However, when looking at the entanglements of resistance within power structures, it may be exactly these state players who frame their opposition to other more powerful and dominant actors as resistance. For instance, in the context of global power relations, state agencies may resist each other’s policies, when governments disagree with each other’s foreign politics, such as trade or environmental policies of other states or international nuclear nonproliferation (Chin and Mittelman [2000] 2005: 26; Daase and Deitelhoff 2014: 13). At this point, it is important to emphasize that resistance is far from referring to only progressive actions demanding social change and liberal freedom. Rather, the term encompasses emancipatory and revolutionary movements as well as status-quo-oriented and reactionary ones. For instance, opening an umbrella of ideological directions, Owen Worth distinguishes three types of resistance: progressive internationalism (“from the left”), national-populism (“from the right”), and religious fundamentalism (“from above”) (Worth 2013: 42). Another social scientist concept that naturally comes to mind when thinking about visual culture’s everyday understanding of power and resistance is the idea of “everyday resistance.” This concept provides some helpful clues because it takes into account actors who do not necessarily employ formal kinds of politics or publicly recognizable means of contestations (de Certeau 1984; Vinthagen and Johansson 2013: 9). Moreover, it deals with the mutually constitutive relationship between resistance and rule, since nonformal contestation partly complies with the power structures within which it is embedded. Unlike public and collective demonstrations, riots, or rebellions, everyday resistance as a way to undermine power might not be as easy to recognize. Such individual behavior—be it the way we dress or in our routines in private life or the workplace—is much less dramatic and not politically articulated or declared but rather anonymous and typically hidden or disguised (Vinthagen and Johansson 2013: 2, 4). Albeit small-scale in the individual case, everyday techniques may evolve into a “pattern of resistance” (Scott 1989: 36) and thus become powerful due to their quantity. In this sense, Ryan sees street art interventions as hidden transcripts or “infrapolitics” (Scott 1990), given their potential to do “everyday politics” and question hegemonic conventions and dominant cultural codes (Ryan 2017: 8).

Introduction

|

13

However, in my view, visual forms of resistance—given their visibility (above all, when in public space, such as street art)—are anything but hidden and therefore do not fit the common understanding of “everyday resistance.” By contrast, the claim to public visibility is key to visual resistance.9 Although “everyday resistance” is not the central concept of this book, it helps us to think about the key questions of this book. As becomes clear in Foucault’s abovementioned quote, resistance and rule constitute each other and are no dichotomous, clean-but categories. This entanglement has been referred to as ambiguity, accommodation, assimilation, complicity, or co-optation.10 Although people may (even successfully) contest a system of power, they will always remain part of that very system. Or, in other words: “Every moment of resistance was shaped by the very structure of power against which it rebelled” (Mamdani 1996: 24). Additionally, it must be taken into account that neither dominators nor resisters are monolithic entities. Neither are resistance and compliance mutually exclusive binary categories, nor is resistance always nonstate in opposition to state power. Power and resistance have a cyclical relationship because domination always provokes opposition, which, in turn, leads to stronger efforts to maintain power (Hollander and Einwohner 2004: 548; Amoore 2005: 7). Learning plays a central role in that cycle. For instance, rebel groups who claim legitimacy by opposing (illegitimate) regimes have to find a new narrative once they are successful and become part of the (new) government. While in their self-portrayal, former anti-system fighters fluctuate between maintaining their narrative of resistance and proving their ability to rule, they may oscillate between rebellion and government (Hensell 2015). As should have become evident, social science concepts of resistance that take into account its entanglement with power structures are partly building on the same basic theoretical assumptions as visual culture approaches to power and resistance. Both Foucault’s and Gramsci’s work is key to noninstitutional, cultural, and discursive perspectives on power in pre-political spaces. In Gramsci’s post-Marxist understanding of hegemony, different groups of society are constantly struggling over hegemony. Hegemony is achieved neither by physical force nor by mere economic dominance but by the consent among the dominant class and the majority of the population. This consent is only reached with the help of ideology. For political opposition, Gramsci views the “war of position” to be key to winning hegemony, which includes more implicit forms of protest, partly on the level of everyday life, including boycotts, public contestation of certain policies, etc. In liberal democracies, “common sense” is constructed and ideas must win in the civil society, where leaders must secure hearts and minds through popular consent (Worth 2013: 56; Gramsci [1971] 2014: 229, 333). Gramsci’s thoughts on

14 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

resistance, hegemony, and ideology allow for a discursive understanding of the political as a struggle for cultural hegemony and visibility. This is because he considered popular culture and folklore to be central tools in the “war of position.” Just as for Gramsci ideology is a battlefield of continuous struggle over hegemony, Ernesto Laclau and Chantal Mouffe (1985: 105) conceptualize “the political” as an antagonistic battlefield over ideological hegemony with the help of “structured articulatory practices”—discourses. This idea of the political beyond institutional politics allows for examining street art as a potential site of resistance and co-optation. In that sense, I follow Ryan in that we must “propose wide and encompassing parameters for what constitutes politics and who counts as a relevant political actor” (Ryan 2017: 1). Therefore, “doing politics” means showing that what was formerly considered social, domestic, or economic may indeed be political as well (Ryan 2017: 1–2). For this understanding of the political as a struggle between resistance and rule, the tradition in which the field of visual culture stands is a case in point.

Research Design: Analyzing Street Art in Latin American Urban Space To make the phenomenon of visual power and resistance more tangible, in this book I look at empirical forms of visual resistance in the case of street art in Latin American big cities. Although my research aims to contribute to conceptualizing visual resistance in a general understanding, and not just regarding street art, it would be both theoretically too abstract and empirically too broad to examine visual media in general. Therefore, I concentrate on a specific medium whose characteristics must be carefully taken into consideration in the empirical analysis. I consider the term “medium” to be broader and more adequate than, for instance, the concept of “art.” Assuming that the “art” in “street art” is a strategical label that entails the problematic question of what is art and what is not, to engage the concept of art (instead of medium) would limit my research scope in an unnecessary way. A medium, in the most general sense, is something that is transmitting information between two or more entities (Fahlenbrach 2016b: 94). Mass media allows for diffusing information beyond distinct local public spheres, which are thus broader “arenas of discursive conflict and struggles” (Fahlenbrach 2016b: 95). Calling for more interdisciplinary research, Kathrin Fahlenbrach stresses that

Introduction

|

15

discourse analysis and cultural studies provide important approaches to investigate the discursive conflicts and power relations between different actors involved in contentious communication. Accordingly, a public sphere might be understood as an arena of contestation, where hegemonic and nonhegemonic actors fight for accomplishing their readings of a conflict, including its identification, interpretation, and solution. (Fahlenbrach 2016b: 108) Consequently, street art images (and photos of them) operate in the interrelated public spheres of the street and the virtual public sphere of online and mass media. In this study, I understand street art to encompass various techniques of visual representations applied to surfaces in urban outdoor areas. These techniques are stencils, murals, stickers, paste-ups, and written phrases. In Latin America, both state institutions and a broad spectrum of nonstate groups traditionally utilize street art to communicate, to inform, and to persuade others. As a politicized medium, it fulfills a variety of functions, ranging from general public information and announcing of events to an advocacy forum for social commentary and the articulation of political agendas (Chaffee 1993: 3, 8). Although Latin American political activists have long been underlining the political power of street art, social movement scholars have for long almost completely ignored it (Ryan 2017: 21). Consequently, Latin American urban and political hubs are promising empirical examples for examining forms of visual resistance. As I must focus on certain locations but simultaneously aim to avoid results that are too particular in their local contexts, I chose four metropolises in Latin American countries: Buenos Aires, Bogotá, Caracas, and Mexico City. Since the walls in these capitals are full of images and slogans, I further limited my material thematically. Therefore I focus on street art that refers to (neo-)imperialism and potentially expresses anti-imperialist resistance. In her work, Ryan confirms the importance of the imperial experience for Latin American street art, which still influences how a broad range of actors is included into visibility, representation, and claim-making or, conversely, excluded from it: The emergence of political street art as a contentious performance in Latin America therefore takes place against a complex backdrop that includes the transfer of people, ideas and images horizontally, across the Atlantic and also vertically, between the Americas. . . . It includes processes of nation-building that have, at times, involved the importation and emulation of Western political institutions, and at

16 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

others involved endeavors to subvert, purge and replace European and North American influence. (Ryan 2017: 7) Similarly, in his account of countervisuality throughout history, Mirzoeff (2011) focuses on the (former) colonies in the Americas in which the “counterhistory” against (neo-)colonialism and imperialism is embedded in the context of North-South relations. In his works, he repeatedly mentions the visual power of resistance movements in Latin America ranging from the 1994 Zapatista uprising against free trade to the December 2001 protests in Argentina against external debt (Mirzoeff 2017: 216). To analyze which forms of visual resistance street art constitutes in the interplay with political power relations, I apply my analytical framework with the help of a mixed-methods approach. Combining methods from various disciplinary strands in visual culture, I first established a photo database of 1,710 street art pieces and subsequently took this photo material as an entry point to examine the political expressions along the seven dimensions of analysis. The visual content of the image (which I call the iconological dimension or I level) is taken as a starting point to explore the political context within which the images are operating (that is, the other analytical dimensions). More specifically, I first used a quantitative content analysis to find general discursive strands and visual patterns (utilizing the software MAXQDA) in order to subsequently choose one image per city to be analyzed in some depth. Triangulating different methods and sources, I mainly drew upon data gathered during my research trips. Besides my own photo material, these sources include twenty-two interviews with artists and other experts (e.g., from cultural institutions), three focus group interviews, four street surveys in front of important images, ethnographically inspired methods such as field notes, as well as primary and secondary literature. However, I am aware of the limitations of the results. First and foremost, differentiating seven dimensions of the image may help understand it in an analytical sense, but this necessarily entails an artificial separation of the complex interplay of characteristics in the empirical world. Commenting on her own analytical levels, which inspired my framework, Gillian Rose reminds us that they are in practice difficult to distinguish from one another and that the lines of her analysis are “misleading solid” (Rose 2016: 374). Scholars from art and art history may find this separation of “content” and “form” even scandalous. The analytical separation of an image’s production (P level) and its audiencing (A level) may be challenging given that increasingly “participatory” digital spheres make it hard to distinguish who is a producer and who is “only” the audience. Additionally, the framework is shaped by the specific characteristics of the medium street art, and it surely must be

Introduction

|

17

asked whether it is applicable to other visual media beyond the particularities of communication in the (physical) public space.

Roadmap: The Content of the Book Visual culture has long been considered a distraction from “serious” scientific analysis of politics. However, also in the social sciences, the role of the visual is gradually being acknowledged. Political scientists have long been reluctant to seriously address the role of images, even though political communication is one of their central research areas. By contrast, visual culture takes images seriously, whether they appear within “high” politics or in everyday life. It enables us to extend an institutionalist or even state-centric understanding of the political to questions of visual representation and interpretation in everyday culture. In his plea for an “aesthetic turn” in international relations (the academic discipline), Roland Bleiker sees representation as being an act of power (Bleiker 2001: 515). Assuming that there is always a gap between a representation and what is supposed to be represented, he states: “Rather than ignoring or seeking to narrow this gap . . . aesthetic insight recognises that the inevitable difference between the represented and its representation is the very location of politics” (Bleiker 2001: 510). In this book, I demonstrate how we can increase our everyday visual literacy and how political science can learn from visual culture in broadening our perspectives on political phenomena by including both textual and visual data and by employing visual culture theories and methodologies. This way, the political strategies and narratives of social actors may be made accessible from another perspective through examining processes of meaning-making and persuasion. For this purpose, I proceed as follows: in the next chapter, I introduce my analytical framework with its seven levels or dimensions, which I derived from existing theoretical visual culture approaches on visual power and resistance. In addition, I present my mixed-methods approach of visual analysis, including the operationalization of the seven analytical levels as well as possible tools of data collection and interpretation, namely photo documentation, visual discourse analysis, and auxiliary methods of data gathering (chapter 1). In the subsequent chapter I conceptualize my understanding of street art and look at how it is used as a medium of visual political communication worldwide (chapter 2). The next chapter serves to set the scene for the case studies and briefly explain what I mean by (anti-)imperialism as a thematic scope of my empirical analysis (chapter 3). In the four subsequent chapters, on Buenos Aires (chapter 4), Mexico City (chapter 5), Caracas (chapter 6),

18 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

and Bogotá (chapter 7), I investigate street art in the four cities and illustrate with the help of visual material. The findings across the cities will then be summarized in a more general and comparative view on the data material (chapter 8). Finally, the conclusion will come back to my key questions and discuss further implications of the results.

Notes 1. https://www.huffingtonpost.com/joshuah-bearman/behind-obamas-iconic-hope_ b_143148.html (retrieved 2 May 2020). 2. Being one of the most ambitious accounts on this topic, Weiss’s epic novel inspired the title of this book. While he reflects on artistic resistance against the German Nazi regime from the perspective of the working class, I here aim to complement my interest in the aesthetics of resistance by learning about the aesthetics of rule as well. 3. https://www.bbc.com/culture/article/20200612-black-lives-matter-protests-whyare-statues-so-powerful (retrieved 23 October 2020). 4. When he declared the “pictorial turn” in humanities, W. J. T. Mitchell suggested to transfer the semiotic perspective of linguistic and discursive (post)structuralism from reading to seeing, or more precisely, to spectatorship (in terms of “the look,” “the gaze,” surveillance, or visual pleasure), because “visual literacy” might help understand processes beyond our usual text material (Mitchell 1994: 16). 5. Visual culture is related to the field of cultural studies. For instance, Stuart Hall and the Birmingham Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies (CCCS) examined how media representations are controlled by ideological implications of culture, power structures, and social authority, e.g., how marginalized groups were represented in British mass media, particularly in everyday and popular culture. 6. For this neo-Marxist understanding of ideology, see Althusser (1970); Evans and Hall (1999: 321). 7. In the Latin American context of the “coloniality of power,” Aníbal Quijano (2000) has a similarly general understanding of rule as an asymmetrical relation in which one group controls the actions of the other (see Quintero 2013: 56). In this sense, rule would be a form of structural power that is employed by groups and institutions in asymmetrical relations. 8. See Tarrow (1993); Taylor and Dyke (2004); Tilly and Tarrow (2006: 27–44); see also Rucht (2015); Stanisavljevic (2016). 9. However, while practices of everyday resistance may be actually (sensory) visible, they “might also be made invisible by society, by not being recognized as resistance” (Vinthagen and Johansson 2013: 10). 10. For the co-optation of critique in order to optimize power, see Luc Boltanski’s and Ève Chiapello’s Le nouvel Ésprit du Capitalisme (New spirit of capitalism, 1999). Boltanski and Chiapello assume that social and artistic critique of capitalism lead to its revival because claims—for more autonomy, creativity, and mobility, for instance—have been fulfilled and integrated into management strategies.

Chapter 1

From Conceptualizing to Analyzing Visual Power and Resistance Visual political communication lies at the interface of various research areas. To explore what different strands in visual culture offer regarding dimensions of potential visual resistance, I assessed literature from disciplinary backgrounds such as art history and aesthetics, media and cultural studies, as well as feminist studies, art history, and film theory.1 These contributions address questions that are central to my research interest: which features of an image express its political character and tell us something about its potential to either express resistance to or constitute a tool for maintaining power structures? Which power relations are in play in situations of showing, seeing, and being seen, and which opportunities of resistance do they, in turn, offer? The review showed that existent approaches differentiate between what (or who) is represented, how it is represented, who represents it, and who sees it. In other words, from a perspective of power relations, it is crucial to determine who has the power to produce images, and thus represent oneself and others, and who does not. At the same time, it is important to understand how social groups are represented in the image itself, and who is assumed to be the audience—or, as Mirzoeff puts it, who has the right to look and the right to be seen (Mirzoeff 2011: 4, 148, 221). With more methodological clarity, Rose (2016: 25) provides a valuable way to structure our thoughts on visuality by differentiating four sites of the image: the production (who made the image of which genre, why, when, and for whom?), the image itself (visual meanings and effects, composition), the circulation (who organized it and why? How does it change the image?), and audiencing (how is the image interpreted by whom, where is it displayed, and which viewing positions are offered?). In line with this, I argue that visual resistance manifests in different dimensions of the image, which we need to identify and distinguish for analyzing the political context in which the image is embedded. However, in order to grasp visual power, resistance, and their entanglement, Rose’s dimensions need to be differentiated. Therefore I derived seven dimensions of the image that make up my own analytical framework.

20 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

In the following, I first introduce these analytical dimensions. Subsequently, in order to make the framework applicable to empirical cases, I will introduce a methodological approach with specific tools of data collection and interpretation to empirically analyze images according to the seven levels.

A Visual Resistance Framework The theoretical accounts on visual media are conceptually and philosophically diverse. However, it is possible to derive a framework that offers a structured approach to analyze the different characteristics of an image. Inspired by Stuart Hall’s distinction of “moments” of the communication process (Hall 1993) and Gillian Rose’s “sites” of an image in critical visual methodology (Rose 2016), we may think of images in terms of seven dimensions in which resistance potentially manifests. These dimensions are the iconological content of the image (I level), its spatial location (S level), the interests and social position of its producers (P level), its material conditions (M level), its legal status (L level), its reception and reactions by the audience (A level), and the political circumstances of its time (T level). Contradictions arise if an image seems to express resistance in one of these dimensions, but on another level, it is limited by power relations. To describe the distinctive but interrelated moments of communication, Hall (1993) suggested replacing the common unidirectional and linear model of the communication process (sender-message-receiver) by a circular one that differentiates four moments: production, circulation, use (consumption/distribution), and reproduction. This already demonstrates that the notion of the audience as (passive) “receivers” needs to be replaced by a more active understanding of “audiencing” (Rose 2016). This entails active use of media and its re-production, challenging the rather outdated differentiation between producers and consumers, which have become increasingly blurred in the age of the YouTube, TikTok, and smartphone (video) cameras. However, I opt for distinguishing the dimensions of production (P level) and audiencing (A level) for the sake of analytical clarity (see below). When describing the main characteristics of each dimension, I offer a brief view into the visual culture literature that guided my differentiation of the seven levels, providing some first concrete examples of potential visual resistance. Later, in the empirical part of this book, I will come back to these approaches during the analysis and interpretation of images in my case study. Concepts of resistance differ in their “specific understandings of what power means, how it is exercised, and what is the nature of politics and political

From Conceptualizing to Analyzing Visual Power and Resistance

|

21

life” (Amoore 2005: 3). Therefore, I will consider not only approaches that describe visual resistance but also those that conceptualize visual mechanisms of power and rule. The order in which I introduce the seven dimensions does not imply any hierarchy in terms of relevance or chronology of analytical steps. Still, I take the iconological dimension as a starting point, since the content of an image is the most obvious and usually the first aspect people see, without having much background information. By offering an analytical tool for a differentiated examination of the visual, I do not pretend these dimensions were mutually exclusive, clear-cut independent categories. Still, I assume that the framework will demonstrate how resistance may show on one level while ambivalences and contradictions may be identified on another one. In other words, while one level indicates a resistant character, another level might reveal the simultaneous entanglement of the image within power structures.

The Iconological Dimension Most obviously, the content of the image regarding both what is depicted and how it is done so may indicate symbolic meanings of resistance in an iconological dimension (I level). Since visual representations support discursive truth claims and make things appear evident, they are used to convey narratives in line with certain ideologies. Psychological effects of shared emotions are triggered by specific characteristics of visual stimuli that are responsible for the affective qualities of images.2 Social groups are made visible in particular ways with the help of visual features, such as body posture, hand gestures, facial expressions, and clothes. Strategies of persuasion are pursued using iconological symbols and visual tools (color, composition, perspective, artistic style) as well as by depicting famous individual icons that personify charismatic leadership. Other visual tools of persuasion are “do-it-yourself ” aesthetics and affective archetypal narratives of “good” versus “evil,” or “self ” versus “other” (Fahlenbrach 2016a). Simultaneously, for the purpose of external communication, protest imagery must respond to established news values that, often unconsciously, account for visual attractiveness and provide a personalized approach. In order to challenge hegemonic narratives and provide alternative representations and versions of history, signs and symbols are appropriated, reframed, and recontextualized by humorous subversion, often referring to popular and everyday culture (Bhabha 1983; Fahlenbrach 2016a; Malmvig 2016). For the viewer, the prospect of becoming part of a “cool,” “epic,” or “sexy” community is enhanced by symbolic and visual strategies of engage-

22 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

ment, as reflected in the joyful and humorous aesthetics of some protest groups. Particularly humorous intertextual references to popular culture may inspire some to hope and to act upon political problems. Harnessing the logic of the media system by recontextualizing symbols and reframing dominant narratives from mainstream media and popular culture, groups challenge the control over signs and symbols by hegemonic discourses and claim the right to access formerly elitist channels of circulation (Ferrada Stoehrel and Lindgren 2014: 258–60). Aiming to reach and mobilize audiences (even with limited literacy), public protest images (e.g., posters) must condense complex ideological positions into simple and catchy messages in order to “sell a story quickly, dramatically, and primarily visually” (Reed 2016: 83). In doing so, mobilization and consciousness raising works through at least two different modes of affective visualization: one that triggers negative feelings (and thus works through anger-related energy) and one that evokes positive feelings (such as being represented as a political subject, belonging to a strong group, or imagining a positive future vision) (Adami 2016: 73). Positive visualdiscursive strategies encompass ridiculing and appropriating the old symbols of the regime, comedy, and laughter as a strategy to evoke feelings of agency, belonging, and new subjectivities, as well as points of identification or role models through depicting persons with aspirational and empowering characteristics (e.g., through affective facial expressions) (Malmvig 2016: 268–69, 273–77). These counternarratives in the content of an image may raise political awareness and develop “aesthetics of resistance” by launching counterinformation operations to oppose the government’s publicity and the official culture machinery, as Luis Camnitzer explains in the Latin American context (Camnitzer 2009: 64). Nonetheless, protest aesthetics have an ambivalent relationship with mainstream media aesthetics and are therefore prone to be co-opted (Fahlenbrach et al. 2016). For Mirzoeff, negative framings of oppression can be visualized through “realisms,” i.e., the documentation of violence without aestheticizing and thus legitimizing or “normalizing” it. In the (post)colonial, (neo-)imperialist context, he emphasizes that global links between situations in the Global North and the Global South can be made visible by what Achille Mbembe (2001) called the “entanglement” between European modernity and the colonized societies (Mirzoeff 2011: 83). On the other hand, positive framings appear in the form of specific visuals that symbolize the powerful struggle against imperialism and colonialism in different historical eras. These figures of “countervisuality” include “the South,”3 “the biosphere,” the “indigenous countervisuality” (what Eduardo Viveiros de Castro calls “Amerindian

From Conceptualizing to Analyzing Visual Power and Resistance

|

23

perspective”), and the “proletarian countervisuality” as well as “the popular hero,” “the people,” or the assembled multitude (Mirzoeff 2011, 2016; see also Mitchell 2012). Throughout history, autocratic heroism was challenged by the personified resistance of the vernacular hero, the African hero,4 and the feminine heroine.5 Developing a new imaginary of “the people,” marginalized groups—formerly colonized, enslaved, racialized, or so-called “primitives,” etc.—visually represented themselves as new political subjects, social agents, and right holders who were actively “making history” instead of merely following history and requesting emancipation from their masters (Mirzoeff 2011: 78–79, 186, 221). Here it becomes obvious that the iconological potential of an image lies not so much in what is represented but how it is represented. As feminist and postcolonial approaches emphasize, visual representations of a social group are not inherently empowering, for there is the risk of stereotyping and thus misrepresenting (Mulvey 1975; Bhabha 1983).

The Material Dimension The material features of the medium, such as its technological components, quality, and quantity, influence whether the image exposes a resistant character (M level). The physical characteristics and technology of a particular medium determine whether it is accessible for a nonelitist audience. While the technical quality and mode of presentation affects how an image is perceived by the audience, the repetition of small-scale interventions enhances the potential effect of the images in terms of quantity. As Hall (1993) reminded us, how a “story” or narrative is perceived and whether it persuades the audience is crucially influenced by its material “form of appearance,” relying on the technical tools of transmission and mode of presentation. In this sense, specific (material) visual technologies, such as impressive artistic quality and modes of spectacular presentation, enhance the persuasiveness and social authority of images. To explain how the power of images is shaped by their mode of presentation, the film theorist and semiotician Christian Metz (1975) introduced the concept of the “scopic regime.” For him, the dominant regime of his time was the modern cinematic apparatus, because it facilitates disseminating the ideologies of the dominant society and culture industry. Through the typical cinematic ambience and experience, including the darkened auditorium, the spectacular sound, etc., “the viewer suspends disbelief in the fictional world of the film, identifies not only with specific characters in the film but more importantly with the film’s overall ideology through identification with the film’s narrative structure and visual point of view . . .” (Sturken and Cartwright 2001: 72).

24 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

In terms of technology and digital mediation, in order to make countervisuality visible, it is crucial to employ a technology that is accessible for marginalized people and eligible for mass distribution. For instance, long before today’s online media, lithographs visualized the heroic popular figures of the Haitian Revolution and the perspective of the Third Estate in the French Revolution.6 At that time, lithographs were a completely new technology of mass reproduction and circulation that became a popular print medium allowing the dissemination of reproductions of vernacular images in huge numbers within the Atlantic triangle. Similarly, during the Paris Commune, posters and banners played a key role in the ideological struggle of the historical event (Mirzoeff 2011: 184). From a postcolonial perspective, Bhabha (1994) argues that in Indian colonies, everyday resistance consisted of mostly tiny but reiterated interventions, which, in sum, were able to cause slight shifts and contribute to a subtle process of subversion or transformation. This “performative power of reiteration” (Bhabha 1994: 190) hints at the importance of quantity, although there might not be large-scale, overt expressions of resistance.

The Spatial Dimension Images express resistance through their spatial location, which potentially indicates a political purpose and/or symbolic occupation of space (S level). In this regard, certain artistic images leave the restrictive space of galleries or museums to both physically and symbolically reclaim and appropriate space. For Camnitzer (2009), in Latin American art history, resistant art needed to leave the showplace of the gallery or the museum, where it is only accessible for an elite public. While public art is available for everyone, the idea of art as property bears the risk of ignoring class issues related to art and of being coopted by the art market as a globalizing commercial enterprise (Camnitzer 2009: 68, 72). The dimension of space is key to reaching public visibility. For instance, the huge impact of Latin American political muralism, such as in postrevolutionary Mexico and Nicaragua, is largely attributed to its success in reaching large parts of the population (Reed 2016: 84). The creation of political subjects is closely intertwined with the creation of physical space for political debate and locations for visual discussion, such as by wall painting in the 2011 Egyptian uprising (Abaza 2012). Both in the Egyptian uprising and the 2011/12 Occupy Wall Street movement, the occupations of Tahrir Square and Zuccotti Park symbolized that mere visual and physical presence in the public space may demonstrate that space should not be private property but instead a place where average people claim their right of being seen

From Conceptualizing to Analyzing Visual Power and Resistance

|

25

and heard.7 The “rhetoric of public space” (Mitchell 2012: 10) profoundly influenced a new protest iconology (see I level above): instead of (individual) faces, the occupation of space itself was the central icon of the protests. Either the anonymous protestor or the mass—the assembled crowd, the multitude—symbolized the power of occupation and leaderless democratic power. In a similar vein, drawing on Hannah Arendt and Judith Butler, Mirzoeff explains his concept of “appearance” (in space) as follows: Who has the right to appear in urban space? “Whose streets?” people ask in protests. . . . In claiming the intersection in both physical space and political understanding, the space of appearance counters the built environment that forms spaces of nonappearance. . . . The space of appearance is a claim to space that is not subject to the police. Yet in the Americas space cannot be so claimed without reflection because it was all Native land first. (Mirzoeff 2017: 21) But resistance through the visual occupation of space is not a mere phenomenon of contemporary urban protest movements. In the history of colonialism, visual means were used to maintain order, mark territory, and define zones of authority and prohibition (e.g., by flags, mapping, and history painting). Simultaneously, they served as a potential technique for remapping social space (Mirzoeff 2011: 61, 203, 221). In the plantation complex, for example, the enslaved turned the overseer’s techniques against him by drawing maps themselves in order to enable space for their own commerce and entertainment (dance, singing, carnival, inter alia). More specifically, the Jamaican Maroons and their leader “Queen Nanny” facilitated resistance or escape by symbolically creating “free zones” in which slavery was illegitimate (Aikins 2009; Mirzoeff 2011: 60, 61).

The Time Dimension Regarding the historical moment in time, the situation in which the image was produced and/or displayed may indicate a certain occasion of resistance (T level). Images need to be analyzed with regard to their specific social and political circumstances in their historical eras.8 This includes political events, trends or incidents as well as the question of which government was in power at that time, and which narratives were dominant in political discourse. Although the dimension of time is probably the most obvious aspect that we need to take into account—or precisely because of that—it is also the aspect that is least explicitly distinguished in existing approaches. Still,

26 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

authors such as Malmvig (2016)—with regard to the Syrian uprising in 2011—and Camnitzer (2009)—concerning Chile under Pinochet in the 1980/90s—underline that in times of authoritarian rule or dictatorship, artworks or images criticizing the government are much more obvious indicators of resistance than in times of democracy and freedom of expression. Judgments about which content and forms are considered a threat against the state or that challenge existing hegemonic ideas of what is “normal” and how something should look (e.g., representations of colonialized populations, see Bhabha 1983) vary over time, depending on the political and social circumstances. However, many of these examples, for instance when related to censorship, depend as well on the legal conditions at a given time (see below). Concerning the wider historical frame for contextualizing image interpretation, the dates of production may indicate a specific occasion or event that is criticized or protested by the image.

The Legal Dimension The legal dimension implies whether the production, display, or distribution of an image is authorized or breaks the law, and if it thus may itself be viewed an act of resistance or not (L level). What is allowed to show and to see is legally controlled by social and judicial norms and public authorities. Production of critical images may be legally restricted, and political expressions (about certain topics or people) may be illegalized, most obviously under conditions of formal or informal censorship. Particularly in authoritarian regimes, an image’s content is directly influenced by legal restrictions of the freedom of expression. However, visual resistance may attempt to circumvent censorship. For instance, socialist artists under Pinochet’s military dictatorship in Chile developed ambiguous visual codes that made their political critique clandestine. Simultaneously they managed to appeal to the snobbery of the intellectual elite in the regime with the help of internationally applauded avant-garde styles and thereby made their art officially acceptable (Camnitzer 2009: 69). This ability to negotiate visual language (see the iconological dimension above) demonstrates how resistant endeavors must keep the balance between critique and the risk of being punished by the ruling system. The example of the protest movement Anonymous sheds light on the legal dimension of visual activism as well. As its name implies, the movement prefers the anonymity of both the producers and the depicted persons in their visuals to a personalized iconography. However, this is not only to highlight their rejection of personalized leadership; it is also because their approach includes illegal hacking activities. While this subversive aura may

From Conceptualizing to Analyzing Visual Power and Resistance

|

27

for some even upgrade the “forbidden” pleasures, it also entails a serious legal risk (Ferrada Stoehrel and Lindgren 2014: 240). The legal aspect is crucial for several approaches that build on Jacques Rancière’s (2004) “distribution of the sensible,” meaning who is allowed to sense (e.g., to see) what. Who has the power to represent oneself in public space depends on whether the audience—“the emancipated spectator” (Rancière 2011)—decides to accept the “distribution of the sensible” and thus a state’s legal prohibitions and police control. Building on this approach, for Sofia Sienra Chaves (2015), breaking the law is only one of the possible ways for potentially subversive art to escape from what she calls “domesticated subversion.” Following the tradition of Debord’s Situationists and other political art groups, she argues, “artistactivists” aim to leave the restrictive artistic realm of the entertainment and culture industry and employ various legal or illegalized techniques—reaching from irony to vandalism—to establish a “subversive” discourse. However, most of them are absorbed by official discourse because all subversive potential gets lost once the logic of “the spectacle” is entered, and most artists within the art system lack the will to actually produce radical gestures and risk severe conflict by confronting the law. Therefore, for her, the problem with political art is not only that it is far from being an actual threat or causing a revolution of the established order but that it is, by contrast, absolutely functional for this order (Sienra Chaves 2015: 67–68). An illustrative example of image production as an act of political dissent and legal persecution are the uprisings in the MENA region starting in 2011 (the so-called Arab Spring): due to dissident digital videos and photos, image producers are in constant danger of being arrested, humiliated, and even killed, because the authorities have recognized how important image making is in the struggle for visibility and legitimacy (Adami 2016: 73). If free expression in public space is legally restricted, even small-scale breaches of law can have huge effects. Although causality is not proven, an often-referred-to example is the youngsters who supposedly triggered the Syrian uprising in March 2011 by painting a graffito on a public wall in the city of Dara’a that said, “The people want the regime to fall” (Malmvig 2016: 258).

The Dimension of the Producers The social position and the ambitions of the producer(s) may reveal a potentially resistant intention of the image, encompassing both the authors themselves and, if there are any, the financiers and/or institutions behind the production (P level). The dimension of the producers reveals their political interests as well as the ability of social groups to represent themselves (both

28 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

in a visual and a democratic way), including groups that are marginalized, stereotyped, or made invisible. The contentious potential of an image strongly depends on the interests of its producers, why for many researchers it indicates a key question of potential visual resistance. Regarding power struggles over media narratives, the visual hegemonies of monopolized (Northern) media corporations have long “determined the formats and contents of representation in accordance with their own perspectives and interests and in the defense of their worldwide political power and privileges” (Fahlenbrach et al. 2014: 203). These (more or less) hidden financial capital powers and interests (more or less) subtly influencing global visual discourse are among the most pressing issues for investigation, since the “battle for hearts and minds” has turned into a “battle for eyes and minds” (Fahlenbrach 2016a: 206). The extended access to online media production has the potential to redefine political and economic power with the help of visual narratives. Still, it is debatable whether new visual information technology can actually democratize or even revolutionize traditional ways of representation and image circulation. Therefore, critical research in visual discourse needs to inquire about key visual narratives and the economic, political, and ideological interests in media production as well as the underlying rationales, worldviews, and values of the producers. Regarding activist image production, visual communication does not only serve for external visibility and reaching political decision makers. It also matters for internal mobilization and identification by reinforcing a movement’s collective identity and its participants’ commitment (Fahlenbrach 2016a: 248). Visual resistance may thus not only be “effective” if it changes the minds of politicians, mainstream media makers, or the broader society. The adherents of the activist group themselves are also part of the audience, and they are targeted by their own imagery as well. Similarly, the production of a certain visual rhetoric and aesthetic may foster collective identity by giving the producers themselves the feeling of belonging to a group. The potential of affect, “passion,” or “joy” to mobilize resistance is highlighted by an adherent of the activist movement Anonymous in an interview: “Boredom is counterrevolutionary. Political resistance needs to be fun, or no one will want to participate” (cited in Ferrada Stoehrel and Lindgren 2014: 252). This focus on the “joy of resistance”9 highlights how important the social dimension of image production is for community and identity building. For some activists, engaging with “the political” and fighting for social change may only be attractive if, in their political communication, social movements combine rational and cognitive issues (human rights, inter alia) with an aesthetic and affective policy.10 Accordingly, regarding access to image production, Anonymous’ communication may be

From Conceptualizing to Analyzing Visual Power and Resistance

|

29

considered “alternative media,” “claiming access to visual truths by providing and distributing forms of citizen journalism, visual leaks and grassroots visuals that compete with the visual narrative of state and commercial media” (Ferrada Stoehrel and Lindgren 2014: 260). Anonymous and collective image production have a certain contentious potential. An anonymous producer might simply indicate an unauthorized and potentially subversive act, in which the producer wishes to remain unknown. For Sienra Chavez (2015), anonymous or collective authorship is one of the very few ways for the arts to overcome its domestication by “the spectacle.” Here the artist drops their protagonistic aspirations and economic remuneration and stays anonymous in favor of collaborative and clandestine actions (e.g., memes, creative commons arts, hacking actions) (Sienra Chaves 2015: 84). In revolutionary art in Latin America, image production was often shaped by collective authorship, e.g., in mural painting, film, or print media, that avoided a possible co-optation of an individual artist. A collective production process and authorship may indicate that the producers scrutinize or even reject individual artistic fame and economic profit. At the same time, such joint actions and performances may enhance the cohesion and mobilization of the group and serve internal group communication (Castellanos 2017; Camnitzer 2009: 68). Similarly, the collective production of (almost) invisible expressions of resistance is important to the idea of everyday resistance (see introduction), beyond spectacular uprisings and revolts, that is not necessarily intentional. In colonial societies, as Bhabha (1994) underlines, the colonized used humor to empower themselves by enhancing their feeling of collective agency, regardless of its actual effect on the dominators. These small but shared positive everyday experiences, means of mockery, and instances of comic subversion primarily intended to foster solidarity among the colonized and contributed to the symbolic transfer of rebellious agency while also strengthening the sense of community among the colonized (Bhabha 1994: 85, 200). This postcolonial perspective demonstrates that a crucial aspect of using images as an instrument of power is that representation differs from selfrepresentation. Being able to represent oneself, a person or group can actively produce images on their own terms without becoming a passive object. With regard to resistance against hegemonic instruments of visualization, the categorized and objectified (sexualized, racialized, exoticized, etc.) people may actively oppose being represented by someone else.11 Most significantly, bell hooks’s (1992) “oppositional gaze” calls for opposing the dominant White and male culture by a “countergaze” in film production, changing the idea of who has the power to produce and represent social subjects and who is assumed to be the audience.12

30 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

The concept of “the gaze”—a look that is at the same time desiring and objectifying a person—originates in feminist visual culture studies and film theory. Most prominently, Laura Mulvey (1975) and other feminist scholars (e.g., Nochlin 1971; Williamson 1978) examined the ideological and political power relations of representing women in Hollywood movies, advertisement, and the visual arts. In these industries it was (and still is) primarily men who possessed the visual means of production and the power to produce images, and where heterosexual, cisgender men were assumed to be the audience as well. Women’s poor representation in public life and politics, as they argued, is reinforced by the powerful “male gaze” that reduces women to restrictive cultural attributes—“mother or sex symbol, virgin or vamp” (Sturken and Cartwright 2001: 40).13 With regard to subtle visual dissemination of (patriarchal) ideology, Donna Haraway declared that, throughout the history of male supremacy, militarism, colonialism, and capitalism, “the gaze” has helped image producers mark and categorize other bodies while they remained unmarked themselves (and thus mark “the norm”), legitimizing their “power to see and not be seen, to represent while escaping representation” (Haraway 1991: 188). In the twenty-first century, however, it is obvious that the boundaries between producer and consumer are constantly blurring. Thus a differentiation between (active) producers and (passive) spectators/audiences may be replaced by the concept of “prosumers” (Canclini 2013). In the age of mobile devices and online image and video sharing platforms, this concept blurs the lines between those who benefit from the “spectacle” and those who do not, and between those who determine what is sensible, sayable, or visible and those who do not. However, for Canclini, the inclusion of the population through “participatory” art is a mere demonstrative act of democratic integration and commonly a government’s attempt to control resistance or a company’s tool to legitimize itself through cultural marketing (Canclini 2013: 21). This perspective demonstrates how difficult it is to distinguish who is actually producing images and who is intended to see them, let alone to think of clear-cut boundaries between producers and an “audience.”

The Dimension of Audiencing An image may be understood as resistance due to the way it is perceived by the audience, which meanings are ascribed to it, and which social, political, economic reactions it evokes—in short, what Rose (2016) calls its “audiencing” (A level).14 The audience’s possibility to not only passively consume but to actively intervene in visual communication allows for appropriating and

From Conceptualizing to Analyzing Visual Power and Resistance

|

31

negotiating dominant meanings. Parts of the audience may as well react by rejecting an image by means of destruction or punishment. In other cases, images that were intended to be resistance are utilized for economic profit, like in city marketing or in the art economy. (Visual) media’s effects on the audience, their perception, and their reactions are commonly crucial aspects of visual political communication. However, the boundaries between producers and consumers are merging. Given today’s interactive media and increasing possibilities of producing and distributing media without having any significant economic or political power, many approaches abandoned the (Althusserian) understanding of the audience as passive receivers of ideology. They rather build on Hall’s (1993) circular model of communication, which always considers the “recipient” a potential “sender” and “re-producer” and thus assumes a (re)active “audience.” Similarly, Rose underlines that audience studies—a large field in media and cultural studies—has turned to investigating interactive “prosuming,” such as in fan cultures and by online “users” (Rose 2016: 258–59). With regard to the resistant potential of audiences, Hall examined questions of representation and ideology, cultural hegemony and counterculture from a post-Gramscian perspective. Aiming to detect and understand this ideological effect, Hall stresses the potential discrepancy between the content of the sign, the interests of its producer(s), and the interpretation by the spectator(s). Whereas the producers encode a sign according to their hegemonic definitions and interpretations to bring across their intended message, it only persuades, instructs, entertains, or acquires the intended political effectivity if the viewer decodes it in the same intended way (Hall 1993: 92–93). Hall distinguishes three different potential positions of an audience to “read” the codes of a message: First, in the dominant-hegemonic position, the viewer perceives the code as it was intended by the producer and thus reproduces its dominant or preferred meanings. In a negotiated position, the viewer affirms the hegemonic definitions on the abstract level but does not accept them as applying to their own realities and truths. Finally, in oppositional decoding, the viewer interprets the message in a contrary way that may entirely go against the interests and the intended message of the producer: “Here the ‘politics of signification’—the struggle in discourse—is joined” (Hall 1993: 103). With these different ways of decoding, Hall provides space for agency by the audience who is anything but doomed to unquestioningly consume intended messages of hegemonic visual communication but may interpret it in a way that does not persuade them. The idea of “oppositional looking” therefore allows space for resistance to dominant visually communicated ideologies through potentially subversive messages (Sturken and Cartwright 2001: 58, 63).

32 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

In a similar understanding of active audiences, the Situationist International suggested concrete measures to win the ideological struggle against the capitalist ideological system. In Society of the Spectacle ([1967] 1983), their artistic head, Guy Debord, highlights possibilities for the audience not simply to accept unilateral communication but to interrupt the “traditional definitions of the aesthetic” (Debord [1957] 2002: 44). Their revolutionary artistic alternatives to the ruling culture include the technique of détournement (French: misuse, hijacking). Détournement employs a parodical mimicry of hegemonic communication in the urban public space, e.g., advertisement and billboards, by subtly altering it and thus turning its intended message against the producer. This “unitary urbanism” to reclaim public space inspired the later adbusting/culture jamming movement of the 1980s. Such appropriation of a visual symbol by “borrowing” or “stealing” it from its original context and changing its meaning by reversion or recontextualization, possibly in a humorous, ironic or parodic way, is one of the diverse forms of oppositional audiencing by means of visual appropriation. Although both Hall’s and Debord’s approaches highlight the potentially resistant audiencing of an image through interpretation, they were well aware of the entanglement between resisting and affirming hegemonic culture within ideological struggle. Especially Hall points out the necessity to negotiate within and to appropriate hegemonic signs and narratives. Negotiation is a helpful analytical concept shedding light on the intertwined, sometimes contradictory relationship between power and resistance, and, on the level of audiencing, as a potential site of resistance (Sturken and Cartwright 2001: 57). Regarding contemporary global diffusion and perception of images in the digital sphere, the audiencing of an image on both the local and the international level may have a crucial impact on the perception of political struggle and the need for resistance: “Without this self-representation and broad dissemination, it would seem as if the protest had not taken place” (Adami 2016: 73). Despite the global diffusion of images on the internet, aesthetic practices are still produced and viewed in specific geographic locations and may influence how the political events are globally perceived and how urgent an external intervention appears to be (Adami 2016: 70–71, 76). In this regard, visual media also have documentary potential when it comes to mobilizing against oppression, by recording witnessed injustice and making it visible to the public. However, it should not be assumed that protest visuals have an emancipatory effect per se. On the contrary, for Canclini (2013) it is delusive to expect “resistant” art to fulfill the pedagogic expectation that showing “unshowable” images might turn the spectators into rebels; nor does it lead to

From Conceptualizing to Analyzing Visual Power and Resistance

|

33

a collective emancipation or mobilize people to take radical transformative decisions outside of the museum. Still, art can be “contagious” and infect us with its indignation if its language detaches itself from being complicit with the dominant social order (Canclini 2013: 29–30). One example that illustrates the ambivalences of urban artistic resistance is the 2013 Gezi Park protests in Istanbul and how they were appropriated within art economies. The political economy of the “cool” helps explain the “hipness” of resistance aesthetics and how subversive art contributes to a city’s or country’s marketing strategy (Özgün 2015; see also Bogerts 2018). Aiming to create economic value by being “different” from other cities, communal administrations—often in cooperation with companies—appropriate potentially subversive practices for the “cool” branding of a city. Since post-Fordism strives to overcome and circumvent resistance against the workflow of modern capitalism, contentious contemporary art is particularly attractive for co-optation. Consequently, even critical, subversive, and edgy statements and technologies are welcome due to their “potential for eventfulness” (Özgün 2015: 57). No doubt, this theoretically derived analytical framework needs to be applied empirically in order to prove helpful. These different levels on which an image makes meaning enable the researcher to systematically assemble relevant information on the political, social, or economic context in which the image is situated. At the same time, this heuristic approach allows for identifying specific indicators for visual analysis. In the following section, I provide an overview of these concrete characteristics of images that I synthesized from the literature above and suggest methodological tools for examining these indicators with the empirical example of street art.

A Mixed-Methods Approach of Visual Analysis While my analytical framework provides a systematic structure to examine the political characteristics of images, it remains to be clarified how the— somewhat abstract—seven dimensions can be operationalized for empirical studies and which tools of data collection and analysis can be employed. This section aims to propose a methodological way to deal with these manifold characteristics with the example of my case study, which is street art in Latin American metropolises. The indicators (see table 1.1 below) are derived from the literature from the previous section (on images and visual culture in general) and the subsequent chapter (on street art in particular). While the following detailed explanation of my own empirical procedures may be helpful

34 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

Table 1.1. Dimensions, operationalization of indicators, and methodological tools. Dimension Operationalization/Indicators

Methodological tools

1

iconology (I level)

I1: key visual elements/subjects • persons • objects • symbols I2: key themes • (anti-)imperialism themes • general political themes • conceptual themes I3: image-text relationship I4: title (if known) I5: colors I6: composition I7: style/genre I8: intervisual/-textual references

• photo documentation • content analysis • visual discourse analysis • compositional analysis • focus group discussions • interviews • primary and secondary literature

2

material (M level)

M1: technique M2: size/quantity M3: material/quality • tools • color type • quality

• photo documentation • ethnographically informed observations

3

space (S level)

• photo documentation S1: surface • usage and function of building/surface • ethnographically informed observations • visibility • interviews • owner/user (and political relevance) S2: location • address • environment: street and district (public or private space, socioeconomic level, political relevance, art presence, etc.)

4

time (T level)

T1: time of production • date of production/documentation • political circumstances/symbolic meaning T2: duration of existence/changes over time

• photo documentation (date in image) • interviews • primary and secondary literature research

5

legal (L level)

L1: general legislation • relevant laws • practice of law enforcement L2: legal basis of the image (unauthorized/authorized, contracted, or commissioned)

• ethnographically informed observations • interviews • primary and secondary literature research

From Conceptualizing to Analyzing Visual Power and Resistance

|

35

6

producer(s) P1: author(s) (P level) • name (if known) or anonymous • individual or collective/institutional affiliation • local affiliation (local, national, or international) • artistic background • political orientation, power position, and social authority P2: performative framework • political or artistic action related to production P3: principal/client • institutional interest • local affiliation (local, national, or international) • political orientation, power position, and social authority P4: assignment/contract (between P1 and P3) • way of awarding, value of order • working relationship (regular or selective) • impact on content

• photo documentation (signature in image) • interviews • primary and secondary literature research

7

audiencing A1: local community (A level) • reactions by dwellers, potential constituency, and civil society A2: political authorities • reactions by political institutions • surveillance, repression, criminal persecution • cleansing, destruction, censorship A3: economic reactions • economic utilization/commodification (marketing, tourism, art market, etc.) A4: media circulation and attention • circulation • reproduction • attention by press, online media, etc.

• interviews • focus group discussions • street surveys • primary and secondary literature research • ethnographically informed observations

36 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

for readers who aim to do empirical research themselves, others may prefer to simply skip this part and continue reading the case study itself (chapters 4–7). Before introducing the indicators and the methodological tools, I will briefly outline which previous methodological contributions inspired my own approach. Given the growing interest in visual analysis within the social sciences, a number of scholars sought to make visual culture methodology applicable for a political science and sociologist perspective (Hansen 2011, 2015; Doerr et al. 2013; Doerr 2017; Heck and Schlag 2013, 2020; Heck 2014, 2017; Bogerts and Fielitz 2019, 2022, forthcoming). While the employed methods range from semiotic analysis and Erwin Panofsky’s three-step iconological interpretation15 to (quantitative) content analysis, for my own study a combination of these methods with a discursive approach is most suitable. This book aims to examine how images operate within a political discursive field that is shaped by power relations and thus focuses on analyzing “visual political narratives” (Heck 2017; see also Hansen 2014: 3). This discursive understanding of visuality goes back to the predominant poststructuralist paradigm in (critical) visual culture. For Rose, “both what is seen and how it is seen are culturally constructed” (Rose 2016: 3). In this poststructuralist tradition, her abovementioned textbook Visual Methodologies: An Introduction to Researching with Visual Materials (Rose 2016) sheds light on the process of meaning-making through visual representations, the interests pursued by the involved actors, and the power relations within which images operate. While for the establishment of my body of data I use the method of photo documentation and for the general analysis I employ a content analysis, the overall approach to my visual material is a discursive one.16 In this visual discourse analysis, I aim to identify narratives and discourses articulated in images and their intervisual/-textual references and address questions of power/knowledge and regimes of truths, focusing on the social modality of images rather than on the technological or compositional modality (Rose 2016: 193). In my case study, I take the visual content of the images (meaning: the iconological dimension) as a starting point and consider social institutions to be relevant for the question of which power structures and interests are involved in the image. However, since I take into account a complex set of different dimensions of street art images, I triangulate various of the abovementioned methods in a mixed-methods approach. Following Rose, mixing methods is particularly adequate for the exploration of ambivalences and contradictions that I aim to examine here with regard to the entangled relation between resistance and rule:

From Conceptualizing to Analyzing Visual Power and Resistance

|

37

It allows a richly detailed picture of images’ significance to be developed, and in particular it can shed interesting light on the contradictory meanings an image may articulate. The visualities articulated by producers, images and audiences may not coincide, and this may be in itself an important issue to address. (Rose 2012: 349) Before elaborating on the triangulation of methods, I offer an overview of my mixed-methods approach (table 1.1). Column 1 contains the seven dimensions (introduced in the previous section); column 2 contains the concrete aspects potentially indicating resistance (derived from visual culture and street art literature in the previous section and the subsequent chapter 2); and column 3 contains the methodological tools used for collecting and analyzing relevant data in my own empirical work. In the next sections, I explain how exactly I applied these tools in empirical analysis of street art in Latin American cities. Taking the I level as the starting point, I am aware that photos are themselves already a reproduction of the original street art image transformed into another medium (the manual or digital photograph). Therefore, my analysis was not based on photo material found on the internet (e.g., the producers’ websites or in online forums such as Flickr or Pinterest) or in print publications (e.g., street art books) but on photographic material that I took myself. As table 1.1 demonstrates, analyzing an image with regard to all of the seven dimensions and its indicators requires various kinds of data and several technical tools for its collection and interpretation. Since photographic material alone never provides enough background information on the different levels, it was necessary to gather context information on-site. Consequently, I collected almost all additional data during a research trip to each of the four cities—Buenos Aires, Bogotá, Mexico City, and Caracas—between October 2016 and July 2017. In the following sections, I introduce the tools for data collection and analysis as presented in the table: • The primary data was provided by photo documentation, compiled into a digital database of photos that I took during my research trips. • Focusing on the discursive production of social effects, I conducted a visual discourse analysis of the images (on the I level). For the general analysis and the identification of visual discursive key themes, I used a content analysis. For the detailed analyses, I triangulated iconological interpretation, compositional analysis, and other tools (on all seven levels).

38 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

• In order to gather context information both on the symbolic meaning of the I level and for the other levels, I used auxiliary methods of data collection, such as interviews (with artists and other informants), focus group discussions, and methods inspired by ethnography, such as field notes and participation in local events.

Photo Documentation Photo documentation is a method in which the researcher takes photos in a systematic way to collect data for analysis (Rose 2016: 310). Digital photos are the primary data of my analysis. As a means of documentation and preservation, they make ephemeral street art images researchable through their digital representation (de la Iglesia 2015: 46). Focusing on the photographs taken during my research trips, I automatically limit the time period of my empirical study to the moment of my research stay. While I analyzed only images that existed at that point in time, I took into account other images (which I did not photograph myself ) only for a broader view following references in the images concerned. Therefore, starting with these photographs, I further extended the scope of material by following the traces of intervisual/-textual references (I level), the work of the artists (P level), or other stories related to the piece. This limitation of the body of data draws on Rose’s and Hansen’s recommendations to start with a particular limited set of data and then systematically extend it by following intervisual and intertextual references. Rose recommends taking material that is likely to be particularly interesting and informative as a starting point and later widening the range of archives (Rose 2016: 195). As Hansen reminds us, the majority of sources “should be taken from the time under study, but historical material that traces the genealogy of the dominant representations should also be included” (Hansen 2006: 82). Regarding the choice of material for (textual) discourse analysis, Hansen distinguishes three intertextual models of foreign policy discourse: besides official government documents (model 1) and the media debate (model 2), the third model includes popular culture (model 3A) and marginal political discourses (model 3B) as well. She further argues that these models allow for considering different types of actors and locations of political debate. The more we include nonofficial discourses, the more likely we find sources that contest and challenge the hegemony of the official political discourse of the government (Hansen 2006: 74). In my study, I employed a version of model 3, for I am interested in official government documents and the media debate only for context information. However, although these models are helpful in differentiating the wide

From Conceptualizing to Analyzing Visual Power and Resistance

|

39

range of actors involved in image production, it is hard to distinguish official from marginal discourse, because we do not always know who produced the media we are examining. While one might think of street art as a medium of popular culture and marginal discourse (that clearly belongs to model 3), I assume that it is utilized as a medium of official government discourse as well. In this view, Hansen’s approach already illustrates why governmental actors may utilize cultural means like street art: to give the impression of articulating marginal, popular voices that are more credible for nonelitist audiences than official governmental documents. When images are photographed and digitized, they are taken out of their original context and undergo a transformation. With regard to my photo database of street art images, I thus aimed to document some meta information about the images, including the date of production, the size, the authors, and the specific medium/genre, etc. Photographs are “seen as especially valuable in urban research because they convey something of the feel of urban places, spaces and landscape . . .” (Rose 2016: 308). Therefore, I took photographs from different angles (general street view, overall view, detailed view, human scale in photograph, inter alia) to document the spatial environment (S level) and material features (M level) of street art as a site-specific medium as well as accompanying text elements and metadata, e.g., the artist’s signature or the character of the surface and building (Nowak 2015: 14–22; de la Iglesia 2015: 46).17 A systematic photo documentation needs to follow guiding questions to limit the scope of data and to make transparent which images I chose to document and which, in turn, I did not include. Rose uses the example of Charles Suchar’s (1997) study on gentrification, in which he examines social relations, identities, and (in)visibilities in urban spaces. His work not only demonstrates how photo documentation can offer a way to explore social difference and hierarchies, including marginalized spaces and people, but also shows that he selected his motifs according to what he calls a “shooting script.” This is a list of subquestions generated by the initial research question, which guide the choice of which images are relevant and which are not (Rose 2016: 311–12). Altogether, my selection of photos following my own “shooting script”18 led to a photo database containing 3,914 photos, including photographs of the images’ surroundings and metadata, taken from different angles. I took 1,087 of these photos in Bogotá, 417 in Caracas, 1,292 in Buenos Aires, and 1,118 in Mexico City. In order to limit this huge body of data to a manageable number of pieces to be analyzed, I selected one photograph of each relevant street art piece with the help of the software MAXQDA. Accordingly, the data corpus for visual analysis encompasses photographs of 1,710

40 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

street art pieces (ordered by city and city district). In a two-step process, I analyzed these images in a general analysis (including the content analysis) and a detailed visual analysis of one representative piece per city (see below).

Visual Discourse Analysis The body of data in the MAXQDA photo database required a specific method of visual analysis. As it must be compatible with the theoretical assumptions implicit in my research design, I chose a discourse analytical approach as a “hinge” between theory and empirical analysis (Nonhoff 2007: 184). Building on post-Marxist and post-Gramscian perspectives, approaches of (critical) discourse analysis commonly assume that hegemony and its contestations can be analyzed by examining the orders of discourse (Laclau and Mouffe 1985; Mouffe [1979] 2013; Hall 1993; Nonhoff 2007; Fairclough 2001). Although a hegemonic discourse of social difference may contribute to legitimizing a common sense in order to sustain relations of domination, it is not a rigid but rather an open system that can be interrupted and contested (Fairclough 2001: 124). In this book, I understand a visual discourse to be a set of visual statements or narratives that structures the way we think about the world and how we act accordingly (Rose 2016: 187). A discourse is always shaped by the institutions and conventions within which it is produced and circulated. In a Foucauldian understanding, certain discourses are dominant not only because they are located in powerful institutions (e.g., the government or the police) but also because they claim that the “knowledge” they convey is true (Rose 2016: 190). From a political scientist perspective, Heck (2014) combines discourse analysis with an iconological method of visual analysis. He sees the link between iconology and discourse analysis in that the latter examines how claims of meaning-making—in which ideological convictions are articulated through narratives—are socially negotiated. These narratives work according to the patterns, rules, and conventions of a discourse and may be accepted, rejected, or marginalized by society, depending on how much power and authority they have. For Heck, iconology can offer hermeneutical tools for examining visual political narratives by reconstructing strategies of persuasion and meaning-making, which allows us to examine political legitimacy of power and oppositional opinions in civil society (Heck 2014: 319, 334).19 Following this understanding, the key questions in my visual discourse analysis are: Which narratives, truth claims, and strategies of persuasion and meaning-making are employed? And what, in turn, is made invisible? If we accept the theoretical assumption that images discursively inform the ways

From Conceptualizing to Analyzing Visual Power and Resistance

|

41

we see the world, and if street art is part of this visual discourse in public space, which political actors, claims, and constructions does street art discourse make visible and how? In my empirical analysis, I aim to answer these questions in a twofold procedure: First, in a general analysis, I examine the whole body of photos for each city. Second, I select representative images to analyze them in detail.

General Analysis The general analysis consists of two steps: First, for an overview of the visual content—i.e., the common motifs, narratives, strategies, and key themes—I conducted a content analysis on the I level. Second, I extended the analysis to the other levels of my heuristic framework. In the content analysis, I examined all 1,710 images in the MAXQDA database. This quantitative method breaks the data material down to its visual elements by counting their frequency and then analyzing these frequencies. It allows for systematically dealing with a large number of images and for revealing empirical patterns and conventions “that might otherwise be overwhelmed by the sheer bulk of material under analysis” (Rose 2016: 87). Knowledge about the relative frequencies of visual representations of certain people, roles, claims, or narratives can help us understand how visible they are in public discourse, whether representations are biased, or how they historically changed over time (Bell 2004: 10, 14). Content analysis is based on the coding of image data with descriptive categories. Due to the coding process, the statistical method of content analysis is neither purely quantitative nor as “objective” as one might suggest. As I build the codes on the basis of my theoretical concerns, they are already the result of my interpretation. However, codes must be exhaustive and enlightening (Bell 2004: 15–16; Rose 2016: 92, 96). Therefore, in several rounds of the interpretation procedure, I revised the categories in order to make them applicable to the empirical conditions on the ground. To build codes, in the first round, I went through the photo material with what Rose calls “fresh eyes,” trying to leave aside my theoretical preconceptions (Rose 2016: 205; see also Schnettler and Raab 2008). Approaching the material openly allows for identifying recurring elements, themes, and patterns that I would otherwise have overlooked. In a second round, I coded the images according to key visual elements, or subjects (indicator I1, see table 1.1) depicted in them, and marked textual elements (indicator I3) as well. In a third round, I coded the images with key themes (indicator I2) according to recurring visual elements and (written) keywords. The codes correspond to the indicators on the I level as introduced above.

42 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

Regarding the motifs of the image—or what I here call visual elements or subjects (indicator I1)—I distinguished between persons, objects, and symbols. Each code contains several subcodes (or “values”) (see Bell 2004: 15). While the code “person,” for instance, encompasses subcodes related to professions (e.g., “security personnel,” “worker,” or “campesinx”)20 or to cultural or ethnic groups (e.g., “Indigenous person”), inter alia, the code “objects” contains subcodes such as “weaponry” (with values ranging from “slingshot” to “bomb”), or “animals.” As “symbols” I coded visual elements that were neither persons nor objects, such as the combination of certain colors in the form of “flags” (e.g., national flags or flags of particular groups), “logos,” or graphic signs such as “$.”21 The key themes (indicator I2) derived from both the visual subjects and the text are divided into three groups. The first group of key themes includes images referring to my thematic focus. These (anti-)imperialism themes serve to assess which relevant topics the images actually refer to and contain values according to the aspects I will introduce in chapter 3 (e.g., “colonial legacy” or “military interventionism”). Second, to find other potentially interesting content, I identified several general political themes, such as “state oppression,” “freedom of expression,” or “nationalism/patriotism.” Third, I developed conceptual themes following my theoretical interest in identifying ways in which the codes “resistance” and “rule” are visually represented. In addition to these two key concepts, another conceptual code is “confrontation” between resistance and rule, drawing on the understanding of the political as a conflictive space between different actors (Laclau and Mouffe 1985; Nonhoff 2007). In counterpoint, I also coded depictions of “cooperation” between different actors in the empirical material. Another conceptually relevant theme that is mentioned by several scholars in visual resistance is “the people,” meaning nonhierarchical groups of (mainly anonymous) people (e.g., Malmvig 2016; Mirzoeff 2011; Mitchell 2012). At this point, it is crucial to acknowledge that these theme codes are already an interpretation of what meaning I see in the subjects depicted, and thus the content analysis reveals its inherent qualitative character. Since it is of interest for me how much street art advertisement there is, I use an “advertisement” code as well. With the help of the content analysis, I gain an overview of what the images represent and a first impression of how they represent it. The quantitative identification of dominant discourses and narratives enables me to think about connections between visual elements (and the accompanying text elements) and how particular images are given a specific meaning within the discourse. Coding all the visual content of an image (be it relevant for my initial research questions or not) allows me to reveal patterns that may

From Conceptualizing to Analyzing Visual Power and Resistance

|

43

be “too subtle to be visible on casual inspection” (Lutz and Collins 1993: 89), and thus protect me against an unconscious search for patterns that would only confirm my initial assumptions of what the images show. At the same time, we must keep in mind that “numbers do not translate easily into significance” (Rose 2016: 102). Therefore a critical qualitative interpretation is of crucial importance to analyze and contextualize the quantitative results beyond mere frequencies. However, by coding subjects, objects, symbols, and themes, in my content analysis—as the term implies—I only take into account the content of the images (on the I level). To understand “how the codes in an image connect to the wider context within which an image makes sense” (Rose 2016: 99), I need to extend my view to the other dimensions of my framework. Analyzing the general situation in a city, I aim to triangulate different methods and sources to make general statements on how street art is employed as a means of visual political communication and resistance and is thereby entangled within power structures in each of the cities. While I approach the P level by coding the images regarding their authors (as far as they are identifiable, e.g., through signatures), I explore the other dimensions with the help of context information from other sources, such as interviews or literature research (see table 1.1).

Detailed Analysis Although the general analysis may be enlightening with regard to the general presence of street art in each of the cities, I needed to interpret individual key images in order to understand the particular narrative structures, strategies, and characteristics of visual resistance. Concerning the selection criteria, I chose images that function as nodal points within the intervisual web of debate and that are frequently quoted (Hansen 2006: 82).22 Therefore, after having identified the quantitative weight and relative importance of particular codes/visual contents, I selected key images according to their representativeness indicated by their codes and their potential to serve as a starting point to follow intervisual references. The four selected images thus serve as “nodes” and promise to tell us “stories” about potential forms of visual resistance and its entanglements. This way the detailed analyses allow us to explore the situation more intuitively and be open to potential surprises. The detailed analyses deal with the question of how exactly street art images discursively construct meanings, how a particular narrative works to persuade, and how it produces its effects of truth. I aim to investigate patterns, similarities, or differences of visual rhetorical strategies that assert the truth (what is “real” or “natural”) of a particular narrative or political

44 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

claim. More precisely, concerning my research question of which forms of visual resistance and its entanglements can be found, the subquestions put to the images are: Which references to (neo-)imperialism are made? How is resistance depicted? How is rule or authority depicted? How is confrontation or cooperation depicted? However, we should bear in mind that some of the visual narratives in the images might be complex and incoherent, and internal contradictions might be discovered. In addition, the analysis also aims to reveal what is not seen or shown: “Absences can be as productive as explicit naming; invisibility can have just as powerful effects as visibility” (Rose 2016: 213). In the detailed analysis, I proceed in two steps. First, I describe what is depicted in the image with “fresh eyes” and as objectively as possible in order to raise awareness of every visual element depicted in it. In doing so, I seek to approach the image regardless of my theoretical preconceptions and thereby avoid excluding other possible interpretations a priori. Although the mere description might seem abundant, it is inevitable for becoming aware of every detail, as neglectable as it might seem. However, to improve readability, I moved the image description for most images to the appendix (see appendix A) and only kept it in the main text in the chapter on Bogotá (chapter 7). After this description of the I level, I provide context information on the other dimensions, such as the location, the producer (if known), etc. In the second step, I consider how subjects are depicted and thereby offer an interpretation of the image. Proceeding in a less structured and more intuitive way, I will here follow the codes and intervisual references to interpret the image within the wider body of material. On the I level, besides the subjects (indicator I1), the themes (indicator I2), the image-text relationship (indicator I3), and the intervisual/intertextual references (indicator I8), I take into account the title (if known) (I4), the colors (indicator I5), the composition (indicator I6), and the stylistic genre (indicator I7) (see table 1.1). These indicators are analyzed with regard to their symbolic meaning. For this purpose, I apply different methodological tools such as iconological interpretation and composition analysis (forms, lines, rhythms, static/dynamic, angles, and perspective) (Rose 2016: chapter 4). On the other levels, the indicators introduced in table 1.1 also come into play. Certain discourses may have different effects and become more dominant than others due to their institutional location. Therefore, one needs to locate the speaker position from which the statement is made and the social authority of the producer(s) (Foucault 1972: 50–52). In addition, the material aspects such as the technique (M level) and the style (I level)

From Conceptualizing to Analyzing Visual Power and Resistance

|

45

may vary depending on which audience is targeted and assumed by the image producer (Rose 2016: 215). The necessary context information will be obtained from various sources, including different types of literature, such as publications by the producers themselves (e.g., brochures or websites), secondary literature on the particular local situation (e.g., street art books or blogs), media reportage, and art historical literature on visual political symbols. Further, I gained valuable knowledge by several “auxiliary methods” that I will introduce next.

Auxiliary Methods of Data Collection For as Rose reminds us, “Not everything that is of interest to a social scientist is necessarily visible in a photo, and projects using photographs as part of visual research methods therefore have to think quite carefully about the relation between the visible and the social” (Rose 2016: 328). To gain context information on the seven dimensions of the image beyond my photographs, I used ethnographically informed observations, semistructured interviews, focus group interviews, and street surveys with pedestrians. During my research stays in Bogotá, Caracas, Buenos Aires, and Mexico City, I explored the spatial environment of the street art pieces by visits to certain venues, streets, and districts. I also participated in organized events such as guided street art tours and panel discussions on art and/or politics. During these activities, I noted all relevant information, my observations, and my thoughts in a field diary, which served as an auxiliary source for my analysis. Although participation, observation, and notes from the “field” are, originally, ethnographic methods (Emerson, Fretz, and Shaw 1995), in my study I prefer to call them ethnographically informed (or: inspired) methods, because the way in which I used them does not suffice the standards, presumptions, and long-term conceptions of actual ethnography as used in ethnology.23 In total, twenty-two semistructured interviews provide another important auxiliary source for my analysis. Interviews with artists and other persons from the street art scene helped me in making sense of the images and learning about the interests behind them, and to jointly develop possible interpretations. Opening room for these dialogues, in each city, I interviewed various producers (artists or art collectives) to learn about their work, their political intentions, their artistic background, and other experiences. For more general information about the artistic-political situation and important locations, artists, and institutions, I interviewed other key actors of the street art scene in a more informal way.

46 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

In addition to these interviews with key actors, I included more sources of local knowledge by conducting focus group discussions with inhabitants of the respective city. Despite all my efforts to systematize and operationalize visual analysis in this book, I do not aim to obscure that image perception and interpretation is inevitably highly subjective. Especially due to the worldwide sharing of images through online media, street art images are “being reinterpreted by increasingly diverse audiences, each of which brings its own culture, experiences and machinations to the decoding process” (Ryan 2017: 142). Despite the context information I gained from literature, observations, and interviews on the ground, my image interpretation will still be shaped by my own geopolitical and sociohistorical locality, particularly as a (White) researcher from the Global North investigating phenomena in the Global South (Swadener and Kagendo 2008: 35).24 Although we cannot transcend from the backgrounds and contexts we are situated in and that inevitably inform our reading (Adami 2016: 74; Matar 2014: 167), I seek to address this issue by including the views of persons from the local and national contexts in which the images were produced. For each focus group discussion, I invited three to five persons currently living in the respective city—who were not active in the (street) art scene—to a venue, where I moderated a joint discussion and audio recorded it.25 During the meetings, I presented visual stimuli to the group members and invited them to jointly interpret them by sharing their ideas and associations with the depicted symbols, subjects, and themes (see Kühn and Koschel 2011).26 These discussions not only helped me to understand how other persons perceive the images and allowed for alternative meanings and interpretations but also provided me with valuable information about associations and symbolic meanings in the local or regional context, which I had not been aware of before. Additionally, to learn more about the local audiencing of the image and the perception by the dwellers and inhabitants, I conducted street surveys (see Barbour and Schostak 2011: 61). For each survey, I stood in front of a street art piece with a representative visual content and interviewed random pedestrians for their views about the image, asking them what they would see in the image. However, since these surveys are not representative and provide a very limited amount of data (twenty to twenty-five persons per city, except for Caracas),27 these samples of reactions only give me a first impression of how the image is perceived in public, or whether people are even aware of it. This way, it contributed to the triangulation of methodological approaches and the plurality of sources, which I collected to gain plausible findings in my empirical analysis of street art in Latin American metropolises.

From Conceptualizing to Analyzing Visual Power and Resistance

|

47

Notes 1. For a more detailed overview of visual culture approaches to visual power and resistance, see Bogerts and Shim (2023, forthcoming). 2. For the “emotional turn” in social movement studies, see, e.g., Jasper (1999, 2011). For the role of emotions and images in social movement studies, see Bogerts (2015). 3. “The South” symbolized both oppression and resistance, most importantly for Antonio Gramsci (in fascist Italy) and W. E. B. Du Bois (in the early twentieth-century US civil rights movement). Walter Mignolo called “the South” “a metaphor for human suffering under global capitalism” (Mignolo 2002: 66). 4. For instance, during the Haitian Revolution (1791–1804), “the African hero” was visualized on an anonymous color print with an equestrian portrait of the revolutionary leader Toussaint Louverture. His pose represented him as exercising horsemanship, a key feature of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century charismatic authority, and “as having mastered several codes of conduct that were typically held to be beyond Africans,” such as holding a sword, riding a horse, and wearing European clothes (Mirzoeff 2011: 107)—just as Napoleon Bonaparte in his famous equestrian portrait by Jacques-Louis David: “Toussaint was visualized as having authority over colonialism and slavery, in direct contrast to the subservient imaginary of White abolitionists such as the ‘Am I Not a Man and a Brother?’ motif showing a kneeling African man requesting emancipation” (Mirzoeff 2011: 109). 5. With regard to the “feminine hero,” Mirzoeff highlights the example of Sojourner Truth, who scrutinized that heroes were inevitably masculine (Mirzoeff 2011: 147). In the United States of the 1850s, Truth took advantage of her power as a spokeswoman for the abolitionist and women’s rights movements in order to sell photographic self-portraits “as evidence of her own right to look and right to be seen” (Mirzoeff 2011: 147). 6. More precisely, Mirzoeff (2011: 83) mentions the famous lithograph The Awakening of the Third Estate (1789). 7. For a similar view on the occupation of Gezi Park in the 2013 protests in Istanbul, see Özgün (2015: 56–57). 8. Looking back in history, Mirzoeff differentiates three primary “complexes of visuality,” that is particular modalities, historical periods, or worldviews, in which visuality authorized itself by techniques of classifying, separating, and aestheticizing: the plantation complex (1660–1860), the imperialist complex (1860–1945), and the military-industrial complex (1924–present) (Mirzoeff 2011: 3–4). 9. This idea draws upon the “pleasures of protest”; see Jasper (1999). 10. For the interplay of affect and effect in artistic activism, see https://artisticactivism .org/aefficacy-2/ (retrieved 16 June 2020). 11. For the “feminine gaze” in queer theory, see Butler (1990). For a feminist view on the “imperial gaze,” see Kaplan (1997). 12. Regarding Latin America, but still from a White European perspective, Peter Beardsell (2000) reflects on Latin American practices of “returning the gaze.” 13. Just as feminist studies revealed how seemingly individual “social” or “domestic” issues are indeed structural and political, feminist visual culture helps us be more aware of subtle means of disseminating patriarchal ideology. In the products of

48 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

14.

15.

16.

17.

18.

19.

20.

21.

22.

(moving) images themselves, the binary opposition between active male (whose realm was the political, public sphere) and passive female (whose realm was the private sphere) was constantly being reproduced by restrictive visual representation (Mulvey 1975: 839). This is why, throughout history, as John Berger famously put it, “men act and women appear” (Berger [1972] 1976: 47). In a more general view, such critical approaches demonstrate how social difference is visually constructed through the categorization of social subjects, aiming to order social life according to hierarchies of class, race, gender, sexuality, etc. (Rose 2012: 28). The term audiencing was originally coined by John Fiske (1992) to describe the process in which an image’s meaning is actively made, renegotiated, or rejected by its audience. Heck and Schlag (2013: 899) helpfully summarize Panofsky’s three-step iconology, which consists of (1) the pre-iconographic description, (2) the iconographic analysis, and (3) the iconological interpretation. Rose (2016) dedicates a chapter to each of these methods. For photo documentation, see chapter 12; for content analysis, see chapter 5; for discourse analysis, see chapters 8 and 9. For the specific characteristics and theorization of photos as data material and the possible gap between the photographed object and its visual representation, see Rose (2016: 309, 328), Tulke (2014: 9), and Evans and Hall (1999: 2). During my research trips, I took photos of street art pieces according to this shooting script (see appendix A), which must fulfill one of the two following criteria: pieces should refer to the topic of anti-imperialism (as operationalized in chapter 3); and/ or pieces should help answer my research questions by depicting other forms of resistance and rule or exemplifying the diversity of producers (authors and principals), reactions, and spaces occupied by street art. Particularly, I aim to document images that tell us something about the contradictions and ambivalences of street art within the entangled relationship between resistance and rule. For one of the very few previous works that actually conducts an empirical discourse analysis of visual material, see Cynthia Hardy and Nelson Philips’s (2002) study on the social construction of “refugees” in cartoons. The term campesinx (with the ending “-x”) indicates that we assume to talk about a mixed group of people (in this case: peasants), including female (campesina), male (campesino), and non-binary genders. Although, in Charles Pierce’s semiotic understanding, a “symbol” is only one of three categories of visual signs (besides “icons” and “indexes”) (see Fahlenbrach 2016: 244), I here use the term in a more general way. More precisely, I selected one street art piece per city following five criteria: (1) it must refer to the (anti-)imperialism theme and hence carry at least one of the subcodes related to anti-imperialism, because this thematic scope is in the focus of my study; (2) it ought to contain at least one of the conceptual theme codes and thus help us in understanding how resistance, rule, confrontation, or cooperation are represented in the urban public space; (3) the image must carry several of the most frequent codes on the I level and thus depict subjects (persons, objects, or symbols) that are common in the respective city. And (4) the images from the four cities must

From Conceptualizing to Analyzing Visual Power and Resistance

23. 24. 25. 26.

27.

|

49

shed light on the broad range of producers and their interests and thus vary on the P level. For a more elaborated approach to visual ethnography, see Tulke (2014: 7). On power inequalities, (self-)reflexivity, and the researcher’s speaker position, see, e.g., Swadener and Kagendo (2008) and Hamati-Ataya (2011). Unfortunately, due to my relatively short stay in Caracas, I could not conduct a focus group interview there. For the general design of a group discussion, see Kühn and Koschel (2011: 74–86); for moderation techniques, see Kühn and Koschel (2011: 139–71), for discussions with visual stimuli, see Kühn and Koschel (2011: 117). I conducted one street survey each in Buenos Aires and Mexico City and two in Bogotá. Due to recommendations regarding the security situation in Caracas, I could not realize a street survey there.

Chapter 2

Street Art as a Medium of Visual Political Communication Visual culture studies deal with a broad variety of visual media. Visual expressions of resistance can be observed in digital videos, photos, and memes, in cartoons, short films, and paintings, in street theater and flash mobs, in posters and in détournement/adbusting, to only name a few examples. Other media that have attracted the attention of multidisciplinary research for several decades are street art, graffiti, and muralism.1 This book is not the first academic work that deals with street art as visual political communication. Therefore, before I analyze street art myself later in this book, it is worth taking a look at prior debates on the topic. In this chapter I address two concerns: First, I conceptualize my understanding of the term “street art” by differentiating it from related terms and outlining ongoing debates on the diverse ideas of what street art actually means. I do not aim to derive a “correct” definition, let alone suggest a new one. Instead, I aim to untangle the different meanings attached to the term and the phenomenon, which often carry different political agendas (Giunta 2005: 147). Second, with the help of existing street art literature and case studies, I illustrate those characteristics of visual media that might indicate political power, resistance, or the entanglement of the two in the seven analytical dimensions, which I introduced in the previous chapter (see table 1.1). The literature encompasses a broad variety of aspects and case studies, ranging from the Northern Irish Troubles in the late twentieth century to the December 2001 Argentine riots and the January 2011 Egyptian uprising. This state of the (street) art will show how the rather abstract and theoretical ideas of visual resistance that I introduced in chapter 1 manifest in a specific medium and give a first impression of what we might expect in the empirical analysis. Since the (sometimes, not always) political nature of street art has been researched in various disciplines, ranging from art history, urban studies, urban sociology, and criminology to (regional) history, cultural studies, and media studies, inter alia, the following examples approach the subject from very different perspectives. They draw their conclusions from a variety of methods, such as interviews, historical process tracing, ethnographic ob-

Street Art as a Medium of Visual Political Communication

|

51

servations, or a triangulation of these. However, on closer inspection, it will turn out that previous studies barely conducted systematic image analysis, as I proposed in the methodological chapter.2 In this sense, this chapter serves to bridge the theoretical and the empirical part of this book, where I examine a broad range of street art images systematically.

Concepts of Street Art The term street art is far from being fixed or uncontested. On the one hand, not all the authors who refer to “street art” may in fact be talking about the same thing. On the other hand, many researchers do explore the same phenomenon but refer to it differently, most commonly as “graffiti” (although in the cultural scene this term only suggests a very specific practice). The question of which techniques the term “street art” comprises is subject to a permanent discussion among artists, academics, and others. The meaning of this label is constantly being negotiated. The manifold understandings of what is meant by that notion differ in terms of self-conceptions of the producers, (non)political or (anti)commercial intentions, and regional or historical traditions. I next introduce my own understanding and argue why I find the term street art to be the most adequate for my own research. In this book, I understand street art to encompass various techniques of visual representations applied to surfaces in urban outdoor areas. These techniques are stencils, murals, stickers, and paste-ups, as well as written phrases. While in general, techniques such as posters and adbusting may fulfill the defining criteria as well, here I focus on the techniques above to limit the scope of relevant empirical material.3 Unlike other authors, I understand “visual” expressions—in the sense of “visual arts”—to be material ones. This excludes street theater or performances, which rather belong to “performative arts,” in which artists use their bodies or their voices to express themselves. However, to keep the scope limited to images, I will not consider forms constituted by very specific materials like urban knitting or urban gardening.4 Although for some, street art may comprise manifold media utilized for political communication, including banners, t-shirts, badges, billboards, posters, and stickers, for me only stickers belong to that group as they are necessarily applied on surfaces. A central issue in the terminology debate is the very two words making up the term street art: street and art. I want anything but to engage into the centuries-old debate on “what is art?” and what is not. Since some forms of what we today call street art were long devalued as mere vandalism or “dirt,” it may remind us of the famous case of Joseph Beuys’s Fat Corner (1982) in

52 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

Düsseldorf Academy of Arts, which coined the phrase, “Is it art or can I junk it?” This case humorously illustrated that what for some is definitely (“high”) art may for others clearly be nothing but pollution that has to be removed. As the boundaries between “art” and other visual media have become blurred in visual culture, I avoid judging the artistic value by calling street art images “pieces,” “works,” or simply “images.” At the same time, the emergence and increasing use of the term “street art” might already indicate a strategy to distinguish between authorized and nonauthorized forms by attributing to the former an artistic value. Although there is a debate on whether the two components of the term are similarly constitutive, I agree that “some Street Art is more Street, other Street Art is more Art” (Blanché 2015: 34). The word street implies that street art refers to visual representations in outdoor areas and not in indoor locations like museums, galleries, or other (cultural) institutions or buildings.5 More precisely, I am referring to outside walls of buildings or other surfaces of (urban) architecture. Although the outdoor location is decisive, street art is not to be confused with what is commonly called “public art.” State-commissioned, publicly sponsored art may aim to make art more democratically accessible. However, in order to be authorized, public art has to be approved by decision-makers in power institutions who may utilize it to convey collective identities and social imageries that support their narratives of what is politically correct, “normal,” “modern,” or “necessary,” and thus legitimize the institution’s politics (Castellanos 2017: 145–46). For while street art is, for me, not always authorized, let alone publicly commissioned, it significantly differs from what is called public art.6 As this understanding suggests, I do not hold the legal status to be the decisive criterion for the definition of street art and thus examine both authorized and unauthorized works.7 However, for some, its autonomous and “self-authorized” (Blanché 2015: 33) character is key to the concept of street art. This may draw upon the idea that street art developed out of graffiti, which from the early 1970s had emerged with an often (although not always) explicit anti-consumerist, anti-capitalist intention and was thus applied without the consent of the property owner. Blanché sees street art to be inherently noncommissioned and without intentions of commercial applicability (Blanché 2015: 37). No doubt, such a narrow concept makes much sense for highlighting the political potential of street art and supporting the narrative that street art and/or graffiti was a protest medium per se. Nevertheless, for the following reasons, I opt for a broader understanding that includes authorized works. First, I scrutinize the myth that street art has linearly developed out of graffiti and is a genuine protest medium—a narrative that some artists themselves

Street Art as a Medium of Visual Political Communication

|

53

scrutinize by “admitting” that graffiti has first and foremost served (predominantly male) writers to mark “their” territory and strengthen their ego, while political motivations have often been secondary. Rather, I consider street art a hybrid of both (protest) graffiti and (state-sponsored) muralism (see below). Second, in my study, I aim to highlight exactly these ambivalences of street art as a medium used for both maintaining state or commercial power and resisting it. Finally, I argue that for the spectator who sees an image on the street, it may not be easily identifiable at the first glance whether it is authorized or unauthorized. And yet, it is part of the public everyday imagery that might influence our understanding of the political. Consequently, my research question clearly demands for a broader scope; an a priori exclusion of authorized works would bias the result. Generally speaking, I assume that street art is a communication medium that is accessible to a wide range of social actors, whether they are individual, collective, or institutional; authorized or unauthorized; independent, sponsored, or commissioned. In other words: “A . . . feature of street art is its competitive, nonmonopolistic, democratic character. It is accessible to all producers regardless of ideological perspective” (Chaffee 1993: 8). Another ongoing debate about terminology addresses the difference between street art and graffiti. Although in many academic publications these terms are used interchangeably, it is generally assumed that graffiti pieces are word based, such as tags and style writing, which seek to communicate with other taggers and style writers. By contrast, street art seeks to be understandable for the general public and to communicate with a larger audience beyond the graffiti community. Some claim that street art is rather image based and applies a broader variety of stylistic features, tools, and materials, and that it has a wider range of differentiated techniques and messages (Herrera and Olaya 2011: 100; Blanché 2015: 32–35). Consequently, while written phrases sometimes address the general public and thus may count as street art, I will not consider graffiti style writings like tags or “bombings.” This brings us back to the question of whether street art developed out of graffiti and therefore “inherited” its alleged sociopolitical claim. At this point, it is worth taking a brief look at the history of the term. Although the term street art had been utilized before, it experienced a breakthrough since the beginning of the 2000s. In counterpoint to the most common narrative, I assume that street art is built on more than US style writing, which was born in the early 1970s in the outskirts of metropolises like New York and Philadelphia.8 A common and often retold version of street art history assumes that graffiti was not only a counteraesthetic movement, such as tagging or the Brazilian pichação (Araya López 2014: 32), but also a means to scrutinize common assumptions about property and ownership and to

54 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

question who has the right to freely communicate in urban space (Blanché 2015: 35).9 While I do not doubt that is true, I agree with Ryan in that the focus on only these historical roots of street art in US graffiti writing reveals an Anglo-American-centrist bias in the literature (Ryan 2017: 7). By contrast, I see street art to be a hybrid of both graffiti writing and mural art.10 Therefore, I assume that the term “street art” was never meant to exclusively describe unauthorized works. Rather, the concept sought to link graffiti’s street credibility with the cultural capital of art, and thus offered a label to make this medium more accessible, aesthetic, and valuable for the mainstream. Thereby, it opened the circle of potential producers to attract a wider audience and to mobilize more resources—be it for sponsoring, commissioning, or “buying.” Consequently, the street art label has helped graffiti writers to circumvent the “subcultural” stigma and to claim acknowledgment for their practices as being art (Araya López 2014: 32; Castellanos 2014: 147). Although I conceptualize street art very broadly and include traditions of both graffiti and muralism, I do not intend to disrespect conceptions that view muralism as a completely separate art form. Latin America is commonly considered the birthplace of political muralism. For Polo Castellanos (2017), “real” murals have to “tell stories.” Their narrative and discursive character, their dialogic intentions, and their direct social utility are key to the concept of muralism. This “original” (Latin American) muralism must be differentiated from what he thinks is falsely called neomuralismo (or contemporary muralism). In his view, this rather unpolitical genre “invades” the public space with its aesthetic quality and—as part of what he rather derogatorily calls “urban art”—becomes “an escape and a response at the same time, directed against political art” (Castellanos 2017: 147, 152; my translation). For the same reason, Ignacio Soneira (2016) prefers the term decorative muralism, or even publicity muralism with regard to nonpolitical/nondiscursive murals. He stresses that institutional muralism clearly needs to be distinguished from interventions in the sense of what Ana Longoni (2014) calls militant muralism. Against this backdrop, I acknowledge muralism to be an independent art form but—regardless of its authors or commissioners, (non)political intentions or narratives—include it into my considerations to take into account a broad spectrum of potential producers and iconological content.

Political Street Art, Rule, and Resistance In this section, I illustrate the (rather abstract) analytical dimensions introduced in chapter 1 and exemplify the indicators for operationalizing them

Street Art as a Medium of Visual Political Communication

|

55

for empirical analysis (see table 1.1). In the visual analysis, the political potential of an image is indicated, inter alia, by the depicted subjects, text, colors, and style (on what I call I level); by the technique, size/quantity, and material quality (M level); by the surface it is applied onto and its location (S level); by the time of production and its alterations in the period of existence (T level); by the general legislation and the legal basis of the particular image (L level); by its authors, the principals, and the performative framework (P level); and by the reactions of the local community, political authorities, economic players, and the media (A level).

The Iconological Dimension (I Level) The iconological dimension, that is the visual content of an image, is what the viewer sees at first sight. It is thus the first thing that shapes our impression when looking at an image. Here arises the question of what is represented, including subjects and themes, and how it is represented, including styles, colors, composition, etc., as well as the narratives formed by all of this. In a general view, wall paintings and writings encompass a wide range of motifs or subjects (indicator I1), themes (I2), colors (I5), compositional features (I6), and styles (I7) with varying image-text combinations (I3) and intervisual references (I8). Besides political messages, street art genres and topics include shop advertisements, support for football teams, personal love messages, pilgrimage greetings, religious icons and saints, and abstract decoration and design, as well as much more. Cities are full of visual signs. The iconology of street art images is often much more complex than it seems at first sight, and visual signs may carry a deeper symbolic meaning.11 One of the most frequent explanations of why street art continues to be a popular tool of communication is its culturalhistorical function: Street art is a time-honored form of expression. Societies have communicated their ideas visually in public places since the time of cave dwellers. . . . Painting played a part in public discourse, serving as a social conscience, recording history and customs, becoming a social commentator, generating symbols, telling people what to worship and fear, and touching on the full gamut of human emotions. (Chaffee 1993: 161) Such meanings may convey a collective visual popular history and make street art a guardian of people’s cultural memory (Naguib 2016: 64–65).12 In this understanding, the motifs depicted may refer to memorable events in

56 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

history or to the more recent past and provide a popular record of current social problems. With regard to the Egyptian uprising in 2011, for instance, the vivid images on the walls of Mohammed Mahmud Street in Cairo recorded the people’s clashes with the junta and therefore turned it into a memorial space, or even a temple, that attracted many visitors and photographers (Abaza 2012: 13). One of the most popular motifs of these images was the “martyrs,” who are victims killed during the violent clashes with security forces. Such and other “heroes” of social life, politics, culture, or history often serve for memorization and identity building and are viewed as a “barometer” of a community’s identification with its histories and traditions (Mendoza and Torres 1994: 78). Similarly, during the Irish Troubles, the historical heroes displayed on murals in Belfast not only conveyed political ideas but also served as role models for the protestors (Jarman 1998: 86). Street art images often touch on questions of social representation and identity. In Egyptian “art of resistance” since 2011, the contents of many images have challenged representations of the authorities as powerful forces and the people as nothing but silent followers. By questioning the legitimacy of political parties and the government and thereby challenging hegemonic representations, the images, symbols, and writings provided an alternative source of identification and power and signaled the regime’s loss of control (Awad, Wagoner, and Glăveanu 2017: 174, 179; Naguib 2016: 64). Street art images may remit a dimension of conflict, of struggle or rebellion against the urban order. In this sense, street art can be viewed as “materialized aesthetics” that makes memory present in the public space and evokes emotions and meaning-making (Sandoval 2002: 8; Herrera and Olaya 2011: 114). Building on Chantal Mouffe’s understanding of the political as discursive antagonism in the public sphere, Martha Herrera and Vladimir Olaya declare that images position themselves within a particular public discourse and interrupt regimes of visibility. Most importantly, these images lift the political beyond common political pamphlets, offering a different perspective on what is political. Street art interventions challenge established visual regimes by scrutinizing hegemonic positions, which aimed to establish a single perspective of history and memory. Such positions commonly reflect on historical events only from the perspective and in the logic of “the winners” who had the resources to shape “official” art in public space, and thus official discourse. For Herrera and Olaya, these messages can be regarded as political and cultural resistance because they actively engage in politics of memory within the urban imagery and make visible that the city is a space of conflict (Herrera and Olaya 2011: 106–7). Street art can serve as a channel for alternative visual narratives in both authoritarian regimes and in democratic systems. With regard to street art

Street Art as a Medium of Visual Political Communication

|

57

on the European financial crisis in 2008, some images gave a twist to the common narrative that Euro politics and financial institutions were rational and politically neutral actors (Baldini 2015: 249). For instance, the street art on the fence around the construction site of the new European Central Bank in Frankfurt, Germany, conveyed visual narratives that criticized financial power. In this sense, their value as forms of resistance lay in their capacity to scrutinize the assumptions on which the EU austerity policies were based. Moreover, popular art forms such as street art help make complex themes (here: the European financial politics) more accessible for a wider public so that “viewers regain access to financial discourses which are not for the general public to engage in, but are usually limited to experts” (Baldini 2015: 247–51). However, whereas Andrea Baldini correctly identifies such alternative narratives, the images he refers to perfectly demonstrate that in a serious visual analysis not only what is represented must be examined but also how it is represented. While the images explicitly criticize the power structures of European politics, many depictions reproduce visual stereotypes, e.g., by (mis) representing (Black) Africans or refugees as infantile and powerless victims or women as sexualized objects of desire (see Bogerts 2018: 252). Depicting certain (marginalized) social subjects does not automatically scrutinize hegemonic narratives, but they must be represented as politically meaningful subjects to do so.13 The visual symbols displayed in street art draw upon a certain visual rhetoric. Producers employ this rhetoric to evoke emotional responses or even to mobilize further resistance: “Street art can shape and move human emotions and gauge political sentiments. . . . Clichés, slogans, and symbols—the substance of political rhetoric—help mobilize people” (Chaffee 1993: 4). At the same time, the visual impact of communication relies on certain stylistic features and rules, such as color and design. Political collectives identify and make themselves recognizable by consciously adopting particular logos or color to trigger emotions. For example, since red is the color of blood, it is seen as a “passionate” color associated with love, revolutions, and violence. Another critical feature is clarity in design. Stylistic and compositional quality is key to reducing sociopolitical reality to simple, concise, and easy-to-grasp slogans or symbols, and thus to efficiently shape public discourse and to set the political agenda (Chaffee 1993: 6–9). Street artists strategically employ a certain aesthetic style, a specific language or simply “nice colors,” to attract the attention of the broader audience by affecting the psychology of the passerby and mobilizing them “to join the cause” (artist cited in Awad et al. 2017: 172). At times, artists employ styles and genres from popular culture, art history, or cultural history in general. The muralist Alaa Awad, for instance, commented on the police

58 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

killings during the 2011 Egyptian uprising by employing the style of ancient mythology and tomb paintings to foster identification with the rich Egyptian cultural history (Abaza 2012: 132). Such intervisual references or recontextualizations are useful for visualizing political protest because they do not require openly critical messages but instead codify images with the help of symbolic associations. This way, street artists in Cairo succeeded in circumventing censorship and sharing their political standpoints by utilizing parody, satire, and irony, thus creating “persuasive vehicles of resistance” (Naguib 2016: 60–61). Street art pieces frequently combine images and text. The interplay between written text, paintings, pictographs, and combinations of those is another characteristic that potentially indicates political messages and influences meaning-making. Further, on the one hand, the specific language may either represent a certain group, for example, Indigenous languages spoken by original populations and Indigenous peoples who are often marginalized (Herrera and Olaya 2011: 110). On the other hand, it may indicate who is the target group of the message. While the use of English slogans served to attract the attention of the international media during the so-called Arabellion, in Latin America anti-US sentiments are often expressed by using English slogans like “Yankee go home” in order to make the message comprehensible for the target group (Chaffee 1993: 13).

The Material Dimension (M Level) Although the iconological content of an image may tell us a lot about its specific political message, it is primarily the material and the spatial dimensions that distinguish street art from other visual media. Understood as visual techniques applied to architectural surfaces in urban outdoor spaces, the material characteristics of an image may be described by its specific technique (M1), its size and its quantity (M2), and its (material) quality (M3). Street art techniques—stencils, murals, written phrases, and stickers— differ significantly in terms of the other characteristics and the tools and material used for their production. Murals, for instance, can be painted in huge sizes and owe their impressive appearance to this grand scale. In this sense, size does matter. At the same time, the question of size is often interlinked with the legal dimension (L level), the level of the producers (P level), and the time of its existence (T level). While their scale may provide murals with space for a more complex visual impact, their long production process impedes a clandestine production and commonly requires an authorization by the authorities or the owner of the building. This is why murals are more likely to be produced under state or business sponsorship, which often en-

Street Art as a Medium of Visual Political Communication

|

59

ables the producers to use high-quality tools and paint and thus guarantee a better material quality—and probably a higher visual impact due to its impressive “beauty.” This point demonstrates that, although this medium is often viewed to be accessible for everyone because it is considered costeffective, high-quality painting materials require some financial resources to make the paintbrush join “the armalite and the ballot box as a facet of political strategy” (Jarman 1998: 85). However, the question of size is relative. The immediate, onsite impression of an image is transformed when photographed and uploaded on a website, where it appears next to many other (small-scale) digital images and loses its specific size-related appearance in public space (Soneira 2016: 11–12). Stencils, by contrast, are commonly much smaller than murals but are suitable for mass duplication of messages since they can be used multiple times, up to large quantities.14 Just like phrases written with aerosol spray, they are applied in a very quick fashion and thus reduce the risk of their appliers being caught by the police (see L level). Further, a repetitive and concerted street art campaign may achieve a long-term impact: “Street art must be seen as part of a process, not as a single event, slogan, or expression analyzed in isolation. It should be viewed as a series of events with possible long-term implications and as an indicator of political discourse and group conflict in a society” (Chaffee 1993: 25). Street art always needs to compete with commercial imagery in both numerical and visual terms. In the 2011 Egyptian uprising, for instance, the sheer number of repeated statements was considered a major impact factor of revolutionary street art. The notion of “floating images” (Khatib 2013: 11–12) illustrates that reproducing, copying, and varying a motif not only enables the transmission of the message but also constantly actualizes it according to the context: “It helps inscribe it more and more deeply in the political discourse of dissent and in the minds of those at the receiving end. It is not a matter of plagiarism, but rather of relaying and broadcasting protest” (Naguib 2016: 61).15 Another material explanation for the specific affective power of street art is the viewer’s experience of the material encounter and its “touchability.” In “Darling, Look! It’s a Banksy!” (Hansen and Flynn 2016), the authors argue that that the interaction with “art” in museums or galleries is usually highly regulated and touching is forbidden. Street art, on the contrary, “breaks the ‘law of untouchability’ in that it invites viewers to touch (and we would suggest, also to leave one’s own trace on the wall)” (Hansen and Flynn 2016: 105).16 Beyond their appeal by physical involvement of the viewer, murals may foster identification and influence a conflict by their material qualities as objects.17 During the Troubles in Northern Ireland, murals offered elaborate

60 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

visual displays and conveyed political messages, but they were also material artifacts fixed in public space. Therefore a mural may be political on two different “levels,” which is the image itself and the physical object of the wall that is being used, abused, and transformed (Jarman 1998: 81). However, regardless of their original material features, street art pieces are changed by means of conservation. Pieces painted on (physical) walls are converted into photographs, digital images, or even into museum objects (Naguib 2016: 63). This aspect of the material state of an image is illustrated by the symbolic meaning of the word wall (Spanish: muro; wall painting = muralismo): a wall can either be the material ground or “canvas” of a street art image or the physical barrier that has to be trespassed to (illegally) paint on private territory. The word wall (or muro) also designates the profile page in social media platforms like Facebook, where people post comments, photographs, videos, etc. When a street art piece is photographed and uploaded online for broader circulation, its material state is transformed and therefore, too, its context of audiencing (Soneira 2016: 12).18

The Spatial Dimension (S Level) The material nature of street art is closely interlinked with its location in urban space, since it is being “physically tattooed in the physiognomy of the city, modifying space” (Herrera and Olaya 2011: 1; my translation). Street art’s environment on the streets, that is in public space, is per definition one of its most particular characteristics. This is why most researchers consider its spatial dimension to be of central importance when it comes to its political potential and visibility. The spatial dimension may refer to three interconnected aspects: first, the very surface (S1) on which the image is applied, as its material manifestation in space; second, its geographical location and environment (S2), including the street, the neighborhood, or the whole city in which it is located; and third, the occupation or reclaiming of public space by street art in a more symbolic sense, which may challenge public control, surveillance, or neoliberal governance. The first aspect is closely intertwined with the abovementioned thoughts on material surfaces as “canvases” for street art images. Stencils, phrases, and murals on particular walls may not be there coincidentally, but these locations in some cases have been chosen deliberately or even strategically, for they carry a social or political meaning. For instance, during the Egyptian uprising, the “Walls of Corruption Project” used street art to mark certain walls to signal that there were corrupt institutions behind them (Awad et al. 2017: 178). More prominent cases are the images painted on separation walls, such as the Berlin Wall during the Cold War era (Gründer 2007), the

Street Art as a Medium of Visual Political Communication

|

61

border wall between Mexico and the United States (Silva Lodoño 2016), the wall dividing (Republican Irish) West Belfast and the (Loyalist British) Shankill Road (Jarman 1998; Rolston 2010), and the West Bank barrier around Palestinian territory in Israel, which has been called the “largest street art canvas on the planet” (Kalman 2014; see also Perry 2007). However, the specific building or architectural unit may also simply be chosen for its central location guaranteeing a high visibility. Being aware of key walls, buildings, roads, or neighborhoods, political groups prominently position their messages in heavily targeted areas, at points for gatherings, or on parade routes to maximize visibility and to increase their visual impact (Jarman 1998: 83). At the same time, it is exactly this visibility factor that makes governments and public administrations traditionally engage street art as well. For them, it is only logical and practical to make use of this public communication channel to reach out to the population. Regarding the second spatial aspect, that is the geographical location and environment, murals are site specific, and their political power is enhanced by their specific location. The site specificity of a piece may refer to different geographic levels, ranging from the wall or the area to the city or the country (Blanché 2015: 36).19 Frequently, the frame of reference is even smaller and addresses the symbolic space of a certain city district or neighborhood. In the US-Mexican border city of Ciudad de Juárez, groups or neighborhood communities use murals (and tags) for marking their territory in times of dispute. This spatial appropriation is closely interlinked with social and political conflicts, mainly as resistance against racism and exclusion toward Mexicans and Mexican Americans (Silva Lodoño 2016: 40). The Northern Irish conflict is a case in point. The segregation of working-class areas in Belfast was fostered by the visual demonstration of identity, which turned simple row houses into “Protestant row houses” and, in turn, others into “Catholic areas.” Sometimes murals even served as overt boundary markers or warning signs to “the other side” (Jarman 1998: 84, 92). This example illustrates that street art symbolizes a control of territory or a demarcation of liberated area “belonging” to a certain group, be it religious, class based, or national. Murals convert mundane space into politicized space and enable a visible dominance over an area by installing political imagery. Such paintings thus activate place as a site of the ideological struggle and convey messages of resistance (Jarman 1998: 86). In this context, Mona Abaza argues that in Cairo’s new public culture since 2011, street art was one of the visual media that helped “reshap[e] street politics”: “Tahrir triggered a new visual culture that is raising political consciousness. Tahrir became the place to film and be filmed, as well as being a space to see others and to be seen” (Abaza 2012: 125).

62 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

While street art is used to reclaim space in specific local political conflicts, it may as well be directed against commercial interests and the spatial omnipresence of advertisement. The currently most popular political street artist, Banksy, notes: The people who run our cities don’t understand graffiti because they think nothing has the right to exist unless it makes a profit. . . . The people who truly deface our neighborhoods are the companies that scrawl giant slogans across buildings and buses trying to make us feel inadequate unless we buy their stuff. . . . Any advertisement in public space that gives you no choice whether you see it or not is yours, it belongs to you. It’s yours to take, rearrange and re-use. Asking for permission is like asking to keep a rock someone just threw at your head. (Banksy 2005: 8) Street art may be directed against the visual dominance of commercial interests in public space and appropriate its tactics to convey its own messages within the competition over public space. If both the state and advertising companies make use of the fact that people read signs, why should social movements not do the same? A famous example from Latin America is the “neutralization” of commercial advertising by the early socialist Sandinistas in Nicaragua and the Unidad Popular in Chile under Salvador Allende (in the 1970s/80s). These cases were a question not only of who has the right to be visible in public space but also of whether the capitalist or the socialist ideology controlled the discourse of the streets (Chaffee 1993: 19). In a similar fashion, the Chicano mural movement reclaimed space by reappropriating commercial billboards in the Southern United States, which was Mexican territory before it was claimed by the United States in the mid-nineteenth century (Reed 2005: 123). The competition with commercial interests leads us back to specific cities and their struggles over social inclusion and representation. Relevant case studies encompass, e.g., Bogotá’s historic old town La Candelaria (Herrera and Olaya 2011: 106), the hip area of Kadıköy in Istanbul (Aksel and Olgun 2015), the “alternative” Exarchia district in Athens (Tulke 2016), or the city of Palermo (Tuttolomondo 2017). These cases exemplify that city administrations frequently use street art to beautify and thus upgrade the quality of neighborhoods and to socialize “abandoned” spaces (i.e., low-income areas), which often goes hand in hand with conflicts over touristification and gentrification. In turn, these cases shed light on the fact that, nowadays, street art images are commonly considered to have a positive effect on urban space, while

Street Art as a Medium of Visual Political Communication

|

63

graffiti writings keep being perceived as having a negative impact on space and making public areas less attractive. In the early 1990s, Cresswell notes on the case of New York: “The use of terms like dirt, madness, and disease underlines a fear of spatial disorder and the implication that graffiti belongs in other places (in the Third World) suggests a fear of anarchy in New York City” (Cresswell 1992: 336). The association of graffiti with the “Third World” or the “place of the other” primarily referred to Latin America, for instance, in the case of an Ecuadorian artist who was held to be a (Nicaraguan) Sandinista, implying that his art belonged to a place of (socialist/ communist) violence and disorder (Cresswell 1992: 336).20 Regarding social order in urban space, city planners are well aware of how urban topography, zoning, and architecture influence political interests and social order (Ryan 2017: 25). The perception of who controls the tone of the street (in Spanish: que opina la calle) is a central psychopolitical explanation for the use of street art (Chaffee 1993: 17). Particularly in situations in which governments dominate public space, reclaiming territory with the help of street art may contribute to appropriating territory against the authorities’ unchallenged control of urban spaces. Not only in autocratic regimes but also in democratic societies, as Cresswell (1992) is quick to remind us in his essay “The Crucial ‘Where’ of Graffiti,” governments may perceive street art as a threat to the maintenance of public order. Therefore, they employ a “discourse of disorder” that reveals how claims over space structure the ideological arena in a given city or society: “Something may be appropriate here but not there” (Cresswell 1992: 329). Given that meanings are constantly being negotiated through conflict, struggle, and resistance, space and place are politically constructed concepts: “As places are not ‘natural’ but historical products, conflict over the meaning of a place is inherently ideological insofar as a dominant meaning will get to define what counts as appropriate and inappropriate behavior in that place” (Cresswell 1992: 330). The spatial dimension of street art within the struggle over domination is also addressed by the only existent (short) publication that applies Nicholas Mirzoeff’s (2011) countervisuality approach to street art. According to Iliana Hoppe (2014), street art reacts to the doctrine of authority through permanent surveillance. For her, it subverts neoliberal urban development policies and resists video surveillance of the urban public space, because “street art looks back” by reacting and ironically commenting on the presence of cameras. Further, it challenges traditional ways of seeing and opposes the “scopic regime” of perspectivism (see chapter 6 on Caracas) through the lack of perspective and the necessity of participatory involvement by the spectator. In her opinion, it is resistance because “[t]his form of perception differs

64 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

significantly from the main visual systems in the city, which are mostly traffic signs and advertising” (Hoppe 2014: 262–63).

The Dimension of Time (T Level) The political meaning attributed to an image depends on the time of its production and reception. The time dimension thus matters in a twofold way: first, regarding the point in time (or, the date) (T1) that is the historical circumstances; and second, regarding the time period (T2) of its (ephemeral) existence and the ways it may be altered in the meantime. The general historical and sociopolitical cultural circumstances (e.g., the type of the government and the level of social conflict) in a society are central to finding out about the political meaning of an image and identifying power relations it might be directed against. Various cases indicate that street art becomes increasingly visible in times and areas with severe political conflict in which the medium reflects the dissent of the people. Most street art literature explores the role of this medium during a specific political crisis at a certain time. In this context, street art often seems to fulfill a commenting function allowing people to promptly react to contemporary developments, scandals, or other incidents. Given this direct channel for exchange at times of conflict, war, or revolution, “street art can be a means to inspire people, to energize them, to raise spirits and generate morale” (Chaffee 1993: 20). Moreover, the persistent repetition of visual messages over time (see quantity, M level) may help reaffirm a message and keep an issue present over the time of the crisis. However, although conflict seems to trigger street art’s appearance, it is not only applied in times of manifest conflict or violent struggle but also as a way to express general resistance against more permanent power relations or dominant ideas and practices of an era, such as capitalism, class divisions, religious dogmas, or gender roles (Awad et al. 2017: 162, 179). Consequently, images must be interpreted in a broader context of processes of social change. This commenting function leads us to the ephemeral nature of street art and the evolution of an image across time, which demonstrates the potentially dynamic character of street art through the temporal unfolding of a dialogue between painters, pedestrians, and authorities. In Egypt, for instance, images were repainted and slogans were rewritten (Naguib 2016: 61). Awad et al. illustrate such a time period of alterations as follows: For example, the message changed over time as the artist initially wrote: “I am among those who died a year ago and the killer was

Street Art as a Medium of Visual Political Communication

|

65

never prosecuted.” A year later the word “a year ago” was replaced by “two years ago,” then it was altered further by a pedestrian to “three years ago” expressing the continuity of the lack of justice. (Awad et al. 2017: 177) Another example of the visualization of resistance over time is the famous “Free Derry Corner” in the Catholic district of the Bogside in Derry, Northern Ireland, which has been repainted regularly since its origin in 1960 until today (Jarman 1998: 85). This mural clearly demonstrates that interventions may be ephemeral but can still have a lasting impact by serving as a more permanent canvas for political expression. Its history of visual modifications along political occasions across time make it a vivid example of how the dimension of time interrelates with the dimension of space: When the first barricades were erected in the Bogside in Derry, in January 1969, the act of excluding the forces of the state, was proclaimed by the slogan “You Are Now Entering Free Derry” painted on a gable wall in St Columb’s Street. By the time the painting was re-done, professionally, for the visit of the Home Secretary . . . it had become emblematic of communal attitudes and collective resistance. . . . Free Derry Corner has been established as the focal point for republican commemorations within the city: the annual Bloody Sunday Commemoration march terminates in a rally in front of the wall. . . . Although the barricades are long gone . . . Free Derry Corner remains a defiant public space. (Jarman 1998: 85) At the same time, the temporary quality of street art images is one of their most characteristic time-related features. Although they are made to survive even harsh weather conditions, they trivialize the idea of stability and permanence because their colors degrade, and they eventually disappear (Herrera and Olaya 2011: 114). However, a political character may be given less by natural degradation due to weather or natural erosion than in cases of human-made alterations or destruction over time. Positively speaking, this is exactly what constitutes its “democratic” character. As an Egyptian artist declares: “It is a very democratic process. I am doing it in the area where you live and you have the freedom to erase it just like I had the freedom to put it” (cited in Awad et al. 2017: 177). Street artists are aware of this natural cycle of creation and destruction, and most commonly accept it: “It’s mine and it’s yours—it belongs to everyone” (artist cited in Ryan 2017: 4). Given the opportunity to conserve temporary images with the help of photography, the change in the material dimension of a street art image enables both the

66 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

documentation of changes over time and a long-lasting duration and reception (see A level).

The Legal Dimension (L Level) Every historical era and every period of government shapes social life by its legislation. The legal dimension of an image is a twofold question: first, whether street painting is generally allowed by law (L1), and if so, under which circumstances (what, where, by whom); and second, whether a particular image is authorized (L2) or not. On the level of general legislation, various given rights and laws may affect both the act of painting and the image itself, ranging from property damage/vandalism, trespassing, and the right of assembly to the freedom of expression and the defamation of public officials. The abovementioned political conflicts demonstrate how in repressive authoritarian states, where political space is reduced, street art is a means to circumvent censorship, since it is one of the few channels to express political indignation. While street art may be an alternative medium in open pluralistic systems (with varying degrees of informal censorship), in nonpluralistic authoritarian states it turns into an underground medium aiming to keep the resistance alive (Chaffee 1993: 16). In this sense, it may be either the political content that is being legally restricted or the symbolic act of public expression as such: “The act symbolizes that a culture of resistance exists that dictators pretend to ignore. . . . If regimes did not believe ideas have an effect, then they would not worry about suppressing them; but they do believe” (Chaffee 1993: 30). Under informal censorship, by contrast, street art can illustrate the struggle between dominant media and alternative media, in which it competes with “commercial propaganda.” For instance, in postdictatorship Portugal, leftwing activists fought a law aiming to ban political street art. The activists considered this a trick that would provide the state with an excuse to eliminate only the critical messages and to get rid of this effective and inexpensive means of political communication for marginalized groups and the poor population. This way, the information monopoly of the state was enforced, and the authorities still accepted commercial wall-painting advertisements (Chaffee 1993: 24). Regardless of the regime type and legal restrictions of political expression, street art is most commonly affected by laws on property damage. Unauthorized painting is considered an act of vandalism and therefore a crime. The criminal offense of property damage is related to the question of where private space and private property ends and where public space and public property begins (Herrera and Olaya 2011: 100–101; Naguib 2016: 63). In

Street Art as a Medium of Visual Political Communication

|

67

1972 a New York government committee suggested that both the defacing of private property and the language used in graffiti was harmful to the public and the dwellers. In this context, unauthorized street art may be viewed as an act of resistance because it symbolically subverts law, disregards order, and puts things out of place (Cresswell 1992: 333, 336). As Banksy ironically summarizes the restrictions for street paintings and slogans: “If graffiti changed anything it would be illegal.”21 Seen from a different angle, however, the (often) illegalized status of street art seems to contribute to its political power. Brassaï (1960) tells us about an incident in China in 1957 when hundreds of thousands of Chinese started to critically comment on the Maoist regime by writing and pasting posters on the Chinese wall. In turn, the government tailored this to its own benefit by inviting the people to express their opinion in this way, probably aiming to take away the political power of dissent by replacing unauthorized expressions by authorized, official ones. Indeed, the appeal of the “forbidden” and the subversive might help explain why street art is perceived to be appropriated by powerful institutions, including both the political and the art establishment. For instance, from 1970 on, the city of New York invested millions of dollars to clean graffiti and arrest sprayers, while the Museum of Modern Art (MoMa) already exhibited pieces by particular writers and sold the pieces for up to $3,000 (Indij 2011: 11–12). The legal status of a particular image may affect its power as a potential expression of resistance as well. Counting with the authorization of the owner makes a decisive difference in the subversive character of an image (Naguib 2016: 63). At the same time, whether such an authorization can be acquired or not may depend on whether the property owners or the authorities agree with the political opinion of the artist. With regard to Northern Ireland after the partition in 1921, the police utilized the law to keep the Irish-Catholic population from painting their own murals, since it was considered a feature of Protestant popular culture (Jarman 1998: 84).

The Dimension of the Producers (P Level) The legal status of an image is closely linked to the question of who produced it. Regarding street art, it seems contradictory that all street art images inhabit the public space in apparent harmony, but some practices are clandestine and punishable by law, while others are state projects with considerable economic investments (Soneira 2016: 2). No doubt, the political character of a street art piece depends on the underlying interests and intentions of its producer. The notion of “producers” encompasses several actors involved in the production process: primarily, it

68 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

refers to the author (P1) who realized the image, be it an artist or an activist, or a hybrid “artivist,” an individual or a collective. In some instances, pieces are financed or even commissioned (P3) by other individuals or institutions, who might have an impact on the political meaning of the image. In such cases, it is central under which circumstances the producers collaborated, e.g., whether the artists were paid and the principals influenced the iconological content of the piece. At times, the production of an image is accompanied by a performative framework (P2), which helps contextualize the intentions of the producers, e.g., when painting during a political demonstration or as part of a commercial event. There is a large variety of street art producers. Through its competitive and nonmonopolistic character, this communication medium is accessible to producers regardless of their ideological orientation. Given this broad political scope—ranging from Marxists to fascists, from civil society groups and political parties to governments and enterprises—it must be asked what makes this “less sophisticated, low-technology medium” so attractive for governments, collectives and individuals alike (Chaffee 1993: 9).22 Street art can be a medium of both collective and individual expression. With regard to muralism, Castellanos (2017) considers a participatory production to be key for making murals a tool of resistance, why the degree of ownership by the local community is a crucial point. Whereas “communitarian muralism” describes the participation of the (local) community in the painting of a mural that was designed by an artist, “collective muralism” means that the community itself develops a motif independently from a single artist, who might only facilitate the process in a technical way. On the other hand, street art is regarded participatory due to the dialogical character of its production. As a Cairo-based artist says: “It created a dialogue. People stop and ask us while drawing ‘what do you mean by this’ and a dialogue starts. And this is more important than the painting itself ” (cited in Awad et al. 2017: 176). These views demonstrate that, in counterpoint to the paternalistic role of the artist as a “genius,” the producer of collective works may be the “popular subject” (Soneira 2016: 9). In some cases, individual participants even remain anonymous in order to avoid drawing any attention or fame away from the collective. However, such anonymity is more often due to expected legal consequences, especially when it comes to politically motivated images. And yet, the social authority of the author may influence the impact of the image and its political message. Artists with a high reputation attract media attention, as demonstrated by the popular international street artists who painted on the West Bank Barrier, including Banksy, JR, Swoon, and BLU (Perry 2007: 73).

Street Art as a Medium of Visual Political Communication

|

69

Despite the advantages that the producer’s acknowledged social position may entail, the political potential of street art is commonly considered to lie in its affordability and accessibility for marginalized groups. This marginalization often takes place along racialized differences. This is illustrated by New York graffiti by African American or Puerto Rican youngsters in the 1970s, including the famous artist Jean-Michel Basquiat and his SAMO© (“same old shit”) colleague Al Diaz (Haring 1988), or protest murals painted by the marginalized Chicano population in the United States (Reed 2005). Drawing upon the concept of “excommunication” in Latin America, Ryan identifies several reasons for such exclusionary technologies to “distance certain actors and groups from meaningful political dialogue” (Ryan 2017: 14). This includes marginalization of particular groups as part of colonial legacy, stark income inequalities, and violent oppression of political dissent. In her comparative study, she explores how street art can enable political agency to express resistance to “excommunication” and concludes: From indigenous peoples in Bolivia and anti-dictatorship activists in Brazil to the mothers of the disappeared in Argentina, street art has offered voice and prominence to groups that have been “excommunicated” from political processes by raced, gendered and socio-economic hierarchies, repression and fear. (Ryan 2017: 140) The empowering effect of street art may enable political agency. However, given the (often subtle) control of the street art sector, it sounds almost naïve when Chaffee, in the early 1990s, claims that “there is universal access, and the real control over messages comes from the social producers” (Chaffee 1993: 4). Yet, the visual presence of certain topics and actors may help keep groups in front of the public eye that have gotten less attention in media discourse, thus allowing them to maintain a certain level of hope regardless of their actual chances to succeed. At the same time, a social movement perspective reveals that not only the “outcome” or the product itself may strengthen political agency but also the act or process of producing an image. Already the affective quality of expressing oneself and being part of an active, collective body may foster the reimagining of the producers as political subjects through converting negative feelings of political frustration into positive ones (Ryan 2017: 55, 141–42). Illustrating this feeling of agency and collective belonging, an artist during the Egyptian revolution stated: “I don’t know how to throw rocks or raise my voice and I don’t have a weapon so I go to draw” (cited in Awad et al. 2017: 167).

70 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

However, the focus on marginalized producers shall not obscure the ambivalences the dimension of production entails, because “yesterday’s marginal groups may be tomorrow’s influential ones” (Chaffee 1993: 5). In situations in which former powerless groups gain state power and become the government, street art is appealing for the new officials who often keep stressing a collective consciousness and claiming to represent the interests of the oppressed. Particularly in Latin American politics, traditions of populist mobilization styles require from politicians to address the population directly on the streets and in the barrios. Therefore, this medium is especially important for political groups who aim to maintain an image of a popular, collective sense—while the term “image” can be understood in its double sense of visual image (i.e., pictures) or political marketing. Consequently, producers ranging from Marxists and unionists to fascists particularly target working-class areas, “all seeking to speak for and represent workers” (Chaffee 1993: 25). Besides state institutions, there are also commercial players investing in street art production, often combined with performative frameworks. Metropolises have discovered street art as a tool for branding, and they present themselves as promoting art and a creative urban environment. In Istanbul, for instance, street art advertisement and PR campaigns are booming, commissioned by companies that sponsor hip-hop events and use graffiti and stencils for guerilla marketing; even shopping centers organize indoor graffiti events (Aksel and Olgun 2015: 182–83). Sponsored street art festivals have become a common occasion for municipalities to arrange walls and invite international artists, thus enacting a strategy to get public attention and positive publicity (Naguib 2016: 76; Tuttolomondo 2017: 86). However, companies and authorities tend to prefer decorative street art to political content for branding the city and advertising their products. Critiques often suspect sponsorship to integrate street art into the capitalist consumer market and “tame” it through a certain self-censorship (Aksel and Olgun 2015: 182). The case of the Egyptian uprising illustrates this constant negotiation between street artists and activists and the authorities: This interest may persuade all involved to find a modus vivendi. . . . As often happens in similar political situations, the authorities may become more accommodating towards “rebellious” artists and try to placate them by allowing them to practice their art within certain limits and under the somewhat lenient control from relevant ministries. . . . Conversely, the artists may agree to conform to some form of censorship and to the images of post-orientalist, rebellious Arab artists that circulate in Western countries, or at least to negotiate with these representations . . . (Naguib 2016: 76–77)

Street Art as a Medium of Visual Political Communication

|

71

At first sight, state-sponsored murals often seem merely decorative and thus bear the risk of a (neoliberal) depoliticization. But yet they may reproduce nationalist values and highlight historical achievements by the state in a more subtle way, and thus, in the end, they still serve the interest of their sponsors (Soneira 2016: 4). In sum, a closer look at the producers of street art helps understand its alleged authenticity and explain its continuous use by manifold social actors with what Chaffee calls the “credibility factor.” Since high-technology mainstream media is controlled by the dominant elite and partly by the state as well, it lacks credibility. Street art comes along with a certain “street credibility” because it seems to record an alternative historical memory and political vision and thus symbolize subcultures and resistance (Chaffee 1993: 162). However, we must take into account that Chaffee’s view on street art reflects the media landscape in the early 1990s, when there were (almost) no online media and street art was only beginning to be commodified.

The Dimension of Audiencing (A Level) The political impact of an image depends on the reception and meaning-making by the audience. Ideally, street art is effective by raising political awareness and social consciousness, because it draws the spectators’ attention to political issues, groups, or claims and may contribute to the acknowledgment of citizens or the government. There are several elements to the dimension of active audiencing (see chapter 1), which involves both the circulation of an image and reactions by the audience: first, social responses by the local community (A1) ranging from support over opposition to indifference; second, political reactions by authorities (A2) and state institutions (e.g., censorship through whitening, criminal persecution, or other forms of repression); third, economic utilization (A3), for instance, commodification and political neutralization by the art market; and fourth, media attention (A4) on the local, national, or international level, which is closely connected with the producers’ own dissemination of the image, e.g., via online (social) media. Visual communication is a social act and thus—beyond the original producers—involves several social actors. Looking at the Egyptian example, the interaction between street artists and the audiences may have even been regarded as a trigger for social change. This mode of action and reaction documents a dialogue between the painters, the authorities, and pedestrians in an exchange of responses to the sociopolitical changes (Awad et al. 2017: 162).23 At the same time, this example illustrates what I earlier discussed under the concept of “prosumers” and Hall’s circular model of communication

72 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

(see chapter 1): the dimension of production (P level) and audiencing (A level) can only be differentiated for analytical reasons, because what is here considered the audience (e.g., authorities or pedestrians) may turn into (re) active (re)producers. Regarding the response by the local social community, both local dwellers and pedestrians in the city space may feel affected by an image, as they are their primary natural audience. The local community is an important audience for political mobilization. Street art paintings may foster social interaction and organization, communication, and a sense of community, as an Egyptian artist declares: “It gave me the ability to talk to very ordinary people, illiterate, poor, and homeless people. You can’t talk to them through exhibitions in the Opera House” (cited in Awad et al. 2017: 172). For the French stencil artist Blek le Rat, the value of street art lies in its open accessibility by a wide audience: “My stencils are a present introducing people to the world of art, loaded with a political message. This movement is the democratization of art: if the people cannot come to the gallery, we bring the gallery to the people!” (cited in Mathieson and Tápies 2012: 28). However, besides positively reacting and supporting the painting activity or even the message of the content itself, pedestrians may also react negatively. They may either disagree with the political content or perceive it as an act of anarchism, or they may find it incomprehensible and doubt that it reaches a wider audience. In a famous anecdote from his painting sessions on the West Bank barrier, Banksy illustrates the ambivalences he felt as a foreigner intervening in a local community by recounting a dialogue with a man walking by: “Old man: You paint the wall, you make it look beautiful. Me: Thanks. Old man: We don’t want it to be beautiful, we hate this wall, go home” (Banksy 2005: 142). Beyond oral critique, both support and rejection may also entail direct actions, such as joining political events and offering protection for the artists but also destroying their works or attacking the artists personally (Awad et al. 2017: 172–73). Although the mobilization of the local community may play a central role in the success of (visual) resistance, many scholars focus on the political responses by the authorities, be it on the local or the national level. In revolutionary Egypt the local communities became angry when the authorities censored critical messages, and their reaction thus unintentionally helped reinforce the power of the messages (Awad et al. 2017: 168). In general, the ability to evoke responses can be seen as an indicator of street art’s effectiveness: “If there is resistance-oriented street art, and if governments try to repress it, then it must be effective in some way” (Chaffee 1993: 30). One possible way to react to street art is aiming to prevent it. The most obvious tool that is exclusively reserved for state institutions to combat street

Street Art as a Medium of Visual Political Communication

|

73

art is drafting new laws (see L level). Another measure is urban surveillance of the public space and use of other technologies from the military sector that have entered the realm of urban policing. This includes video cameras, razor wires, GPS locators, acoustic and smell sensors that detect spray can emissions, and drones to prosecute sprayers (Hoppe 2014: 261). Despite these high-technology measures, in most instances, the authorities react by simply erasing or overpainting street art images. Mona Abaza stresses that the “war” between artists and professional “whiteners” of the regime impacted the dynamic of the Egyptian revolution because street art and other visual media proved to put pressure on the military junta (Abaza 2012: 125, 138). Although the erasure of street art is commonly justified by general reasons of order and tidiness, artists and activists often suspect a targeted censorship of certain (political) content. In the words of a Cairo-based artist: “Authorities erase for political reasons. Not for cleanliness. If it was for cleanliness they would paint over it nicely but they just erase it with spray too . . . they just erase statements that frustrate them” (cited in Awad et al. 2017: 169). At times, such reactions by the authorities may result in a dialogue of sarcastic comments on erased images, like “Congratulations on the new paint” or “Erase again and I will paint again” (Awad et al. 2017: 176). Besides these interactions, which may even carry a humorous potential, there are also severe measures, including fines, criminal persecution, imprisonment, or even lethal measures. Cases have occurred in Belfast that represent this spectrum, where painters have been sentenced to six months in prison for painting an Irish flag and a police officer shot dead a sixteen-yearold teenager painting a republican slogan (Jarman 1998: 81). However, not all audiencing results in criminalization or destruction. On the contrary, the reaction may be to label the images as art and attract positive publicity and tourists with the help of this seemingly “hip” or “subversive” means of expression. As mentioned above (see P level), authorities, companies, or civil society organizations organize festivals and call for public tender to beautify streets and districts and foster tourism (Soneira 2016: 2; Tuttolomondo 2017: 86). While such measures exclusively support authorized, “legal” graffiti culture, guided street art tours for tourists draw the audience’s attention to different forms found on the street, including unauthorized pieces. Some might say that economically benefiting from the artists’ work without asking for permission or sharing the profits with them is basically “stealing” the value of street art (Bengtsen 2014: 416). Additionally, reproductions of street art images are sold in souvenir shops, printed on everyday items ranging from postcards and coffee cups to even refrigerator magnets. However, as the case of “wall tourism” in Bethlehem illustrates,

74 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

such products and activities may not be “big business” but rather generate a small income for the locals affected by the conflict (Bogerts 2016: 517). Beyond the tourist sector, such economic profit is also made in art economies. Ambivalences may arise from the diverse reactions, in which unauthorized graffiti is prosecuted by the authorities, whereas authorized street art is hailed as symbolizing subversive artistic spirit and the creative mind. On the one hand, incorporating street art (or copies of it) into the gallery sector may indeed help artists generate income or even make a living from their art, thus having a positive effect. On the other hand, the conservation in the “white cube” transforms it into private commodities and sacrifices the aura of the original (Naguib 2016: 63).24 Art activities such as festivals and exhibitions enable artists to travel and disseminate their messages to a broader audience. Besides the artist’s personal career opportunities arising from this audience beyond the local level, the Arab uprising demonstrated that crisis-related street art attracts worldwide media attention. In this case, the “bloggersphotographers-journalists-graffiti hunters” (Abaza 2012: 4) prove that street art images had an effect on the international perception of the protests. In this view, unauthorized political images may even have a greater appeal to the media, especially when reporting on manifest (violent) conflicts. Street art images operate as tools to communicate protest goals and to mobilize people on different geographic levels. Murals transcend the local community audience and seek to address the wider society (Jarman 1998: 87). The popularity of well-known artists may contribute to how a political conflict is perceived by the international audience. In the case of the West Bank Barrier, paintings by Banksy and other famous artists in Bethlehem raised awareness of the asymmetrical power struggle between the Palestinians and Israeli authorities, reaching less politicized audiences as well: “That ability to challenge Israel’s narrative and to influence the Western public’s perception of the wall and the broader conflict is as rare as it is invaluable” (Perry 2007: 73). The documentation of digital photographs via online networks and social media platforms makes street art visible on a transnational scale. Electronic devices enable a rapid circulation and a global diffusion of uploaded images. It allows both producers and viewers to become “global citizens,” even those who barely leave their neighborhoods or cities (Soneira 2016: 2). In the words of the street artist Bahia Shehab from Egypt: Our work gets erased very quickly on the street. That’s why TV and the Internet are very useful tools—you can communicate your messages in the digital sphere. That’s the game-changer now. The government can resist you, it can try to hide what you try to com-

Street Art as a Medium of Visual Political Communication

|

75

municate, but it’s a completely different ballgame now. (cited in Naguib 2016: 63) Finally, both the surveyed literature and my own work demonstrate that academic attention is a form of audiencing as well. In this perspective, research itself and subsequent publications may contribute to the increasing popularity of political graffiti as a research topic.

Interim Conclusion The surveyed literature gave a first impression of how street art expresses visual resistance and what constitutes the (alleged) aesthetics of resistance. Ordering the existent research along the seven dimensions of my analytical framework allowed for illustrating concrete characteristics with more analytical clarity. In summary, on the iconological level (I level), street art might visualize representations and narratives about politics and history that offer an alternative to the dominant discourse by the elite and the mainstream media and thus interrupt hegemonic regimes of visibility. While its material resistance potential (M level) lies in its apparently free accessibility and cost-effectiveness (giving it a certain credibility and authenticity), its low-technology forms may still compete with the visibility of commercial or state propaganda because of multiple repetition (stencils) or large sizes (murals). Through its spatial presence (S level), street art may politicize, reclaim, and occupy urban space that was formally dominated by the authorities or by commercial interests, raise awareness of a certain local target group, and disrupt the social order by its notion of disorder. Additionally, it allows for directly commenting on current political circumstances, debates, and crises at a given time (T level), for unfolding a temporal dialogue between different actors. This way, it provides a barometer of current political problems and opinions in a society. Regarding the legal dimension (L level), unauthorized interventions symbolize disrespect for the legal order, for private property and the legal division into authorized and unauthorized content, producers, and areas. The diverse range of producers (P level) potentially integrates marginalized groups and offers opportunities to enhance collective identification and political agency, regardless of the producers’ actual social authority or the political effect of the images. Finally, street art images may attract the attention of various audiences (A level), including political decision-makers and the media. It may sensitize and mobilize specific constituencies and the wider public and circulate voices of resistance for a transnational audience beyond linguistic borders.

76 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

However, while these potentials sound as if street art was an ideal means of resistance, this chapter also highlighted the medium’s ambivalences and entanglements with rule. For instance, images might seem to express an alternative or even subversive message in their content (I level) or by their material aura of “street credibility” given by the use of aerosol spray, inter alia (M level). But this may obscure the interests of the authorities or commercial players that sponsored their production (P level). Similarly, images may visualize marginalized groups in public space, and they may even be produced by these groups themselves as self-representations (P level) but still reproduce stereotypes or misrepresent these groups on the iconological level. Another ambivalence is demonstrated in cases where the authorities provide space for allegedly “free” artistic expression (S level/L level) but only permit selected producers to paint there (P level). Similarly, the economic and touristic attention for street art (A level) may contribute to its banalization and neoliberal depoliticization. In conclusion, street art’s seemingly subversive aura and bottom-up aesthetics of resistance and thus its imaginary disruption of “the authoritarian aesthetic with free forms of expression and play” (Ryan 2017: 141) are prone to be utilized by powerful actors, who aim to legitimize their top-down politics with a certain touch of bottom-up aesthetics. The following chapter will reveal if this applies to street art in my own case study as well.

Notes 1. For the use of graffiti by the Situationist International, see Marcus (2006: 6, 17) and Worth (2013: 40). 2. However, some take into account the visual content of the images as well, such as Herrera and Olaya (2011) and Ryan (2015). 3. Another reason for excluding posters and adbusting is that both techniques count with an own strand of research, examining it as an independent form of artistic political communication (for adbusting, see, e.g., Andersson 2012: 575; Haiven 2007; for political posters, see e.g., King 2015; Maasri 2009). 4. For urban gardening “between green resistance and ideological instrument,” see Baudry and Eudes (2016). 5. The term urban art may be more adequate for works that stylistically refer to street art or graffiti but are exhibited in museums or galleries. However, other authors understand the term urban art to incorporate outdoor images as well (e.g., Hoppe 2014) or to include both authorized and unauthorized works (while, for them, street art refers to unauthorized works only) (e.g., Blanché 2015: 38). 6. An interesting term was coined by Javier Abarca (2011), who distinguishes “official public art” from “independent public art” (including street art).

Street Art as a Medium of Visual Political Communication

|

77

7. Although I call it the “legal status,” I prefer the terms “authorized” or “unauthorized” instead of “legal” or “illegal,” because the latter carries normative connotations and obscures the human-made character of law. For further elaboration on the notions “illegal” versus “self-authorized,” see Blanché (2015). 8. Graffiti writing, in turn, is said to go back thousands of years to the tradition of people leaving marks by sketching into surfaces (Greek = graphein). This ancient graffiti is often connected with the history of pharaonic Egypt, Ancient Greece, and the Roman Empire (Naguib 2016: 59). 9. This version is reflected in the concept of “post-graffiti” as developed in the 2000s, which aimed to differentiate street art from graffiti and is still applied in academic literature (e.g., Gabbay 2013). The term post highlights that, first, similar techniques and materials are used (Herrera and Olaya 2011: 100; Blanché 2015: 33) and, second, many of today’s street artists have a biographic background as graffiti style writers. However, as this wording implies that graffiti “is somehow a thing of the past” (the artist D*Face, cited in Reinecke 2007: 16), and some even use it to describe graffiti art on canvas (Araya López 2014: 32, 76), this concept is not useful for my work. 10. For further elaboration, see Bogerts (2018: 233–40). 11. Interestingly, with regard to New York City graffiti of the early 1970s, Jean Baudrillard (1974) identifies its resistance against the maintenance of public order through a “semiocracy” (the rule of signs) exactly in their apparent meaninglessness. While he apparently did not recognize that they were anything but meaningless and only addressed a specific audience that was able to read them, he rather referred to written tags, which I do not take into account here. 12. For a memory-focused perspective on the Northern Irish conflict, see Rolston (2010). 13. For the representation of women in political murals in Northern Ireland, see Rolston (2017). 14. For stencils, see Indij (2011). For posters, see Awad et al. (2017: 174) and Chaffee (1993: 7). 15. One famous example is Bahia Shehab’s project A Thousand Times No. As the artist started her work on the streets of Cairo but later exhibited in galleries and museums, this piece demonstrates the interconnectedness of the material dimension with the dimensions of space and audiencing; see http://edition.cnn.com/style/article/ba hia-shehab-arabic-thousand-times-no-unesco/index.html (retrieved 28 July 2020). 16. The authors draw both on Rancière’s “distribution of the sensible” (see chapter 1), and on Jaques Derrida’s (1993) thoughts on graffiti. 17. For a material culture perspective on street art, see Naguib (2016: 55). 18. The concept of the “wall” is also used by Banksy, who in the title of his book Wall and Piece (Banksy 2005) ironically comments on street art’s involvement in political struggle by alluding to Leo Tolstoy’s War and Peace. 19. Street art is commonly considered an urban phenomenon. No doubt, its political meanings in rural areas are often overlooked. However, street art as a visual communication medium employed by the EZLN in Mexico and by other rebel groups and movements in rural areas are occasionally mentioned in research publications (e.g.,

78 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

20.

21. 22. 23.

24.

for the Chicano mural movement, see Reed 2005; for street art in Oaxaca, Mexico, see Kastner 2011). However, after the fall of the Berlin Wall, graffiti appearing on the Eastern side was hailed as a symbol of freedom, democracy, and capitalist lifestyle, “springing up next to McDonald’s and the polling booth” (Cresswell 1992: 336). Banksy stencil in London, 2011, see https://www.stencilrevolution.com/banksy-artprints/if-graffiti-changed-anything/ (retrieved 29 July 2020). Chaffee answers this question by proposing sixteen explanatory motivating factors (see Chaffee 1993: 9–20). Coming from social movement studies, the authors build on Ivana Markova’s (2003) “person-alter-object” triad for social change. Another model of protest communication is Dieter Rucht’s triad of protestors/supporters, the authorities, and the wider audience (Rucht 2015: 284), which Marija Stanisavljevic (2016) applies to visual protest repertoires. On the “aura” of the artwork in the age of technical reproduction, see also Benjamin ([1935] 2002).

Chapter 3

Setting the Scene Street Art in Latin American Urban Space

Political spheres are shaped by struggles over discursive hegemony, meaningmaking, and visibility. Visual political communication is one of the means to fight out these struggles. The following chapters aim to grasp how street art images serve as resistance in Latin American urban hubs and to identify their entanglement within power structures. Which narratives and truth claims shape the public imagery of Buenos Aires, Caracas, Mexico City, and Bogotá? Which strategies of persuasion and meaning-making do social actors employ to bring across their claims, legitimize themselves, foster social identification and mobilization, and convince the assumed audience on the streets? How do other people perceive and maybe even react to this imagery? Which spaces allow for what to be made visible, and how? And who is, in turn, made invisible? Which political actors, claims, and constructions does street art discourse make visible and how? In the following, I will first elaborate on my thematic focus that aimed to limit the scope of examined photo material: anti-imperialism in the Latin American context. Subsequently, I analyze the photo material from the four cities of Buenos Aires (chapter 4), Mexico City (chapter 5), Caracas (chapter 6), and Bogotá (chapter 7). For each city I will proceed in two steps: First, a general analysis allows the discovery of discursive patterns of representation and visibilities with the help of the content analysis (on the I level). Elaborating on some of the most frequently depicted visual elements in the respective city, I will provide a general view of the situation in all the analytical dimensions. Second, I will choose one image per city to interpret more profoundly in the detailed analysis, examining specific stories, narratives, symbols, and actors. Some of the key photos I refer to are clustered in the figures indicated in brackets. Further photo material is provided on the accompanying homepage (https://www.berghahnbooks.com/gallery/BogertsAesthetics) and referred to as “see photo x/HP” (= homepage). In the detailed analyses, I widen the primary body of data (my photo database) by further material following intervisual references. While the detailed analyses in the next three chapters start with my interpretation right away, the seventh chapter (on Bogotá) illustrates how to do a detailed analy-

80 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

sis in a more methodologically rigid way, structured along the seven analytical dimensions. The images selected for detailed analysis differ with regard to their producers. Whereas in Buenos Aires I examine a mural painted by various independent artists and art collectives who identify with a political party (that was in the opposition at the time the image was painted), in Caracas, the artists cooperated with the governing party. In Bogotá I will look at an artwork by an entirely independent individual artist, and in Mexico City, the mural of interest is a collective expression by a genuinely militant resistance group.1 Before I turn to these cases of political street art in Latin America, I briefly explain what I mean when I focus on images commenting on (neo-)imperialism in a broader sense.

Thematic Focus: Anti-imperialism in Latin America Latin America has a rich and multifaceted tradition of political street art. Since street art is traditionally employed by a broad variety of political actors, many producers are entangled in power structures to varying degrees: Street art is not the exclusive preserve of a democratic civil society. However, it has often given unique forms of voice to those groups excommunicated from political processes by racial and socioeconomic hierarchies, repression and fear. It has played an important role in fostering a more inclusive and democratic politics, by bringing new actors into the field, facilitating claim-making. (Ryan 2017: 21) Clearly, no city is “representative” for Latin America as a whole.2 Generalizing from a few cities to the whole area—ranging across two continents from Patagonia to the Mexican border with the United States—would ignore the diverse historical and cultural backgrounds and sociopolitical circumstances of the diverse regions. Therefore, I enrich the variety within the analysis by taking into account four locations: the capital cities Bogotá (Colombia), Caracas (Venezuela), Buenos Aires (Argentina), and Mexico City (Mexico).3 No doubt, the vivid street art scene in the selected cities comes as a big advantage. At the same time, this ubiquity may lead to a huge amount of empirical data, and I simply could not document every single (seemingly) political street art image on the walls of these megacities. Therefore, the data material needs to be limited by the thematic scope of the images, which is visible in the images’ iconography. Consequently, as outlined in the in-

Setting the Scene

|

81

troduction, I examine street art referring to (neo-)imperialism in the context of North-South relations. In fact, this thematic focus seems promising because, given Latin America’s history, resistance against (neo-)imperialist cultural and economic dependency has a long tradition. Concerning Latin American “aesthetics of resistance,” Luis Camnitzer (2009) highlights that both the visual arts and political groups and programs are still shaped by the colonial experience. This includes street art, in which it is still observable how the imperial experience impacted visual cultures of resistance (Ryan 2017: 7). So what does anti-imperialism “look like”? Given the flood of visual material in the public space, I next provide an operationalization of antiimperialism that guided my decisions of which street art material to include in the analysis.4 In doing so, I neither intend nor claim that I can do justice to the rich body and manifold strands of (anti-)imperialism literature on and, most importantly, from Latin America. Rather, I map some of the key aspects to illustrate what I mean by imperialism in my case study. The term imperialism is derived from the Latin word imperium, which means sovereignty or rule. For Edward Said, imperialism is the “practice, the theory and the attitudes of a dominating metropolitan center ruling a distant territory,” or more broadly, it “describe[s] any system of domination and subordination organized with an imperial center and a periphery” (Said 1993: 9). Neo-Marxist theories as developed by Rosa Luxemburg ([1925] 1999) or Vladimir Lenin ([1917] 2010) point out that the European colonial expansion was caused by the maldistribution of income within Europe. After the term imperialism came into fashion in the 1870s, the opponents of imperialism particularly gained visibility during the high imperialist era between the end of the nineteenth century and the 1930s (Pita González and Marichal Salinas 2012; Quijano 2014: 366, 412–13, 420). To distinguish this historical era from more recent forms of (informal) dominations over distant territories, several concepts of “post,” “neo,” or “new imperialism” have been developed.5 However, given the particularities of my regional focus, in this chapter I concentrate on understandings of (neo-)imperialism and its counterforces in the Latin American context. Some Latin American scholars observe that the category of anti-imperialism has been revitalized in both political and academic debate since the 2000s. This rhetoric either refers to classic anti-imperialist discourse from the nineteenth century or to more current developments that have updated and enriched the existent ideological-cultural tradition between the 1920s and the 1960s (Kozel et al. 2015: 9). Given Latin America’s early independence from colonial rule in the wake of the nineteenth century, its postcolonial experiences differ from those of other regions in the Global South.

82 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

According to Alexandra Pita González and Carlos Marichal Salinas (2012: 9), the persistence of anti-imperialism as a banner for popular and populist movements in twentieth-century Latin America originates in the historical conscience of numerous countries that have been victims of external military invasions and political interventions for a long time. Since this external domination by imperialist powers continued after formal independence, the topic of imperialism has a privileged position in the debates about Latin American identity. Reflections on “the Other” (Yankee, gringo, etc.) have played an important role for the conception of “the Self,” may it be called Latino, Hispanic, or Ibero-American (Pita González and Marichal Salinas 2012: 9–10). With regard to anticolonial independence, antiinterventionist movements have most commonly been linked with patriotic projects of national sovereignty and the emergence of the nation-state. Although anti-imperialism is far from being a general attitude shared by the whole Latin American population, it is able to integrate various ideologies in a discourse with a huge symbolic value for a diverse range of social groups (Kozel et al. 2015: 13–14, 16). In the following, I derive specific aspects from the debate that may help identify anti-imperialist expressions in the streets of Latin American cities and that will serve as theme codes in the visual discourse analysis. Military interventionism: Latin American anti-imperialist voices commonly condemn any kind of external military intervention as a source of violence and as a threat to national sovereignty. The long tradition of US military intervention (e.g., the so-called Operation Condor during the Cold War) has been a traumatic part of Latin American history since the Monroe Doctrine in 1823. As Hardt and Negri underline, these politics officially aimed to “protect” America against European aggression or Communist influence, only to make the continent’s Southern part the infamous “backyard” of the North: “Yanqui politics is a strong tradition of imperialism dressed in anti-imperialist clothing” (Hardt and Negri 2000: 177–78). In the beginning of the twenty-first century, there were still countless US military bases in Latin America. While there is persistent opposition against the ongoing US occupation of Puerto Rico and Guantánamo Bay in Cuba, inter alia, the British occupation of the (formerly Argentine) Malvinas (or Falkland Islands) demonstrates that resistance is directed against European countries as well. Following Marco Consolo’s (2015) thoughts, anti-imperialism may as well appear in the critique of what he calls “low-intensity coups,” which replace open military aggression by more subtle military presence in the socalled War on Drugs or narcoterrorism in Colombia, Mexico, and other states. Land rights: One of the most traditional neo-imperial issues is the land question centered on territorial acquisition and resource extraction (Narayan

Setting the Scene

|

83

2017: 2485). It encompasses the privatization of land, the destruction of habitat, and the expulsion of natives and peasants (campesinxs) from their land by governments and multinational corporations. It is also closely interlinked with the problem of internal displacement and forced migration to already overcrowded cities. One of the most famous examples of struggles for land rights is the 1994 Zapatista rebellion led by Indigenous peasant groups in Southern Mexico. After the highly subsidized agribusinesses in the United States had driven down the global price of corn and other agricultural products, the EZLN started to openly resist the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA) and other oppressive policies by the Mexican government (Harvey 2003: 159–60). Another case in point is the Marxist guerilla group Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia—Ejército del Pueblo (FARC-EP), who fought the Colombian state (and the CIA) for over fifty years to reach territorial autonomy. Exploitation of natural resources and environmental destruction: The exploitation of natural resources has been a key narrative in anti-imperialist discourses, most famously expressed by the metaphor in the title of Eduardo Galeano’s Las Venas Abiertas de América Latina (Open veins of Latin America, 1973). Galeano’s critique of the (neo)colonial exploitation of precious metals and minerals like silver and gold and of agricultural products like sugar, cocoa, and coffee is still valid today. However, contemporary protest mainly refers to the exploitation, privatization, and environmental destruction of hydropower and water resources and in the mining sector, including gold and oil extraction. In addition, there is protest against the neoliberal ignorance of biodiversity, sustainability, and climate change, which manifests in “sacrified zones” in the Global South that are exploited to serve the economic growth of the Northern metropolises (Vara 2015: 103–4; Svampa 2010). Colonial legacy: Explicit references to historical colonialism are ubiquitous in the discourse on contemporary resistance against neo-imperialism. For example, the slogan “500 years of struggle” as derived from the subtitle of Galeano’s masterpiece is a common reference to the long tradition of resistance against (neo)colonial domination beginning in 1492 (Vara 2015: 98; Young 2001: 193; Cockcroft 2007: 267). Many movements see themselves in the tradition of historical personalities who fought for liberation or national independence, such as Emiliano Zapata, Simón Bolívar, or José de San Martín. Furthermore, the symbolic meaning of the nation-state—as a symbol for national independence from colonial rule—is a different one than in European nationalism (that is commonly conservative or right wing). Regarding postcolonial continuities, Cockcroft states: “There is an instinctive understanding that US imperialism has its roots in the British Empire and

84 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

stands as an inheritance of the overthrow of the Spanish Empire” (Cockcroft 2007: 267). Indigenismo: As political actions by the Mayan Zapatistas in Mexico and Mapuche groups in Chile and Argentina demonstrate, Indigenous resistance movements successfully employ identity and ethnicity as a strategical resource (Harvey 2003: 161, 174–75). Given the genocidal extermination and colonial subjugation under the White elites, native populations are still among the most vulnerable groups affected by ecological destruction, state crime, neoliberal adjustments, and other forms of neocolonial continuity. In turn, there is continuous popular resistance by many of the Indigenous peoples. Latin American Indigenous populations (as well as Black descendants of Africans displaced in the transatlantic slave trade6) are still underrepresented in public life and power positions, and many of the over five hundred different ethnic groups experience a threat against their cultural identity. At the same time, the neocolonial counterdiscourse of “500 years of struggle” against the exploitation of natural resources manifests in Indigenous struggles (Vara 2015: 98) and the revitalization of Indigenous systems of knowledge, partly expressed by concepts such as “mother earth” (pacha mama) or “the good life” (sumak kawsay in Quechua, suma qamaña in Aymara, buen vivir in Spanish). Class struggle, socialism, and communism: Anti-imperialist resisters may see themselves in the tradition of class struggle and identify with socialist or communist ideology. For Rosa Luxemburg, the general strike on May Day was an internationalist and anti-imperial tactic (Luxemburg [1925] 1999). Similarly, Aníbal Quijano sees Latin American politics in the global context of imperialist domination from a perspective of class struggle. Drawing on the classic Marxist anti-imperialists Víctor Raúl Haya de la Torre and José Carlos Mariátegui, he stresses that a revolutionary conscience of the working class is inevitably linked with a national democratization of the state and an anti-imperialist struggle (Quijano 2014: 514; 1974: 67). Class struggle comes into play when the domestic economic and political elite is criticized for benefiting from its alliance with the national state and multinational companies, in which it is nothing but “the weak junior partner” (Thorp 1985: 404). With regard to socialist rhetoric and imagery, for instance, the Venezuelan “socialism of the twenty-first century” may be an obvious reference in street art images. Free trade, financial dependency, and external debt: The critique of a global capitalist expansion often goes hand in hand with a critique of free trade and other neoliberal economic policies. While Latin American countries became increasingly dependent from international loans in the 1980s, they subsequently had to adhere to structural adjustment programs (SAP) by

Setting the Scene

|

85

the Bretton Woods institutions, the International Monetary Fund (IMF), and the World Bank. From then on, protest movements heavily criticized the requested adjustments to implement free market policies, deregulation, and the reduction of external trade barriers as a form of neo-imperialism. More specific consequences of this global dependence are the commodification of nature and basic social services as well as the privatization of public enterprises (Dello Buono and Bell Lara 2007: 2–4). Political groups, often related to the alter-globalization movement, oppose free trade and financial dependency because they undermine the countries’ sovereignty and control over their natural resources, the labor market, the health and education sector, and other public institutions. While protests against the Argentine debt crisis peaked in December 2001, the most common point of reference is the 1994 Zapatista rebellion against NAFTA. Another success in defeat of free trade agreements was the failure of the Free Trade Area of the Americas (FTAA; Spanish: Área de Libre Comercio de las Américas, ALCA) in 2005 by a leftist coalition led by Néstor Kirchner and Hugo Chávez, inter alia. Critique of capitalism and consumerism: Images criticizing global capitalism may express anti-imperialist resistance as well. In a Leninist understanding, imperialism is the highest stage of capitalism (Lenin [1917] 2010). It is one of the most central assumptions of Marxist thinking that capitalist expansion inevitably leads to imperialism (Hardt and Negri 2000: 221). David Harvey underlines this intrinsic relation of anti-capitalist and anti-imperialist struggles by civil society groups in Latin America (Harvey 2003: 169–74). Aníbal Quijano even went so far as to claim that “the central task of revolution in Latin America is the destruction of every social and political basis for the rule of international monopolistic capital” (Quijano 2014: 514). Thus, for him, revolutionary action for national sovereignty must have an antiimperialist and an anti-capitalist interest as well. In short, “the destruction of imperialist rule is the destruction of capitalist rule” (Quijano 2014: 530). No doubt, not all anti-capitalist expressions are automatically anti-imperialist. Still I took them into account during my photo collection. US domination: Anti-imperialist resistance often explicitly opposes the influence of the United States. While the power of the Bretton Woods institutions is commonly associated with US domination, the country has long been considered “the planet’s principal imperialist power” due to its control of powerful banks and corporations (Cockcroft 2007: 262). There is a long tradition of aggressive politics to back the businesses of US-based companies on Latin American soil, including the United Fruit Company (today: Chiquita), Coca-Cola, or the mining company Drummond Co. Protestors also heavily criticize the agribusiness and biotechnology corporation Monsanto for dominating the global market with its patents and transgenetic seeding

86 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

products (Harvey 2003: 56–57). According to Kozel et al., the high rate of anti-US sentiments in Argentina after the crisis in 2001 was due to the heavily disputed (predominantly US-based) “vulture funds” ( fondos buitre) (Kozel et al. 2015: 14), which led to an extraordinary wave of privatization. The United States is thus considered an emblematic crystallization of the dominant course of modernity, which is opposed in Latin American social imagery and slogans like “yanqui go home,” “AL-CArajo” (FTAA to hell), and “fuera buitres” (vultures out of here) (Kozel et al. 2015: 15). Besides economic domination, cultural imperialism through art or popular culture plays a role as well, since it is perceived to devaluate local or regional identity and traditions (Torres Arroyo 2013; Dorfman and Mattelart 1991). Latin American integration and solidarity: Since political struggles do not stop at national borders, in Latin America many movements promote a discourse of regional identity. This is based on the conscience of a common history of both early independence from (mainly Spanish) colonialism and a subsequent continuation of external intervention and imperial dependence (Pita González and Marichal Salinas 2012: 9). The racialized but often hybrid identities inherited by the colonial experience manifest in ideas like a distinct mestizo culture, of what the Cuban poet José Martí had called “Our America.” Similarly, after the formal independence, Simón Bolívar strived for realizing his vision of a united “great motherland” (patria grande). Taking up this narrative, in the early 2000s, Latin American cooperation against the neo-imperial influence was an integral part of regional organizations, such as the Union of South American Nations (Unión de Naciones Suramericanas, UNASUR) and the Bolivarian Alliance for the Peoples of Our America (Alianza Bolivariana para los Pueblos de Nuestra América, ALBA). Especially the latter aimed to weaken US hegemony and strengthen Latin American economic and political integration. Beyond institutionalized efforts, political groups often refer to other (historical or contemporary) Latin American emancipatory struggles and their “heroes,” including the EZLN in Mexico, Salvador Allende’s Socialist movement in Chile, or the Cuban Revolution (González Navarrete and García Alonso 2015; Kozel et al. 2015). Internationalist solidarity (with other resistance movements): In some instances, images may contain references not only to regional struggles but also to other political movements beyond the borders of Latin America. Regarding the “new imperial era,” Ignacio Ramonet (2007) thinks that the confrontation between social movements and neoliberal policies is not simply a question of “the rich” versus “the poor.” He rather considers it an antagonism between the Global North and the Global South. Internationalist ambitions of anti-imperialist struggles are closely interlinked with a narrative of South-South solidarity between the people of Southeast Asia, Africa,

Setting the Scene

|

87

and Latin America against the (neo)colonial domination, as articulated by Ernesto “Che” Guevara at the first tricontinental conference in Havana in 1966 (Young 2001: 194, 204–5). The narrative of South-South solidarity traditionally refers to either historical or contemporary resistance, for instance, in Palestine or the Vietnam War. Beyond the Southern Hemisphere, international solidarity may refer to liberation struggles by the Black Panthers in the United States or by movements in the Basque Country (Euskadi) for independence from Spain, inter alia.

Notes 1. All interviews were conducted in Spanish. When quoting from these interviews, I will provide my own English translation. 2. With regard to the geographical “research unit” and spatial scale of the empirical analysis, I decided to examine urban areas, and more particular capitals, because they are the hubs of political power and public discourse and thus concentrated spaces of the social struggle over visibility. By preferring certain cities to whole countries (e.g., “street art in Argentina”), I not only (geographically) limit the data to a reasonable scope but also avoid methodological nationalism, which risks considering nations to be coherent cultural “containers” (Kerner 2013: 2). 3. The selection is mainly due to regional variety. While Buenos Aires is the most southern capital of the region, Mexico City is the most northern one (located in the North American continent); while Bogotá is in the Andean region, Caracas is located on the Caribbean coast. In addition, although the political system is not a decisive “variable” in my research design, the different political circumstances at the time of my research (2016/17) enhanced the variety of forms. Whereas the conservative and neoliberal presidents of Colombia and Mexico were allies of the United States, the Venezuelan government was still positing its “socialism of the twenty-first century” despite the current crisis. In Argentina, the ultra-neoliberal government had replaced leftist Kirchnerism only shortly before. 4. For an overview of guiding questions for my image selection—which not only refer to (neo-)imperialism—see also my shooting script (in appendix A). 5. See, e.g., Quijano (2014); Moraña, Dussel, and Jáuregui (2008: 2); Hardt and Negri (2000); Harvey (2003); Young (2001: 201). 6. For the link between racialized global division of labor, capitalism, and imperialism (on the North American continent), see Narayan (2017: 2483–84), who draws on W. E. B. Du Bois’s (1903) and Frederick Douglass’s (1885) concept of the “color line.” See also Mirzoeff (2011: 16, 280).

Chapter 4

Buenos Aires “Latin America—Now or Never”

How are rule and resistance, confrontation and cooperation visualized in the streets of Latin American capitals? What does street art tell us about the entangled relation between power and resistance? Starting with the capital of Argentina, I will describe and analyze public imagery on the streets of the four cities of my case study. After a general analysis of all the street art in my database along the seven analytical dimensions, I will dedicate a section to a specific image example to illustrate my arguments with the help of visual discourse analysis.

Iconology In the streets of Buenos Aires, political imagery is ubiquitous.1 Among the most frequently depicted subjects in street art (indicator I1) (see table C.2) are the Argentine national colors, followed by different hand gestures, including the fist and the victory sign. Other frequent subjects are Indigenous persons,2 groups of anonymous persons, and portraits of particular victims, disappeared, imprisoned, or killed persons, such as political prisoners or desaparecidxs (disappeared) of the military dictatorships. Furthermore, many images depict representatives of the human rights group Madres de Plaza de Mayo (in short: Madres) or security personnel, including soldiers or police staff, or objects of nature such as stars or the sun. The most frequently appearing famous personality is ex-president Néstor Kirchner, followed by Eva (“Evita”) Perón (see illustration 4.1a). There are references to diverse themes of political discourse (indicator I2), above all to the (anti-)imperialism themes of indigenismo, Latin American integration and solidarity, as well as class struggle, socialism, and communism. The most frequent conceptual themes are “resistance” and “the people.” Finally, concerning general political themes, numerous images refer to a particular political party. Other common general political themes are state oppression, violence and corruption, and violent conflict or dictatorship,

Buenos Aires

|

89

a

b

Illustration 4.1a–b. (a) Mural depicting “resistance” in a scenario of confrontation; location: La Boca, Buenos Aires; producers: Lucas Quinto and others; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (b) Other side of the mural (see illustration 4.1a) depicting “rule” in a scenario of confrontation; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016.

90 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

primarily referring to the last Argentine military dictatorship between 1976 and 1983. The content analysis of colors used in street art images (indicator I5) shows that, on the one hand, the Argentine national colors are often combined with the geographic shape of the Malvinas (or Falkland Islands).3 Since the islands were occupied by the UK at the end of the military dictatorship in 1983, they are commonly associated with the struggle for national territorial sovereignty against neo-imperialist external forces and repeatedly depicted next to soldiers of the Argentine army (see illustration 8.4d) (see also Indij 2011: 162, 172).4 This is why such images are often accompanied by texts like “Ingleses, fuera de las Malvinas!” (English out of the Malvinas!) or other anti-UK sentiments (see e.g., illustration 4.4c). The narrative of the reclamation of the Malvinas is part of the so-called “K discourse” by the Kirchnerist governments (Gabbay 2013: 131). On the other hand, the national colors are repeatedly used to write names of political parties. In Argentina, wall paintings are a traditional means of promoting election campaigns.5 During my research stay (in late 2016), there were still numerous paintings remaining from the presidential election campaign in fall 2015.6 Traditionally, these paintings combine the candidate’s name (in 2015: “Scioli” and “Macri”), the number of the voting list, and a political slogan written in a specific set of colors, which is historically associated with the respective party. While the Argentine Socialist Party is represented in red and black, the colors of the broader historical movement of communism and socialism (Pater 2016: 76), the Peronist Party (Partido Justicialista, PJ), chose the combination of light blue and white— the Argentine national colors.7 Consequently, on the streets, the name of the Peronist candidate in 2015—(Daniel) Scioli—was commonly written in the national colors. By contrast, the name of the opposition candidate (and later president) Mauricio Macri was written in yellow. This demonstrates that, in its visual communication in public space, the Peronist Party is clearly employing a visual strategy of linking itself and its politicians with the nationalist project and the “motherland” (patria) itself. Furthermore, this strategic use of color, aiming to appeal to pedestrians “to join the cause,” is demonstrated by the combination of the national colors with portraits of Peronist politicians, such as Néstor Kirchner or “Evita” Perón. In these images, the deceased political leaders are presented as literally standing against the background of the national state, associating them with values such as political strength, pride, and national unity as well as the (anticolonial) independence and liberation struggle for national sovereignty. The Kirchners and Evita, the national colors, and the sun—which is often, but not exclusively, depicted as part of the Argentine national flag—are

Buenos Aires

|

91

repeatedly combined with the hand gesture of the victory sign (see photo 1/HP). Since both Néstor Kirchner and later president (and currently vice president) Cristina Fernández de Kirchner represent the Peronist party’s center-left faction called Frente para la Victoria (Front for Victory), the gesture of the V (victory) sign has become characteristic for their public appearance.8 Additionally, the V is commonly found in the combination “P/V,” sometimes accompanied by the corresponding hand gesture. During the first twelve years of Kirchnerist governments, this symbol turned into “K/V.”9 Some images draw parallels between the political couples of the Kirchners and the Peróns (both Néstor and Evita died tragically). For instance, two portraits of the Kirchners embracing each other resemble the iconic photo of the Peróns’ hug after one of Evita’s popular speeches from the balcony of the presidential palace Casa Rosada (for one of the images, see illustration 4.2a).10 These personalities and other related subjects are common motifs in Buenos Aires.11 As a popular Peronist cult figure, Evita’s portrait and name (“Evita vive,” etc.) is part of the party’s traditional repertoire of street slogans and images. Usually Evita is perceived a symbol particularly for the “underclass” and the “ties between masses and leaders” (Chaffee 1993: 114) or for female political action (Gabbay 2013: 134). The repeatedly depicted objects megaphone and microphone—drawing on the iconology of her speeches—strengthens the association with Evita as speaking both for and to the popular masses (see illustration 4.1a). The portrait of Néstor Kirchner, who passed away in 2010, is often recontextualized in humorous pop cultural contexts, for instance, as “TermiNestor” (drawing on the film The Terminator), or as immortal “Nestornauta” (drawing on the Argentine science fiction cartoon El Eternauta).12 The former president is represented in several images as a symbol of resistance. For example, a series of stencils on the occasion of the bicentennial of the independence in 2010 depicts him next to iconic personalities of Latin American resistance, such as the Argentine Marxist revolutionary Ernesto “Che” Guevara (see illustration 4.3b). In another image he appears next to Che, Evita, and the Incan anticolonial rebellion leader Tupac Amaru (see photo 2/HP). In one mural he is depicted next to a factory (symbolizing the working class), the Madres, and other civil society groups, while he is (literally) bursting the chains of the International Monetary Fund (Fondo Monetario Internacional, FMI) and the free trade agreement ALCA. In another, the defeat of ALCA is hailed by depicting Néstor Kirchner next to former Venezuelan president Hugo Chávez and the geographic shape of the Latin American continent. A similar example is the mural “ALCArajo!” (vulgar play on words saying: “FTAA, go to hell!”) that mem-

92 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

a

b

c

Illustration 4.2a–c. (a) Government-commissioned mural; location: National Ministry of Communication, Buenos Aires; producer: Colectivo Carpani; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (b) Spatial occupation of the main square; location: Plaza de Mayo, Buenos Aires; producer: Madres de Plaza de Mayo-Línea Fundadora; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (c) Mural of Discursos Murales; location: Centro/Monserrat, Buenos Aires; producer: Valeria Orfino; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016.

Buenos Aires

|

93

orizes the 2005 defeat of ALCA in the city of Mar del Plata, which was led by Néstor Kirchner and other left-wing presidents such as Hugo Chávez and Evo Morales.13 The depicted train, which is transporting different Latin American anticolonial heroes such as José de San Martín, symbolizes Kirchner’s (alleged) train ride from Buenos Aires to nearby Mar del Plata.14 Representation of anti-ALCA politics combine both the frequent themes of Latin American integration and solidarity and resistance. In one pro-Kirchner mural (that was later vandalized) we can see the Venezuelan bicentennial logo (see chapter 6 on Caracas; photo 1/HP). In some of the murals, the hand gestures of the victory sign and the fist are done by a group of anonymous persons. This common subject in Buenos Aires street art often goes hand in hand with the conceptual theme of “the people.” All these visual elements are combined in many of the murals produced by the project Discursos Murales,15 which invited various Argentine muralists to visually interpret famous speeches by historical personalities of the anti-imperialist Latin American liberation struggles (see photo 3/HP).16 These twenty-six murals in Buenos Aires depict, for instance, Salvador Allende’s socialist Unidad Popular government or Hugo Chávez’s defeat of US imperialism symbolized by an eagle with the US national colors, which is attacking a red star (see illustration 4.2c by Valeria Orfino). Numerous pieces reflect the common aesthetics of street protests. While “the people” demonstrating “resistance” often raise their fists, scream through megaphones, and wave flags and banners in some images, in others they also involve masked, disguised, or hooded persons who light tires or other objects on fire.17 Drawing on the iconic tradition from the December 2001 uprising at the peak of the Argentine financial crisis, they often make noise with pots and pans (e.g., photo 5/HP). These protests are sometimes visually linked with the commemoration of the state terror during the military dictatorship or the historical struggle for independence from Spanish colonial rule (e.g., photo 4/HP). Commonly “the people” are represented by members of diverse groups of society, such as the Madres or Indigenous persons, and recurrently workers, recognizable by their working helmets and tools (e.g., photo 4/HP). As such motifs are often accompanied by the symbolic leftist colors red and black, these images may be associated with class struggle, socialism, and communism (e.g., photo 5/HP).

Material Dimension As these examples demonstrate, murals are complex in their visual language and may encompass numerous visual elements and symbols due to their

94  |  The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

large size (indicator M2). In recent years, Buenos Aires got remarkable attention because of so-called gigantismo, the trend of huge wall paintings, commonly without (overtly) political content. One of these giant murals, depicting city life in the harbor district, was even said to be the world’s largest mural painted by a single artist (twelve hundred square meters).18 The artistic and material quality (indicator M3) of the pieces varies depending on whether the producers painted without authorization and thus in a hurry, on the material provided for the production, and on the artistic proficiency of the people involved.19 Apart from the murals, Buenos Aires is renowned for its stencil scene (indicator M1).20 The stencil technique has supposedly been introduced to Argentina already in the early 1930s by one of the great Mexican muralists, David Alfaro Siqueiros, to publicly visualize resistance against a military junta (Ryan 2017: 104). Particularly during the 2001 uprising, the use of this technique exploded, and “its interactions with citizens in their daily lives produced a change in perception, encouraging both dialogues and understanding” (DOMA 2011).21 Although stencils are commonly smaller than murals, they efficiently spread a motif across the city, and their repetition enforces its presence in the urban space. Some of the most frequent stencils in my photo database are the abovementioned images of Néstor Kirchner with other left-wing public figures, such as Che Guevara (see illustration 4.3b) or with the left-wing former Uruguayan president José Mujica. Other repeated stencils criticize thenpresident Macri (holding a gun) for the increase of electricity rates (so-called tarifazo), with the slogan “Macri corazón de petroleo” (Macri heart of petrol), or with the English slogan “Macri go home” (while the “M” is written in the style of the US fast food company McDonald’s) (see illustration 4.3e). Other series of recurring stencils contain slogans and logos of US companies Nike (illustration 4.3f ), Warner Bros. (illustration 4.3g), or Reebok (illustration 4.3h). With regard to the material dimension, another notable case is the artist Jaz, who paints murals using material from the streets such as soil, coal, and mud to raise awareness for scarce natural resources and waste in urban society.22

Space On my research trip to Buenos Aires, I visited districts that are known for their vivid street art scene, which varied widely regarding their socioeconomic level (indicator S2). I documented pieces in the middle-class residential areas Villa Urquiza/Gral. Urquíza, Chacarita, Colegiales, and Coghlan in the north

a

b

d

e

c

f

h g

Illustration 4.3a–h. (a) Stencil “Vultures out”; location: Avenida de Mayo, Buenos Aires; producer: unknown; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (b) Overpainted bicentennial stencil with Néstor Kirchner and “Che” Guevara; location: Avenida de Mayo, Buenos Aires; producer: unknown; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (c) Stencil “No more trafficking”; spatial occupation of the Congress building; location: Plaza de Mayo, Buenos Aires; producer: unknown; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (d) Stencil “Obama out!”; location: Avenida de Mayo, Buenos Aires; producer: unknown; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (e) Stencil “Macri go home”; location: Avenida de Mayo, Buenos Aires; producer: unknown; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (f ) Stencil advertisement Nike and Lenovo; location: Palermo, Buenos Aires; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (g) Stencil advertisement Warner Bros.; location: Palermo, Buenos Aires; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (h) Stencil advertisement Reebok; location: Palermo, Buenos Aires; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016.

96 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

of the city; the very hip and expensive Palermo; the southeastern workingclass neighborhoods of Barracas, La Boca, and Caballito; the touristy San Telmo; and the city center Congreso/Monserrat with its historic old town. Being the political and economic center with the highest population density of the country, the capital is a “territory in dispute by many different groups.”23 The constant struggle between claiming and reclaiming the city has been reinforced by neoliberal real estate politics and gentrification processes. Street art pieces can be found in working-class districts, in artsy and hip districts like Palermo, in the historical city center, inter alia. The surfaces of the buildings (indicator S1) on Avenida de Mayo, one the capital’s main routes for political marches, are regularly plastered with slogans and stencils—suitable to be applied by marching protestors—marking the space taken by the protestors and commenting on the issues of the respective march.24 Some stencils are even applied on buildings hosting high-level political institutions, such as a stenciled woman bursting her chains on the National Congress (see illustration 4.3c). On the capital’s main square, Plaza de Mayo, where the Madres de Plaza de Mayo began their protest, their typical white kerchiefs are now painted on the floor (see illustration 4.2b), next to silhouettes in the style of the siluetazo (see P level below).

Time As some of these examples demonstrate, many images directly refer to current politics or have even been applied on particular occasions. Both most frequently coded stencils are linked to a specific point in time (indicator T1). For instance, Macri stencils criticizing him for the tarifazo started appearing right after he had announced the rise in electricity costs in 2016; the stencils of Néstor Kirchner with allied personalities first appeared during the independence bicentennial in 2010.25 I also witnessed during a march on 25 November 2016, the International Day for the Elimination of Violence against Women, how protestors sprayed countless slogans and stencils on the surrounding buildings (on Avenida de Mayo), including the abovementioned stencil of a chain-bursting woman (illustration 4.3c). Although many pieces may not last for long (indicator T2), a photo of the latter example taken in 2005 demonstrates that this stencil was already utilized eleven years before.26 Commenting on the explosion of stencils on the occasion of the December 2001 protests, a local artist states: “Our suspicions were confirmed: at critical moments artistic production grows in direct proportion. And as crises go, this was a big one!” (Indij 2011: 215).

Buenos Aires

|

97

Legal Dimension In Buenos Aires, graffiti and street art are prohibited by the Anti-Graffiti Law (Ley 5.031/2014)27 (indicator L1). Official sources state that persons who “visually damage the public or private space” are obliged to pay a fine of 200 to 3,000 Argentine pesos (US$10 to 150).28 People from the street art scene claim that it is commonly higher (3,000 to 6,000 pesos, which is US$150 to 300) and depends on the police officer’s mood and assessment of damage.29 While, in general, images containing “ethnic or racial slurs” are prohibited by law,30 authorized painting only requires the permission of the house owner (indicator L2).31 However, the law explicitly refers to the technique of “mural art” to beautify the public space (and, of course excludes buildings protected as cultural heritage).32 This has led to an increase of high-quality murals adorning the walls of private buildings and shop fronts and helps the city administration to demonstrate its “smooth”33 legislation, as a spokesperson states in the press: “There are two types of street art: political and artistic. Both are good. They are part of the city. . . . Street art doesn’t bother us.”34 However, the interviewed official only refers to authorized paintings. During the Biggest Murals guided tour by the agency BA Street Art, its British founder and director exemplifies the difference with the help of a giant turtle (illustration 4.4a), one of the touristic highlights of the tour.35 In his opinion, “it is legitimate when individuals express themselves in an artistic way” (here: the turtle), but it is illegitimate when political “collectives pollute public space by spreading their political propaganda” (here: the slogan by the “Revolutionary Left”).36 Therefore, for him, authorized murals are the best protection against “vandalism”— although in this case the “vandalizers” did not seem to have respected the artistic value of the mural.37 In a newspaper interview, he states: “You see a lot of good quality murals in BA because the artists are painting with permission, they have no time constraints and they are not worried about being caught by the police or authorities.”38 In this regard, a journalist further explains: Luckily, the city’s authorities are acknowledging how beneficial their cooperation with artists has been. On the one hand, promoting street art helps the city’s authorities clean up the “visual pollution” created by vandalism while generating colorful, enjoyable art pieces available to everyone. On the other hand, by benefiting from the government’s support, artists can work under better conditions, producing more elaborated pieces.39

a

b

c

Illustration 4.4a–c. (a) Giant mural overpainted by a leftist political slogan; location: Barracas, Buenos Aires; producers: Martin Ron, Izquierda Revolucionaria; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (b) Protest march in front of mural (see illustration 4.5a); location: Avenida de Mayo, Buenos Aires; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (c) Mural “Free the political prisoner Milagro Sala”; location: Centro/Monserrat, Buenos Aires; producers: Coordinadora J. W. Cooke Concordia, Movimiento Kultural, Organización Barrial Tupac Amaru; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016.

Buenos Aires

|

99

He may be right that, this way, many artists certainly have “the time and psychological freedom to paint uninterrupted and unafraid of retribution.”40 However, this legislation clearly is part of a public strategy to fight one form of visual expression with another. Whereas “graffiti” is considered illegitimate “pollution,” authorized high-quality street art images (primarily murals) are not only regarded as legitimate but even supported by the administration. For instance, when the city government, initiated by the undersecretary of public space, launched a public contest for projects “protecting the public space through art,” a media production company won and produced six “giant murals” without overtly political content.41

Producers Street art is used by a very broad spectrum of actors. Among the most famous historical cases of street art activism is the so-called siluetazo initiated by the Madres. In September 1983, they produced thousands of human-sized paste-ups with the silhouetted figures of the desaparecidxs, which appeared overnight in the capital’s street and created an immense international media interest (Gabbay 2013: 124–25; Indij 2011: 26). In turn, fascists repeatedly threatened the Madres with the help of graffiti slogans and symbols (Chaffee 1993: 117–18). This case demonstrates that, already in the 1980s, street art “producers cut across the political spectrum from left to right, encompassing conservative, moderate, liberal, and radical points of view, and class and ethnic interests” (Chaffee 1993: 101). In my photo documentation, the wide spectrum of street art producers in Buenos Aires includes activist groups, party-affiliated political collectives and trade unions, trained muralists, and well-known artists (indicator P1), as well as principals ranging from municipal and state institutions to political parties and companies (indicator P3). Among the professional individual artists is Nazza Stencil, who also teaches at the Design Faculty of Buenos Aires University (UBA). He creates large stencils to commemorate the victims of the military junta and fight impunity, to criticize the monopolized media system, and to claim that the Malvinas are still part of Argentina.42 Other trained artists like Valeria Orfino (illustration 4.2c) and Sergio Condori (illustration 4.5a–b) come from a muralist art tradition and collaborate with leftist art collectives such as Red Sudakas (see detailed analysis). The most frequently coded individual artist in my database is the influential muralist Lucas Quinto (see illustration 4.1a–b, and illustration 4.5a–b), who cooperates with a variety of political and art collectives and with different municipalities.43 Several politically active leftist artists come from the sub-

100 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

urbs in the province of Buenos Aires, most prominently from the working-class district La Matanza (e.g., Orfino, Condori, Quinto, and Nazza).44 Besides local artists, Buenos Aires features some murals by popular international artists. One of them is the Italian BLU, who commented critically on capitalist society and Argentine populist politics. This brought him, in turn, critique from parts of the Argentine population: judging about Latin American autocrats as a European might indeed for some seem inadequate, particularly as an Italian citizen living in the Berlusconi era.45 Among the organizers and commissioners of murals and other pieces are several art institutions, which rather invest in street art without overtly political content. For instance, tour agencies such as BA Street Art46 or Graffitimundo,47 “managed by enthusiastic expats and self-styled curators” (Ryan 2017: 134), not only offer guided tours (see A level) and stencil workshops but also curate projects to create giant murals.48 Additionally, BA Street Art procures commercial paintings for artists commissioned by companies.49 Such agencies also run their own urban art galleries and exhibit pieces with a varying degree of political content. One of the most political of these galleries is Hollywood in Cambodia (HiC). It offers collaborative stencil workshops and cooperates with some artists known for their activities during the 2001 protests, such as VomitoAttack.50 There is a broad variety of works by political activist groups as well. For instance, Greenpeace Argentina invited people for the collective painting of a 250-meter-long wall against the multinational oil and gas company Shell (see photo 6/HP and detailed analysis). Other active groups are the neighborhood association Tupac Amaru, which fights for the rights of the native populations (see photo 2/HP and A level), and the anti-capitalist and anti-patriarchal militant collective Tumbarrati, which aims to reclaim the streets as a public good and a terrain of dispute, therefore offering stencil workshops and organizing collective mural paintings.51 Similarly, there are images by several party-affiliated collectives, such as the Communist Youth (Juventud Comunista, PFR/JCR), which produced a recurring stencil depicting hammer and sickle and the slogan “Imperialismos fuera de América Latina” (Imperialisms out of Latin America) next to the Latin American geographic shape. Some pieces carry the logo of the Communist Party itself, not to mention the slogans commissioned as part of the election campaigns by various parties and painted at night by “more or less clandestine” paid brigades.52 Numerous pieces are accompanied by signatures of Peronist groups, such as the youth organization La Cámpora and the traditional muralism collective Colectivo Carpani,53 which was among the most often-identified producers in my analysis.

Buenos Aires

|

101

One mural by Colectivo Carpani was commissioned by Cristina Fernández de Kirchner’s government (illustration 4.2a). It adorns the building of the National Ministry of Communications and is even illuminated at night.54 The mural is called Argentina Conectada—Homenaje a Néstor Kirchner (Connected Argentina—homage to Néstor Kirchner) and depicts subjects including the Argentinian national flag, the Latin American geographic shape, Evita, Néstor Kirchner, and a portrait of the Kirchners embracing each other. It also displays media-related subjects, such as satellites and people with technical devices, including microphones, symbolizing the voice of the people. Another government-commissioned piece is the abovementioned “ALCArajo!” mural painted by Colectivo Carpani, Red Sudakas, and other artists.55 The fifty-meter-long mural was commissioned by the National Ministry of Social Development.56 The government also organizes and finances street art festivals (indicator P2) like the 2016 and 2017 ColorBA festival, which called for the active participation of people living in the neighborhood. By financing the event with more than thirty national and international artists, the municipal Ministry of Environment and Public Space aims to support “the city’s best artists” by creating their works in public space.57 In some instances, logos indicate a commission by state actors, such as municipal districts, the city administration, or religious associations honoring the national army (illustration 8.4d). Other festivals and projects are sponsored by business corporations. Companies frequently utilize street art for their advertisement (see illustrations 4.3f–h; illustration 8.2a), including stencils by Lenovo, Warner Bros., and Fernet, and a big mural by the companies Havana Club and Chevrolet. Many of these stencil ads, which are predominantly located in the rich and hip district of Palermo, are produced by sportswear companies such as Converse, Nike, and Adidas. The abovementioned stencil series by the US sportswear company Reebok (which belonged to the Adidas group) explicitly plays with the street credibility of the outdoor location, using slogans like “The street is your gym . . . Be more human” or “Make the street adjust to your feet” (illustration 4.3h).

Audiencing Although most of the documented images show no signs of alterations, some were commented on or destroyed by their audience. For instance, in a mural of Néstor Kirchner (as “Eternauta”) and Cristina Fernández de Kirchner displaying the victory sign, the national colors, the sun, and the shape of Latin America by La Cámpora (see photo 1/HP), the portraits of the former

102 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

presidents were overpainted. The same happened to Néstor in one of the bicentennial stencils, which shows him next to Che Guevara, who, in turn, was not destroyed (illustration 4.3b). It remains unclear whether these are reactions by average pedestrians expressing their discontent with Kirchnerism, by opposing political groups, or even by the authorities (indicators A1 and A2).58 According to the interviewed artists, the destruction of images is a common phenomenon. They state that murals depicting the Kirchners had been whitened more often since the Macri government had come into power.59 Other repeatedly destroyed motifs are commemorations of desaparecidxs or other victims of state oppression, as well as images of the Madres and the Indigenous activist Milagro Sala (see illustration 4.4c).60 Only recently, a portrait of Sala against the background of a Wiphala (the rainbow flag representing various native populations, see detailed analysis) was whitened by the authorities.61 Sala, who is the Tupac Amaru organization’s spokesperson (see photo 2/HP) and a member of the trade union Asociación de Trabajadores del Estado (ATE), was arrested in 2016 and later sentenced to thirteen years in prison for extortion and alleged “terrorist activities” but is by many considered a political prisoner.62 In another case, ten La Cámpora activists were detained for painting a mural with Salvador Allende’s slogan “Ser joven y no ser revolucionario es una contradicción hasta biológica” (Being young and not being revolutionary is a contradiction, even a biological one).63 Several communal authorities created cleaning brigades in charge of erasing any sort of “vandalism”64 in 2014, after the federal transportation minister on a radio show had harshly commented on the legal persecution of two teenagers caught while spraying on trains: “It makes you want to kill them [the teenagers]. How can they be such psychopaths?”65 Besides these negative reactions to street art, politicians have repeatedly demonstrated support for authorized mural projects by holding speeches at the inaugurations of state-sponsored murals.66 Cristina Fernández de Kirchner personally supported a book on Bolivia’s leftist street art under Evo Morales (Cooperativa Gráfica Del Pueblo 2014) at a cultural event.67 The Buenos Aires–based leftist collective that published the book advertised it via stencils and sells products depicting motifs like “Evita” or the “Néstornauta” in their shop. Such merchandise is also sold in many souvenir shops and bookshops throughout the city. Furthermore, the local street art scene has gained increasing positive attention by both touristic institutions (indicator A3) and the international media (indicator A4).68 Notably, the articles mainly refer to the (giant) murals curated by festivals or agencies or to the post-2001 crisis street art but not to classical forms of muralism (see I level). Similar to local newspapers

Buenos Aires

|

103

and magazines,69 the international press has reported on the street art festivals and the “biggest mural,”70 but it has also focused on the more political expressions. For example, in 2013 BBC published an article on “Buenos Aires’ Past as Told through Street Art,” reflecting on the work of Nazza, BLU, Jaz, and others.71 Regarding economic value, the guided tours offered by BA Street Art and others attract considerable attention, and tourist photos taken on the tours are massively shared and commented on in online forums.72 The city’s administration advertises its tourism sector with Buenos Aires being “one of the street art capitals of the world.”73 On the international level, for instance, the board magazine of the company Copa Airlines advertises its flights to Buenos Aires with an article on street art in the “rebellious city” (p. 61), which, for them, “beautifies the city, appropriating the space”: Buenos Aires has a unique understanding of the public sphere: it belongs to the people rather than the government. . . . The street is considered public and the public is composed of people, therefore the street belongs to the people. It is also the home of the social protest, in which graffiti is solidly rooted.” (p. 63)74

Detailed Analysis: “Latin America—Now or Never” Following the criteria outlined in chapter 1, I chose an image for detailed analysis (see illustration 4.5a–b) that carries several (anti-)imperialism theme codes, all of the four conceptual theme codes (indicator I2) and a number of very frequent visual subjects (indicator I1). Moreover, among the mural’s producers are two of the most frequently coded artists. Based on a detailed objective description of the image content of the iconological level (see appendix B), I next draw out one possible interpretation against the backdrop of my research questions. In this and all following detailed image analyses, a look at the detailed description of the image content (I level) in the appendix will help the reader understand how I came to my interpretation. In terms of composition (indicator I6), I distinguish three sections of the image: the left side (section 1), the right side (section 2), and a narrower part in the center-right (section 3) (see illustration B.1b, appendix B). The characters depicted in the mural are facing each other in a scenario of “confrontation.” While the left side represents the resistance of “the people” of Latin America, the right side visualizes how the artists perceive domination and “rule.” Simultaneously, the left side symbolizes the political left, and the right side stands for right-wing politics. While the scenario does

104 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

a

b

Illustration 4.5a–b. (a) Mural; location: Avenida de Mayo, Buenos Aires; producers: Red Sudakas, Fileteadores del Conurbano, Lucas Quinto, Sergio Condori, Pericles, Eric Chareun, and Ruben Minutoli; stencil (boy) by Stencil Land; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (b) Detail of illustration 4.5a; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016.

Buenos Aires

|

105

employ a binary archetypical visual narrative of “good vs. evil” (Fahlenbrach 2016: 249), it certainly does not draw on an “offender vs. offended” scheme. Although the eagle and the vulture are predatory animals, and thus one could expect a “hunter vs. prey” scene, the people on the left are not represented as being victims—a label that often goes hand in hand with a connotation of weakness and powerlessness. Quite the contrary, they are depicted as strong actors claiming political agency who are defending themselves or even attacking the enemy proactively. This claim to power is underlined by the compositional feature that the left side of the mural (section 1) occupies somewhat more space on the wall than the other side (section 3).75 Additionally, the national flag is on “the people’s” side, emphasizing their struggle’s legitimacy for the sake of the nation. The prominently positioned person at the bottom left, in section 1, is a Madre de la Plaza de Mayo who represents one of the most important human rights groups claiming justice for the atrocities of the last military junta. The Madres heightened their visual impact with their most significant symbol, the white kerchiefs tied over their heads. These kerchiefs are among the most coded subjects in Buenos Aires street art, and they can also be found on the walls of other cities (e.g., in Bogotá). Clearly, the overemphasized muscly arm of the Madre and her big fist depicted here symbolize power and the will to fight. The fist is one of the most coded subjects both in Buenos Aires and in my empirical analysis in general. This hand gesture is considered the very symbol of resistance in both art history and political practice. As a gesture of threat by physical power (like in a boxing contest), art history reveals that it was often used in the visualization of civilian uprisings against state power. In the 1920s/30s, the fist became the logo of communist and antifascist associations in Europe, not only as a gesture of threat but also as a socialist greeting (Heusinger 2011). Later the clenched and raised fist came to represent the Black Power movement (starting with the iconic photo of two Black Olympic champions in 1968). Also in Latin America it became a universalized gesture of protest, triumph, and pride. For instance, in a public event after the defeat of FTTA/ ALCA in 2005, the Argentine soccer star Diego Maradona made this gesture while he was sitting next to Hugo Chávez. The third person of the group depicted in the mural wears a shirt with a logo (see also section 3). It stands for the Peronist trade union for workers employed by the state, ATE, that supported (although did not commission) the mural.76 This small detail makes him recognizable as not simply a worker but as a Kirchnerist trade union member who is politically organized and part of a big and influential group.77 With regard to forms of countervisuality (see chapter 1), both the fist and the assembled people—or more

106 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

precisely: workers—are depicted in Longoni’s May Day painting as an example of proletarian countervisuality. As Mirzoeff emphasizes, body poses are central for the (self-)representation of people as political actors (Mirzoeff 2011: 107, 148, 225). Hand gestures in general are a common element of visual rhetoric. In visual communication, this nonverbal body language serves to replace linguistic language, condensing complex meanings and actions in ritualized and easily recognizable formulas (Hommers 2011). In a similar vein, facial expressions showing mimic features of human emotions are likely to be recognized by the spectator and “trigger affects such as empathy or antipathy and allow for a personal identification” (Fahlenbrach 2016: 248–49; see also Malmvig 2016: 273–75). The angry face of the Madre and the other characters on the left side match their hand gestures, including the index finger pointed toward the right side and thus indicating the “enemy.” The stretched arms and views toward the right, combined with the blowing hair of the characters, are a compositional strategy giving the impression of dynamic movement. Since the movement toward the right goes in the same direction as one reads (in the Latin alphabet), we experience the group on the left as moving “forward,” maybe even symbolizing progress (Pater 2016: 145).78 The characters on the other side look toward the left and show signs of aggression (the opened beaks and wings) but leave a rather powerless impression. This clearly exemplifies how the composition of an image may contribute to the perception of the message it aims to bring across (here: “confrontation”). In the street survey, most of the pedestrians quickly identified the message to be one of “claims” or “protest” (reclama) by “the people who raise their voice.”79 At the same time, some perceived it as “very aggressive,”80 while the clenched fist especially gave them an impression of “violence”81: The image scares me. . . . It shows violence, anger, and makes visible the repression under capitalism. It shows the sadness and the suffering of a people [pueblo], it shows what we are constantly experiencing in this country. There is always a struggle [lucha] between the powers and cultures. The society is very divided.82 These quotes demonstrate how differently people perceive the visual representation of protest, be it in actual physical gatherings of people or in its visual depiction. Since protest is always directed against something, protestors often employ a negative framing by making visible the negative sides of the criticized realities and their opposition to it, thus aiming to highlight perceived injustice. Some people may find this confrontative visual rhetoric of

Buenos Aires

|

107

activists aggressive and thus have a rather negative “image” of protestors and activists, arguing that it is disturbing, divisive, or polarizing. However, others may think that it is important to “disturb” if there is injustice and (physical or structural) violence, and that it is not the protestors’ anger and its expression that is violent but the system and the repression they are fighting against. They thus might find it legitimate to employ an aggressive (counter) rhetoric. Therefore protestors strategically have to choose between a negative or a positive framing of their protests, well aware that a positive framing, which emphasizes the connecting factors and (re)conciliary rhetoric may be perceived as naïve and promoting a superficial harmony and “negative peace” (i.e., merely the absence of war) rather than addressing the root causes of conflict. In the mural, the person in the red shirt seems to be close to throwing the book toward the right side, similar to a stone thrower in a protest (e.g., photo 4/HP). In all the cities in my analysis, the book is often depicted in the context of education, ancestral knowledge or political programs, pamphlets, or constitutions. Just likes in general iconology, in street art, books symbolize culture and knowledge and thereby the empowering use of knowledge as a means of political agency (Biedermann 1993: 46–47; Mirzoeff 2011: 12, 29, 157). The circular form of the ATE logo on the worker’s shirt is repeated in the big green circle that he is holding. Instead of being a shield (for the purpose of defense), the green circle might also be a traditional Mapuche musical instrument, the kultrún drum, and the stick could be a drumstick. The kultrún’s membrane is often adorned with a pattern drawn in a circular design representing the Mapuche cosmovision.83 In the mural, both the circular form and this pattern are repeated in the little yellow circle next to the big “Sun of May” (Sol del Mayo), which is part of the Argentine national flag. That sun symbolizes the May Revolution of 1810, the first successful uprising in the process leading to South American independence.84 The sun’s human features resemble Inti, the Incan sun god, and this is why it can be interpreted either as a general symbol of independence or as an explicit Indigenous symbol of native cosmologies, as one of the mural’s artists notes on the iconology of muralism.85 The sun is one of the most coded symbols in Buenos Aires and is very often accompanied by the Argentine national colors. In this mural, the sun has the same angry facial expression as the other characters in section 1. By putting the symbol of Mapuche cosmology next to the national symbol of the sun, the artists express their solidarity with the Mapuche’s struggles in Southern Chile and Argentina. The Mapuche have for long been fighting to protect their territory against state extractivism and corporate forestry and

108 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

are among the various native peoples (pueblos originarios) who have been mobilizing protest against neoliberal reforms in Latin America since the 1980s (Svampa 2010: 38; Rice 2012). The last character of the group appears to be half of a human face, with a golden skin tone and one giant eye. While the meaning is not completely clear to me, it might represent one of the sun gods of the native peoples of South America, such as Inti (Incas)86 or Ngenechen (Mapuche).87 The rainbow colors of this character’s hair resemble another flag: the Wiphala. More generally speaking, by applying Mapuche iconology and the Wiphala—a key visual of the aesthetics of Latin American native peoples (see photo 2/HP) as the “roots of Latin America”—the artists of this mural aim to “make visible the heroes of our history who have been made invisible by official history.”88 Moreover, one can say that it is a form of self-representation, because some of the artists themselves identify with their native Latin American roots.89 Finally, the only text element in section 1 reveals an internationalist approach to resistance. “América Latina—ahora o nunca” (Latin America— now or never) is the title of a 1967 text by former president Juan Perón, the founding father of Peronism, which promotes Latin American regional integration and solidarity for both the preservation and the defense of the continent’s natural resources.90 In these terms, the depicted struggle not only refers to Argentina but also to Latin America as a whole as a region “whose populations across national borders are facing similar political, economic, and social challenges.”91 As one of the artists mentioned, he continuously asks himself: How do we visually represent the Latin American region? If there is such thing as a Latin American iconography, what does it look like? For instance, we frequently use the sun as an Indigenous symbol . . . you need an element that is able to unite many different people, this is why you also integrate very different faces.92 Switching to the right-hand side of the mural (section 2), the eagle has very ambiguous connotations. Among other symbolic uses, it appears in the national coat of arms of several states, including Iraq, Germany, the United States, South Sudan, and Mexico (see chapters on Mexico City and Bogotá). Often it symbolizes the United States (see illustration 4.2c and illustration 5.2b in Mexico City). This association, which I shared with the participants of the focus group interview and some of the pedestrians of the street survey,93 is confirmed when we compare the eagle with the other bird depicted next to it: the vulture.

Buenos Aires

|

109

In the Argentine context, the metonymic meaning of the vulture is much clearer than that of the eagle. Originating in the expression “vulture capitalism,” the term “vulture funds” (fondos buitre) designates hedge funds whose investors profit from the debt they have invested in. In the (visual) metaphor, these funds are being compared to a vulture preying on debtors in financial distress.94 These instruments of financial capital played a critical role in the Argentine debt crisis that had its peak around the December 2001 uprising (Sitrin 2011). They are still under harsh debate95 because the former Kirchnerist governments refused to pay back the debts, while the market-friendly president Macri in March 2016 offered to pay back the US funds.96 Since the vulture is here depicted in a context of confrontation and next to an eagle (see also illustration 4.1b), it seems likely that it represents “vulture funds” as well.97 In the narrative of this mural, these external forces are controlling president Macri, who is portrayed as a wooden marionette.98 While all of the birds have open beaks, the vulture in the foreground has a particular evil mimic due to its eyes. The eagle, which is stretching its wing above the vultures, symbolizes the United States.99 The information provided by one of the art collectives who produced the mural, Red Sudakas, supports this interpretation. In an article on the organization’s blog, the mural is titled A 40 años del golpe cívico-militar, decimos NO al endeudamiento y la entrega del país (40 years after the military-civilian coup we are saying NO to the indebtedness and the surrender of the country). The artists argue that Macri’s approach to foreign debts and his domestic adjustments (ajuste) in both social and financial policies were a vicious circle fostering economic exclusion.100 Furthermore, Red Sudakas laments that, after the political shift to the right, activism was stigmatized, for instance through the imprisonment of Milagro Sala.101 Drawing on these examples, the group sees parallels between Macri’s “authoritarianism” and the beginning of the military junta in 1976 that “aimed to disassemble and annihilate political activism and to create an economic model of exclusion. Under the implementation of Operation Condor [see chapter 3], there were similar repressive systems installed in all the Cono Sur.”102 Besides Red Sudakas, as the signatures in section 3 indicate, the collective Fileteadores del Conurbano as well as the individual artists Lucas Quinto, Sergio Condori, Pericles, Eric Chareun, and Ruben Minutoli participated in the creation of the mural (indicator P1). At this point, it is worth elaborating on two techniques of visual rhetoric used in this mural: the caricature and the comparison of humans or institutions with animals. The latter, as observed in the eagle and the vulture, draws parallels between a person’s or a group’s behavior to the characteristics of a specific animal and aims to reveal that person’s true (animalistic) “na-

110 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

ture” with the help of visualizations (Brückle 2011: 430). That comparison can be either positive, or even glorifying (e.g., to compare a king with a lion), or negative, derogatory, and literally dehumanizing. In our case, although a trust fund is not a human being, it is still a human-made and -used instrument (to invest money), and the humans profiting from it are here compared to ugly scavengers in order to emphasize its illegitimacy. In a similar vein, artists employ caricatures indirectly to criticize the powerful in times of censorship. Caricatures exaggerate the natural, mostly physical and physiognomic features of a person (sometimes drawing on alleged resemblance with an animal) to denigrate someone in a humoristic way (Brückle 2011: 435). Usually this mockery of the figure of fun aims to point out their weakness—as opposed to the producer’s own strength—and thus to foster a group’s inner cohesion and solidarity against the “other.” In this image, Macri’s weakness as a wooden, screwed-together marionette—with a pathetically small crown on his head, which is originally supposed to be a symbol of power—underlined by his fragile little hand, stands in stark contrast with the big, powerful body and fist of the Madre opposing him. Both the comparison to animals and the caricature have discursive power if they employ a concise visual language and are thus catchy and easily understandable. At the same time, overemphasizing positive or negative features may contribute to a polemic self-other dichotomy and the construction of an enemy (Werner 2011: 302–5; Brückle 2011: 431, 437). Against the backdrop of the Kirchnerist political style, the depiction of the animals and the puppet, on the one hand, might confirm the criticism of those who accuse them of a polemic and populist style and see in the mural a propagandistic distortion of reality. Their supporters, on the other hand, may agree with the dehumanizing representation of the United States and the international financial capital, as they perceive its impact on social policies and inequality as being cruel and inhumane indeed. The mural interlinks several political narratives. The link between the neoliberal Macri government, the vultures, the eagle as a traditional Latin American symbol of the United States (Moraña, Dussel, and Jáuregui 2008: 7), and the commemoration of the junta’s victims is related to the time dimension of the image (T level). When then-US president Barack Obama announced a visit to Buenos Aires on 24 March 2016 for the fortieth anniversary of the coup d’état, human rights groups such as the Madres found this decision sarcastic.103 For them, Obama represented a country whose government and secret service (the CIA) were heavily involved in the pro-neoliberal Operation Condor, a strategy to overthrow communist governments and movements during the Cold War.104 Many perceive the US foreign debt policies to be repressive impositions of the Bretton Woods in-

Buenos Aires

|

111

stitutions and a continuation of US hegemony and informal imperialism.105 Numerous pieces applied during the march on 24 March 2016 explicitly referred to (US) imperialism and thus linked the protest against the vultures with Obama’s visit (see illustration 4.3a). Most explicitly, Barack Obama himself is negatively depicted in several pieces (see illustration 4.3d)—not only in Buenos Aires, but also in the other Latin American capitals under consideration in this book. In a broader sense, others simply state that “aquí hay un pueblo digno” (there is a people with dignity here). In terms of time (T level), a closer look at the date written on the bottom of the mural indicates that it was also painted exactly on the day of Obama’s visit, on 24 March 2016106 (indicator T1), the fortieth anniversary of the 1976 coup d’état that heralded the last military dictatorship in Argentina (1976–83). The Día de la Memoria por la Verdad y la Justicia (Day of Remembrance for Truth and Justice) is a public holiday. Traditionally on that day human rights and other activist groups organize marches and demonstrations for commemorating the up to thirty thousand victims of the “Dirty War” and link the protests with other (contemporary) political issues. As Obama visited the city right on the day remembering the oblivion of the junta’s victims, the annual 24 March demonstration was particularly directed against US interventionism and international debt policy.107 In this performative framework, the artists painted the mural in a participatory community event during the march (indicator P2).108 The date of production also tells us that the mural was painted only a few months after the election of Mauricio Macri’s (center-right) government, which had ended twelve years of leftist Kirchnerism in Argentina. According to the artists, they annually repaint this wall on the Day of Remembrance (indicator T1) and sometimes on other occasions as well109 (e.g., the International Day of Human Rights in 2013110). With a size of approximately eighty-five square meters (around twelve meters wide and six meters high), the mural is relatively big and impressive (indicator M2). Although the building it is painted on does not have a specific symbolic meaning (indicator S2), it is located on a politically important and highly visible spot with many pedestrians walking by on a daily basis: it is in the eastern part of Avenida de Mayo,111 one of the mayor avenues in the city center (Monserrat) of Buenos Aires (indicator S1). The street connects the capital’s main square Plaza de Mayo (with several governmental buildings, including the president’s palace Casa Rosada) and Plaza del Congreso (with the National Congress), which is a five-minute walk from the mural. Since the district of Monserrat and the avenue itself feature some of the city’s the most important public buildings, and since Monserrat is shaped by a monumental colonial architecture, it was declared a National

112 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

Historic Site.112 As the hub of political life in Argentina, Avenida de Mayo is one of the main routes for political marches (see illustration 4.4b), many other street art pieces can be found in the area. Concerning the legal status, the artwork is semiauthorized (indicator L2). According to the artists, the owners of the building have never officially given their permission but have tolerated the paintings. Both the mural’s strong visual language and its strategic location at one of the main marching routes may have contributed to its interactive relationship with the population. For instance, the Madres de Plaza de Mayo used a cutout of the angry Madre for several mobilization posters, e.g., for a resistance march against Macri in August 2016.113 Photographs of the mural appeared in both domestic and international media (indicator A4).114 They have been shared and commented upon online, not only by the artists themselves115 but also on social media platforms (with either touristic, artistic, or political backgrounds)116 and professional image databases for media use.117 However, this prominent location and the political content do not only provoke positive reactions by the population. According to the artists, a previous version of the mural (painted in 2015) was vandalized by unknowns, and the artists now consider the new painting a reaction to the previous destruction (indicator A1).118 In the foreground of section 2 of the mural, the logos on the badges attached to the particularly evil-looking vulture represent some of the transnational corporations facing heavy protest by Argentine activist groups: Clarín, Shell, Barrick, JP Morgan, and Monsanto. Whereas the US-based agrochemical/-cultural biotechnology company Monsanto is criticized for using the pesticide glyphosate and other agrochemicals to protect its transgenetic soy,119 Barrick Gold (based in Canada) is accused of environmental damage by its Veladero gold mine in San Juan province.120 JP Morgan Chase, the United States’ biggest bank, is infamous for its attitude toward the unsettled financial dispute,121 and the British-Dutch oil and gas multinational Shell is criticized for its exploitation of the Vaca Muerta region in the province of Neuquén.122 Protest by Greenpeace Argentina against Shell’s oil extraction in the Artic123 is also expressed by an approximately 250-meter-long collective mural in the district of Palermo (see photo 6/HP). It was campaigned under the hashtag “make visible the invisible” (#hacevisibleloinvisible), and, no doubt, it makes visible the negative consequences of climate change and the destruction of the biosphere (see Mirzoeff’s notion of “realisms” in chapter 1; Mirzoeff 2011: 29; 2015: 221, 247).124 Finally, the largest newspaper of the country, Clarín, has been involved in a long dispute over the so-called Media Law (Ley de Medios) that was passed under Cristina Fernández de Kirchner’s government in 2009 to limit the television and radio licenses of the Clarín Group conglomerate and its

Buenos Aires

|

113

dominance in the media landscape.125 This dispute over the freedom of media has carried important weight with regard to the expected changes under the Macri government. Therefore the Clarín logo can be found in several street art images in rather negative representations (see illustration 4.1b).126 In section 3 of the mural, above the Macri puppet, the big golden “40” highlights the role of memory politics in Argentina. Although the image does not have an official title (indicator I4), the prominent text element “40 años” (40 years) is repeated in the headline of the respective post on the artists’ blog (“A 40 años del golpe cívico-militar” [40 years after the militarycivilian coup]) and thus indicates the reference to the anniversary of the coup d’état in 1976 and the beginning of one of the bloodiest chapters in Argentina’s history. The phrase “ni olvido ni perdon,” besides “núnca más!” (never again!), has become the most symbolic slogan of post-junta remembrance and was already sprayed on the walls of Buenos Aires in the mid1980s, where it can still be found.127 Since the “40” is designed in the one of the traditional aesthetic styles of Buenos Aires’s port, so-called Fileteado Porteño (indicator I7), it visually reflects local cultural identity.128 The boy above the number—the only stencil element integrated in the mural—is documented in an earlier version of the mural129 and was probably painted in collaboration with the artist Stencil Land.130 Since a pedestrian commented that “the child is dreaming of the future,”131 the boy might indeed represent the hope for a “better future,” which is indicated by the gaze toward the sky or the horizon. Painted below the Macri puppet, the logo of the Red Sudakas collective— the form of South America—is another indicator for the regionalist (political) orientation of the producers.132 The geographic shape of the region (see also chapter on Caracas) is a common visual element of the artists’ work.133 For instance, in their 2012 mural La Victoria de la Patria Grande (The victory of the Great Motherland) they employ the narrative of Simón Bolívar’s dream of a common Latin American state, la patria grande (see chapter 3). In the text accompanying the respective blog post, the artists state: As Sudakas, it is clear to us that borders are the scars of history. That only in unity Our America will be able to defend its sovereignty and its natural resources and keep recuperating the dignity of its peoples. They arise from these scars of the neoliberal model, after the external forces, throughout history, have been drinking from our veins our resources and our future.134 By referring to Galeano’s Las Venas Abiertas de América Latina (Open veins of Latin America, see chapter 3), and by their self-ironic appropriation of

114 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

the term sudakas—a (North American) pejorative term for South Americans135—the art collective leaves no doubt that it struggles not only for Argentina but for the whole region of Latin America as part of the Global South. The mural’s producers, including Red Sudakas, Lucas Quinto and Sergio Condori, follow the philosophy and aesthetics of traditional Latin American muralism, which is shaped by socialist realism (indicator I7).136 As an aesthetic style, socialist realism developed in 1920s postrevolutionary Russia and dominated art production in the communist world until the early 1970s.137 Aiming to educate the (partly illiterate) masses, its aesthetics featured a glorified representation of communist values, in particular the elevation of the proletariat in a revolutionary romanticist way. The Cold War was as well a “cultural war” (Torres Arroyo 2013), in which the superpowers fought over cultural spheres of influence—and Latin America was in the United States’ infamous “backyard.” Due to its political, proletarian content, socialist realism was considered the antithesis, the diametrical opposite of seemingly apolitical US abstract art, or more precisely, abstract expressionism. In the artistic struggle between the aesthetic styles, “abstraction and ‘freedom’ were words which . . . formed part of the same discourse” (Giunta 2005: 149). The global art scene was a “microcosm of the antagonistic ideologies” (Torres Arroyo 2013: 83), and US arts promotion was by some considered a strategy of imperialism with cultural means. Therefore, the triumph of one aesthetic style over the other in international art exhibitions, contests, and invitations to tender meant much more than only artistic failure or success. The cooperation between the CIA, its anticommunist Committee for Cultural Freedom (CFF), and art institutions, such as the MoMa and the Rockefeller Foundation, is a longer story not to be elaborated here.138 However, the fight of US institutions against socialist realism to eliminate political representations and promote abstract signs helps us to understand the crucial importance of socialist realism for leftist artists in Latin America. Understood in that way, the aesthetic styles used in sections 1 and 2 of the mural might reveal a deeper meaning. While the left side depicts the ideological left in a socialist realist style, the right side represents the political and economic right wing (and rather reminds me of the aesthetics found in cartoons). At the same time, one might ask whether socialist realism can be considered one form of “realism” in Mirzoeff’s sense (visualized by the vernacular or the proletarian hero; see chapter 1), in that it aims to make oppression to “be legible as ‘real’ to others, as well as to those involved in making it” (Mirzoeff 2011: 155). In the tradition of the Argentine labor movement, the art group Colectivo Carpani sees muralism as a tool against “mental colonialism” and “cul-

Buenos Aires

|

115

tural imperialism.”139 In their magazine, the muralist and sociologist Ignacio Soneira reflects on “urban interventions in contexts of cultural resistance” (Soneira 2016). Following Rodolfo Walsh’s words “the walls are the press of the people,” he focuses on similarities between forms of resistance with the help of muralism throughout history and the potentials of muralism and street interventions in the face of the superiority of traditional mass media and advertisement. For him, artists who intervene in the public space seek to, first, put their art in the service of the political; second, debate over meaning of art and make it leave the beaten track; and third, use its concision to raise awareness of the anonymous public in a more effective way (Soneira 2016: 3). With regard to iconographic language and codes, he thinks that artists must avoid “fall[ing] back into a tradition of only depicting muscly men, screaming with their clenched fists, or the sterile repetition of portraits of the political leaders. On the contrary, people constantly create and recreate complex, mixed and new cultural frameworks disputing hegemonic conceptions” (my translation). For him, all artists and activists are confronted with the contradictions arising from anti-imperialist political work under capitalism: Maybe it is not about convincing others from a position of the illuminated conscience but to debate and assume that art helps crystallizing a collective thinking. . . . When the image or the banner synthesize the thinking and the feeling of humans, we will be starting to challenge a different reality. (Soneira 2016: 3; my translation) In other words, artistic resistance needs to create something new rather than only repeating the old slogans and reproducing old binaries (see Malmvig 2016).140 In the same magazine, Valeria Morelli draws upon Gramsci when she stresses the discursive power of muralism: The construction of a people in struggle needs a leading ideology. . . . It is hard for us that the identity of our working class (and that of the world) today does not respond anymore to the images of cohesion, identity, and organization. . . . The dominant ideology is imposed on all of us in subtle ways, but it is crucial not to oppose it with the very tools it is offering us. (Morelli 2016: 4)141 However, for Red Sudakas, the traditional muralist aesthetics make the group’s ideology transparent at first sight and help the viewer to quickly recognize leftist messages and to choose whether to identify with the image or not. For them it is crucial to raise awareness of the historical predecessors and their struggles, “to know one’s roots, one’s culture and heroes.”142 As the

116 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

documentation of history, including independence, is controlled by liberal powers and dominated by the White elite, for art in the public space it is key to retell and reinterpret history with the help of images. For the artists, who rather identify with ethnic Mestizaje than with the White (European) elites in Argentina, this is much more valuable than “a turtle from the Galapagos Islands, or blond guys surfing on the beach.”143 Similarly, Valeria Orfino and Sergio Condori state that art must oppose the cultural monopoly of the image constructed by the dominant media and make visible the diversity of the people, including female, Indigenous, Mestizo, or Afro-American faces144: “Our images must offer counterpoints in the form of concrete evidence. In the struggle over visibility, what you can’t see doesn’t have evidence. Therefore, in our communication with others, we must provide this evidence.”145 Understood in this way, “the people” as represented on the left side of the mural offer a point of identification for the viewer that is beyond the hegemonic visuality and therefore positive characteristics, although they express negative feelings such as anger and aggression. At the same time, not everyone shares the assumption that most people in Argentina do not relate to “the White faces we see in advertisement.”146 While in the focus group interview one participant said that the depicted fighting people might motivate others to join the fight, another one mentioned that he did not feel included or represented in that group. For him, it simply is not true “that this is ‘the people,’ and that these aesthetics include everyone.”147 Consequently, on the one side, the depiction of “the people” might aim to represent the masses and thus evoke the feeling that there were already many people fighting the powerful, and that, by joining the cause, you can become part of a bigger, epic movement (see Stoehrel and Lindgren 2014).148 On the other hand, looking at Macri’s electoral success in 2015, the narrative that the majority would disagree with his neoliberal politics is indeed questionable. The mural sheds light on crucial ambivalences and clearly is a case of entanglement between resistance and rule. First, socialist realism and Mexican muralism are historically government-initiated and state-sponsored cultural strategies to educate the (proletarian) masses. Therefore, traditional muralism was always suspected of being populist propaganda instead of “free” or “independent” art truly owned by the civil society. Second, the social power position of the artists varied over time: while the artists of this mural generally see themselves in resistance against power institutions (be it against hegemonic visuality149 or the dominance of advertisement in public space150), some of them strongly identify with the Peronist party PJ. Although the PJ was in the opposition at the time of the interviews, it was in power until shortly before (and financially supported governmental muralism) and came back to power in the next elections in 2019. While it is true that “yesterday’s

Buenos Aires

|

117

marginal groups may be tomorrow’s influential ones” (Chaffee 1993: 5), the fact that the party was then in the opposition cannot hide that it is a historical power institution. In this mural, the discourse of the anonymous protestor (Fahlenbrach 2016: 249) and the collective multitude (Mirzoeff 2016: 212) is preferred to personalized leadership of resistance. In counterpoint, domination is personalized by the individual leader Macri. Whereas none of the frequently depicted Peronist personalities (see general analysis) is represented here, both the aesthetic style and other visual elements (the K/V in the artists’ logo, the ATE logo, and Perón’s slogan) leave no doubt about the artists’ political identification. Although Kirchnerism employs a discourse of resistance against external interventionism and was, at the time of my research, in the political opposition (from where, in turn, it expresses resistance against the government), it was itself in power of the highest government posts until shortly before. Their narrative of being in resistance did not start with Macri’s election in December 2015 but was already part of their (visual) discourse when they were still in government. Red Sudakas and Lucas Quinto are occasionally commissioned by Kirchnerist-led institutions such as national ministries or municipalities (indicator P4), while they claim to be institutionally independent.151 Already in the past, state institutions—particularly under Marxist and radical revolutionary governments—traditionally sponsored muralism in the attempt “to transform national culture identity by utilizing street art as one means of forging a new national class cultural identification” (Chaffee 1993: 15–16).152 Finally, at the end of this chapter, it should be evident how in this case street art interlinks various discursive fields, such as the “the people” and the national project. Reflecting on the central role of the masses in the political imagery of twentieth-century Latin America, Graciela Montaldo notes: “Although it can be argued that the composition of the masses which back the different Argentinian populisms is varied, there is a fundamental active element: in the field of representation, the mass is the central icon of the nation” (Montaldo 2005: 225). Examining the iconography of historical photographs, she argues that, up to the nineteenth century, building a national history relied on “telling the great epic of the heroes, with a mass of anonymous followers very much in the background, disciplined by the hero and captivated by his aura” (Montaldo 2005: 223). In the twentieth century, however, the notion of the mass was replaced by a more positive association that can be described by what Hardt and Negri call “multitude.” The multitude came to visually represent the modern nation, not as an object or a simple follower but as a political actor. In this view, this imagery may help

118 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

people to identify with the project of the nation, since “the mass does not exist, except to the extent that it is perceived or it perceives itself ” (Montaldo 2005: 222). And yet, the representation of the (marginalized) masses as a powerful actor works as a point of identification exactly because, in reality, the masses carry an “iconography which represents the nation for the excluded; not an imagined community but the community of people who are outside” (Montaldo 2005: 237).

Notes 1. With the help of photo documentation, I identified 575 street art pieces in Buenos Aires. While 128 of them consist of images alone and 166 only of text, the majority (281) combines image and text elements (indicator I3). 2. In the content analysis, I could only assign the code “Indigenous persons” to images that featured traditional cultural attributes of Indigenous peoples (in Spanish: pueblos originarios), such as traditional clothes, jewelry, or musical instruments. Of course, this distinction by visible features on the iconological level is vulnerable to the reproduction of stereotypical mental images of what persons identifying as part of Indigenous peoples “look like” without further differentiating the diverse identities and cultural expressions of over fifty million Latin Americans who belong to over five hundred ethnic Indigenous groups. However, since in this visual analysis I can only code what is visible (i.e., visible characteristics of depicted persons), I could here only identify Indigenous persons who are depicted with traditional cultural attributes and not those who wear nontraditional clothes, for instance. 3. I identified these combinations and overlaps with the help of the MAXQDA retrieval function that shows “intersections” of different codes; see also code cooccurrence models in chapter 8. 4. Interview with the artist Nazza on 30 November 2016 in Buenos Aires; see https:// www.flickr.com/photos/nazza_stncl/6894075654 (retrieved 22 March 2020). 5. http://www.thebubble.com/whats-up-with-all-that-street-art-in-buenos-aires/ (retrieved 4 April 2020). 6. See http://www.bbc.com/mundo/noticias/2015/11/151119_elecciones_argentina_ momentos_turbios_irm (retrieved 22 March 2020). 7. Interview with the artists Valeria Orfino and Sergio Condori on 29 November 2016 in Buenos Aires. 8. http://content.time.com/time/world/article/0,8599,1677374,00.html (retrieved 22 March 2020). 9. For these hand gestures in Buenos Aires street art, see also Indij (2011: 171, 173) and Gabbay (2013: 124). 10. https://www.pinterest.com/pin/570127634058386365/ (retrieved 22 March 2020). 11. Interview with Valeria Orfino and Sergio Condori on 29 November 2016 in Buenos Aires. 12. https://graffitimundo.com/blog/new-art/el-nestornauta/ (retrieved 22 March 2020). See also Gabbay (2013: 128) and Indij (2011: 21, 165).

Buenos Aires

|

119

13. http://cuestionentrerriana.com.ar/urribarri-y-tomada-inauguraron-muralen-consti tucion/ (retrieved 5 April 2020). 14. Interview with members of the art activist collective Red Sudakas on 30 November 2016 in Buenos Aires. 15. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kLjzUTqhMEY (retrieved 22 March 2020). 16. Interview with Valeria Orfino and Sergio Condori on 20 November 2016 in Buenos Aires. 17. See also Indij (2011: 39, 174). 18. Participation in the BA Street Art Biggest Mural Tour on 23 November 2016; see https://buenosairesstreetart.com/2015/03/alfredo-segatori-paints-biggest-mural-inthe-world-in-buenos-aires (retrieved 15 September 2020). 19. Interview with Valeria Orfino and Sergio Condori on 29 November 2016 in Buenos Aires. 20. See, for example, the book Hasta la Victoria Stencil! (Indij 2011). 21. On the use of stencils in Buenos Aires, see also Gabbay (2013) and Ryan (2015). 22. Participation in the BA Street Art (North City) Walking Tour on 22 November 2016. 23. Interview with Valeria Orfino and Sergio Condori on 29 November 2016 in Buenos Aires (my translation). 24. Interviews with members of Red Sudakas and with Lucas Quinto on 30 November 2016 in Buenos Aires. Already in the early 1990s, Chaffee emphasized the popularity and pervasiveness of wall paintings, graffiti, and posters in Buenos Aires, which “made it seem that every wall, street corner, public transportation station, church, cathedral, and building façade had been taken over by street art commentators” (Chaffee 1993: 101). 25. I documented this stencil already on an earlier trip to Buenos Aires in November 2015. 26. Documented on an earlier trip to Buenos Aires in July 2005. 27. http://www2.cedom.gob.ar/es/legislacion/normas/leyes/ley5031.html (retrieved 23 March 2020). 28. https://parabuenosaires.com/ley-anti-graffiti-penas-de-trabajo-comunitario-y-has ta-tres-mil-pesos/ (retrieved 4 May 2020). 29. Participation in the BA Street Art Biggest Mural Tour on 23 November 2016, guided by BA Street Art founder Matt Fox-Tucker, and in the BA Street Art (North City) Walking Tour on 22 November 2016. 30. http://abcnews.go.com/Travel/story?id=7697519&page=1 (retrieved 30 March 2020). 31. Participation in the BA Street Art (North City) Walking Tour on 22 November 2016. 32. http://www2.cedom.gob.ar/es/legislacion/normas/leyes/ley3283.html (retrieved 30 March 2020). 33. http://abcnews.go.com/Travel/story?id=7697519&page=1 (retrieved 23 March 2020). 34. Spokesman of the Argentine Director General’s Office in Buenos Aires, ABC News, 29 May 2009, quoted in http://abcnews.go.com/Travel/story?id=7697519&page=1 (retrieved 30 March 2020).

120 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

35. See also on http://buenosairesstreetart.com/about/ (retrieved 30 March 2020). 36. Participation in the BA Street Art Biggest Mural Tour on 23 November 2016; see also participation in the BA Street Art (North City) Walking Tour on 22 November 2016. 37. For “before and after” images of mural projects against vandalism by BA Street Art, see http://www.thebubble.com/fighting-vandalism-with-street-art/ (retrieved 30 March 2020). 38. Quoted in http://www.thebubble.com/fighting-vandalism-with-street-art/ (retrieved 23 March 2020). 39. http://www.thebubble.com/fighting-vandalism-with-street-art/ (retrieved 30 March 2020). 40. http://www.thebubble.com/fighting-vandalism-with-street-art/ (retrieved 30 March 2020). 41. http://www.thebubble.com/fighting-vandalism-with-street-art/ (retrieved 30 March 2020). 42. Interview with the artist Nazza on 30 November 2016 in Buenos Aires; see also https://www.flickr.com/photos/nazza_stncl/5951223413/in/photostream/ (retrieved 23 March 2020). 43. Interview with the artist Lucas Quinto on 30 November 2016 in Buenos Aires. 44. The huge part of Buenos Aires’s population lives in the agglomeration area (Gran Buenos Aires has more than thirteen million inhabitants). 45. Participation in the BA Street Art (North City) Walking Tour on 22 November 2016; see https://buenosairesstreetart.com/2011/11/blu-in-buenos-aires/ (retrieved 19 October 2020). 46. http://buenosairesstreetart.com/about/ (retrieved 23 March 2020). 47. https://graffitimundo.com/ (retrieved 23 March 2020). 48. http://www.buenosaires.gob.ar/noticias/el-street-art-llega-buenos-aires (retrieved 23 March 2020). 49. Participation in the BA Street Art (North City) Walking Tour on 22 November 2016. 50. See also the HiC magazine issued on the occasion of the gallery’s ten-year anniversary (26 October 2016). 51. Interview with a member of Tumbarrati on 20 November 2016 in Buenos Aires. 52. Interview with Valeria Orfino and Sergio Condori on 29 November 2016 in Buenos Aires (my translation). 53. Participation in the panel debate “Nuestro Relato” organized by Colectivo Carpani on 25 November 2016 in Buenos Aires. 54. Interview with Valeria Orfino and Sergio Condori on 29 November 2016 in Buenos Aires. 55. The other artists were Rubén Minutoli, Ortiz, and Salas, as well as the collectives Murosur, Cimerrones and La Diagonal; see http://redsudakas.blogspot .com/2014/11/alca-alca-al-carajo.html (retrieved 24 March 2020). 56. Interview with members of Red Sudakas on 29 November 2016 in Buenos Aires. 57. http://www.buenosaires.gob.ar/noticias/el-street-art-llega-buenos-aires (retrieved 24 March 2020). 58. Interview with members of Red Sudakas on 30 November 2016 in Buenos Aires.

Buenos Aires

|

121

59. Interview with Valeria Orfino and Sergio Condori on 29 November 2016 in Buenos Aires. They said that there was even media coverage on one case, but in my online research, I did not find anything. 60. https://www.laizquierdadiario.com/Destruccion-de-mural-en-memoria-de-JorgeJulio-Lopez-en-la-tierra-de-Grindetti (retrieved 24 March 2020). 61. Interview with members of Red Sudakas on 30 November 2016 in Buenos Aires; image source: https://radioestacionsur.org/2016/07/21/les-molestaba-la-expresiony-el-sentido-politico-que-la-figura-de-milagro-sala-exponia-en-esa-esquina/ (retrieved 26 March 2020). 62. https://www.amnesty.de/urgent-action/ua-013-2016-2/willkuerlich-haft (retrieved 18 June 2020). 63. https://www.tiempoar.com.ar/articulo/view/60513-militantes-de-la-camporapresos-por-pintar-un-mural (retrieved 24 March 2020). 64. Interview with Nazza on 30 November 2016 in Buenos Aires. 65. http://www.thebubble.com/fighting-vandalism-with-street-art/ (retrieved 24 March 2020). 66. For instance, in the city of Rosario: https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid =10206853564082271 &set=t.1371799747 &type=3&theater (retrieved 24 March 2020). 67. Posted on 2 July 2015 at https://www.facebook.com/jallallarevolucion/ (retrieved 19 June 2020). 68. For instance, https://www.telegraph.co.uk/business/2016/02/29/argentina-settles15-year-debt-battle-with-46bn-deal/ (retrieved 4 April 2020). 69. For instance, the magazine Sobre BUE: Recomendador de Artes y Espectáculos, nos. 11–16 (November 2016): 10. 70. For instance, The Economist in 2016: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X21K ko48wbY (retrieved 4 April 2020). 71. http://www.bbc.com/travel/story/20130524-buenos-aires-past-as-told-throughstreet-art (retrieved 2 May 2018). 72. For instance, http://breakawaybackpacker.com/2015/05/street-art-tour-in-buenosaires/; https://www.tripadvisor.de/Attraction_Review-g312741-d2301509-ReviewsBA_Street_Art_Tours-Buenos_Aires_Capital_Federal_District.html (retrieved 24 March 2018). 73. https://turismo.buenosaires.gob.ar/en/article/street-art-buenos-aires (retrieved 24 March 2018). 74. Myriam Selhi-Ousset, “Buenos Aires: The Walls that Talk,” Panorama of the Americas, Copa Airlines (November 2016) 60–73. 75. On the photograph provided here, this effect is reinforced by the angle from the left, but frontal images prove the slight imbalance. However, this exemplifies how the perception of a street art image can be influenced by the photograph. 76. Interviews with members of Red Sudakas and with Lucas Quinto on 30 November 2016 in Buenos Aires; see also http://redsudakas.blogspot.com/2016/03/a-40-anosdel-golpe-civico-militar.html (retrieved 26 March 2020). 77. Focus group interview on 29 November 2016 in Buenos Aires; mentioned by the participant Rocío Zappelli.

122 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

78. See also https://www.degagee.de/brand-building-logos/form-aspekte/bewegungs richtung (retrieved 9 May 2020). 79. Street survey Buenos Aires, person 14. 80. Street survey Buenos Aires, person 13. 81. Street survey Buenos Aires, person 10. 82. Street survey Buenos Aires, person 4. 83. http://sonidosclandestinos.blogspot.com/2009/06/intrumentos-clandestinosel-kultrun.html (retrieved 2 May 2020). 84. http://argentinaflag.facts.co/argentinaflagof/argentinaflag.php (retrieved 27 March 2020). 85. Interview with Sergio Condori and Valeria Orfino on 29 November 2016 in Buenos Aires. 86. http://www.ancient-origins.net/myths-legends/inti-sun-god-inca-spawned-firstrulers-unforgettable-empire-007 317; see also http://ulisesbarreiro.com.ar/post/ 161746279148 (retrieved 27 March 2020). 87. For the Mapuche conflict, see http://mapuche.info/; http://herosjourneyrpg.bl ogspot.com/2014/08/world-cup-roundup-divinity-showcase.html; Retrieved 27 March 2020). 88. Interview with members of Red Sudakas on 30 November 2016 in Buenos Aires. 89. Interviews with Lucas Quinto and with members of Red Sudakas on 30 November 2016, and with Valeria Orfino and Sergio Condori on 29 November 2016, in Buenos Aires. 90. http://www.elciudadano.cl/politica/america-latina-ahora-onunca-la-doctrina-eco logica-de-juan-domingo-peron/11/18/ (retrieved 27 March 2020). 91. Street survey, person 3. 92. Interview with Valeria Orfino and Sergio Condori on 29 November 2016 in Buenos Aires (my translation). 93. Street survey Buenos Aires, person 17 and person 20. 94. https://www.divestopedia.com/definition/6820/vulture-fund (retrieved 27 March 2020). 95. https://www.economist.com/news/finance-and-economics/21690109-govern ment-has-struck-one-deal-holdout-creditors-others-will-be (retrieved 27 March 2020). 96. For an article illustrated by a street art image, see http://www.independent.co .uk/news/business/news/argentina-makes-peace-with-vulture-funds-after-14-yea rs-a6904496.html (retrieved 27 March 2020). 97. Participants of the focus group interview and a majority of pedestrians in the street survey recognized this as well. 98. Focus group interview on 29 November 2016 in Buenos Aires; mentioned by the participant Rocío Zappelli; street survey Buenos Aires, person 16 and person 17. 99. https://statesymbolsusa.org/symbol-or-officially-designated-item/state-bird/amer ican-bald-eagle; see also http://www.wideopenspaces.com/bald-eagle-becameamericas-national-symbol/ (retrieved 27 March 2020). 100. For the protests against Macri’s financial reforms affecting social policies, see http:// money.cnn.com/2017/12/19/news/economy/argentina-reform-protest/index .html (retrieved 5 April 2020).

Buenos Aires

|

123

101. https://www.telesurtv.net/english/news/Milagro-Sala-Sent-Back-to-ArgentinePrison-After-Medical-Exams-20171102-0011.html (retrieved 27 March 2020). 102. http://redsudakas.blogspot.com/2016/03/a-40-anos-del-golpe-civico-militar.html (retrieved 27 March 2020; my translation). 103. https://www.theguardian.com/world/2016/mar/23/argentina-barack-obamamothers-plaza-de-mayo-1976-coup (retrieved 26 March 2020). 104. https://www.theguardian.com/world/2016/mar/23/argentina-barack-obamamothers-plaza-de-mayo-1976-coup (retrieved 27 March 2020). 105. https://www.globalresearch.ca/latin-america-the-counter-offensive-against-us-im perialism/5474278 (retrieved 27 March 2020). 106. http://redsudakas.blogspot.com/2016/03/a-40-anos-del-golpe-civico-militar.html (retrieved 26 March 2020). 107. http://redsudakas.blogspot.com/2016/03/a-40-anos-del-golpecivico-militar.html (retrieved 27 March 2020). 108. Interviews with members of Red Sudakas and with Lucas Quinto on 30 November 2016 in Buenos Aires; see also http://redsudakas.blogspot.com/2016/03/a-40anos-del-golpe-civico-militar.html (retrieved 26 March 2020). 109. Interview with members of Red Sudakas and with Lucas Quinto on 30 November 2016 in Buenos Aires. 110. http://redsudakas.blogspot.com/2013/12/restauracion-del-mural-por-los.html (retrieved 26 March 2020). 111. More specifically, the mural is on Avenida de Mayo no. 1290. 112. http://servicios.infoleg.gob.ar/infolegInternet/anexos/40000-44999/43370/ norma.htm (retrieved 5 April 2020). 113. http://madres.org/index.php/vuelve-la-marcha-la-resistenciaviernes-26.agosto-las17-horas-plaza-mayo/; in turn, the conservative newspaper Clarín published an online article on memes mocking the image; see https://www.clarin.com/sociedad/ memes-Marcha-Resistencia_0_ry4WpWCq.html (retrieved 26 March 2020). 114. See for example http://www.cnbc.com/2017/05/04/argentinas-economic-recov ery-following-macris-visit-to-trump.html (retrieved 27 March 2020). 115. http://redsudakas.blogspot.de/2016/03/a-40-anos-del-golpe-civico-militar.html (retrieved 27 March 2020). 116. For instance, http://www.gigapan.com/gigapans/190876; https://localife.com/ BUE/things-to-do/tours/103/street-art-tour-through-avenida-de-mayo; other versions: http://magiaenelcamino.com.ar/un-paseo-en-fotos-por-la-avenida-de-mayootro-rincon-de-buenos-aires.html (retrieved 27 March 2020). 117. For instance, https://www.gettyimages.de/license/678482952 and http://www .alamy.com/stock-photo-a-revolutionary-mural-along-buenos-aires-citys-mostnoted-avenue-avenda-131523802.html (retrieved 2 May 2020). 118. Interview with members of Red Sudakas on 30 November 2016 in Buenos Aires. 119. https://www.rt.com/news/328353-monsanto-argentina-protest-eviction/ (retrieved 27 March 2020). Street art protests against Monsanto can also be found in Bogotá, inter alia. 120. http://www.greenpeace.org/argentina/es/noticias/Cierra-Pascua-Lama-pero-Vela dero-sigue-operando/; http://www.mdzol.com/nota/632033-advierten-que-la-con taminacion-de-barrick-llegaria-a-mendoza/ (retrieved 27 March 2020).

124 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

121. https://www.reuters.com/article/us-argentina-index-jpmorgan/j-p-morgan-tocut-argentina-from-nexgem-frontier-index-idUSKCN0V61E6; an alternative explanation would be that the bank declared its investment interests in Argentina right after Macri’s election; see http://www.buenosairesherald.com/article/205 683/jp-morgan-it percentE2 percent80 percent99s-time-to-invest-in-argentina (retrieved 27 March 2020). 122. http://buenosairesherald.com/article/197193/neuqu percentC3 percentA9n-givesshell-rights-over-vaca-muerta (retrieved 27 March 2020). 123. http://www.greenpeace.org/argentina/es/noticias/Seis-activistas-de-Greenpeaceabandonan-plataforma/ (retrieved 28 March 2020). 124. For an anti-Esso stencil, see Indij (2011: 147). Anti-Shell and anti-Chevron street art can also be found in Bogotá. Furthermore, Shell and JP Morgan are among the companies in which Macri’s newly appointed ministers worked before they were included in his cabinet: “There will never be a more market-friendly government than this one” (https://www.newyorker.com/news/news-desk/whats-next-mauricio-mac ri-argentinas-new-president, see also: http://www.dw.com/en/macri-announces-arge ntinas-incoming-cabinet/a-18876776) (retrieved 27 March 2020). 125. http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/southamerica/argentina/10413163/ Argentine-court-approves-media-law-forcing-breakup-of-key-critic.html (retrieved 27 March 2020). 126. In the street survey, some pedestrians thought the Macri puppet represented Héctor Magnetto, the executive CEO of Clarín Group, probably due to the Clarín logo next to him (person 8 and person 15). For other stencils criticizing Clarín, see also Indij (2011: 150–51). 127. See also Chaffee (1993: 117); Gabbay (2013: 124–25); Indij (2011: 171); and Ryan (2017: 129). 128. http://fileteado.com/en_fileteado_porteno.php (retrieved 27 March 2020). 129. http://redsudakas.blogspot.com/2012/07/35-anos-del-golpe.html (retrieved 27 March 2020). 130. https://graffitimundo.com/artists/stencil-land/; http://www.avantgardeurbano.com/ portfolio-item/buenos-aires-stencil/ (retrieved 27 March 2020). 131. Street survey Buenos Aires, person 14. 132. For a digital version of the logo that is easier to be recognized, see http://redsuda kas.blogspot.com/2013/11/normal-0-21-false-false-false-es-x-none.html (retrieved 27 March 2020). 133. See also http://redsudakas.blogspot.com/2012/12/centro-cultural-ex-olimpo.html; in other murals, the geographic shape is accompanied by the depiction of the flags of several Latin American countries, see http://redsudakas.blogspot.com/2013/12/ por-un-barrio-libre-de-violencia.html (retrieved 27 March 2020). 134. http://redsudakas.blogspot.com/2015/09/la-victoria-de-la-patria-grande.html (retrieved 2 May 2020; my translation). 135. https://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=sudaca (retrieved 27 March 2020). 136. Interviews with Lucas Quinto and with members of Red Sudakas on 30 November 2016, and with Valeria Orfino and Sergio Condori on 29 November 2016 in Buenos Aires.

Buenos Aires

|

125

137. For revolutionary posters in Russia, see King (2015); for Maoist China, see Cushing and Tompkins (2007). 138. For a deeper analysis, see Torres Arroyo (2013). 139. Stated in their magazine Nuestro Relato 1, no. 2 (2016): 2. 140. These dominant images shape the idea of what a “righteous uprising” has to look like, e.g., through binaries of young heroic peaceful revolutionaries versus Islamist terrorist “thugs” (Malmvig 2016: 262, 275). The repetition of common political slogans and narratives that are already available in the mass media, Malmvig argues, only maintains the “well-known binaries of opposition versus regime, soldier versus rebel, oppressor versus oppressed” (Malmvig 2016: 276). Resistance, by contrast, needs to go beyond mere reaction or being against something and should add a new, positive element in order to foster new modes of being seen; it should also make visible novel representations and new narratives of truths (Malmvig 2016: 259, 263, 266). 141. Nuestro Relato 1, no. 3 (2016): 4; my translation. 142. Interview with members of Red Sudakas on 30 November 2016 in Buenos Aires. Clearly, not all leftist resistance murals make use of a socialist realist style. On the contrary, artists such as Nazza prefer a rather modernist graphic design. 143. Interview with members of Red Sudakas on 30 November 2016 in Buenos Aires. 144. In classic socialist realism, the diversity of “the people” is primarily represented by the socialist trio of the worker, the peasant, and the intellectual; interview with Juan Magurrat, mural expert at Palacio Nacional, on 5 July 2017 in Mexico City. 145. Interview with Valeria Orfino and Sergio Condori on 29 November 2016 in Buenos Aires. 146. Interview with Valeria Orfino and Sergio Condori on 29 November 2016 in Buenos Aires. 147. Focus group interview on 29 November 2020 in Buenos Aires. 148. Another explanation for the representation of diversity may be in the strategy of anti-neoliberal protests and collective action in many Latin American countries, in which strikes by organized workers and peasants—in labor and peasant unions as well as Indigenous mobilizations (Rice 2012: 47)—combined their mobilization efforts for “bridging protest” and electoral coalitions (Rice 2012). 149. Interview with Valeria Orfino and Sergio Condori on 29 November 2016 in Buenos Aires. 150. Interview with members of Red Sudakas on 30 November 2016, in Buenos Aires. 151. Interviews with Lucas Quinto and members of Red Sudakas on 30 November 2016 in Buenos Aires. 152. Chaffee uses the examples of Fidel Castro’s Cuba, Nicaragua after the Sandinista revolution in 1979, and Chile under Salvador Allende.

Chapter 5

Mexico City “Another World Is Possible— Democracy, Freedom, Justice”

Iconology In Mexico’s capital, the walls reveal a diverse visual language. In the images I documented there,1 the most frequently depicted visual subjects (indicator I1) (see table C.3) are skulls and skeletons, Indigenous persons, fists, and security personnel. Other frequent motifs are masked or hooded persons, masks in general, hearts, the eagle and the snake, campesinxs, and corncobs. Although images of specific personalities do not often appear in the city, the artist Frida Kahlo is still the most depicted one. Regarding the visual themes addressed in the megacity—greater Mexico City has more than twenty-one million inhabitants—the only frequent (anti-)imperialism theme is indigenismo (indicator I2). While resistance is a very common conceptual theme, scenarios of cooperation are repeatedly depicted as well, although much less often. Common general political theme codes are state oppression, state violence and corruption, cultural heritage, and biodiversity/harmony with nature. Unsurprisingly, a ubiquitous combination of subjects is the eagle and the snake. These are the heraldic animals of the Mexican coat of arms and thus national symbols because they play a key role in the historical roots of Mexico. According to the legend, the Aztec civilization of the Mexica people founded the city of Tenochtitlan (today’s Mexico City) at a location indicated by an eagle holding a defeated snake in its beak. A related subject is the “feathered serpent,” visualizing Quetzalcoatl, an important god of several Mesoamerican cultures and religious groups (e.g., illustration 5.1a) (de la Fuente 1995; Vela 2012: 28, 30, 40). These animals often appear in street art pieces drawing on the cultural heritage of the country. Apparently, the eagle has a completely different meaning here than in other locations, for instance in Argentina, where it is negatively associated with the United States (see chapter on Buenos Aires).

a

b

c

Illustration 5.1a–c. (a) Government-sponsored murals; location: Corredor Arte Urbano Buenavista—Guerrero, Mexico City; producers: Liberalia Colectivo Itinerante; © Lisa Bogerts, 2017. (b) Government-sponsored mural; location: Corredor Arte Urbano Buenavista—Guerrero, Mexico City; producers: Liberalia Colectivo Itinerante; © Lisa Bogerts, 2017. (c) Aztec iconography from the Codex Borbonicus (detail from p. 14); public domain.

128 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

While the eagle and the snake are sometimes depicted in their original mythological contexts or as part of the flag with the Mexican national colors (see also Troconi 2008: 107), they are repeatedly being recontextualized for critical comments on contemporary politics. For instance, in one image, then US president Donald Trump is attacked by the animals defending Mexico’s sovereignty (illustration 5.2b). Particularly, the scandal of the forty-three students, who were kidnapped and killed by the military near the town of Ayotzinapa in 2014, is frequently addressed with the help of eagle and snake. In these images, the animals are either sadly mourning the victims, furiously claiming justice, or simply symbolically representing the restricted freedom of expression in the country. In an example of the latter, each skull stands for one victim, reproducing another frequent iconographic tradition (see photo 7/HP). As skulls and skeletons are important icons related to the celebration of the Day of the Dead, and while they also symbolize state violence (see illustration 5.2a), they are a particularly frequent subject in Mexican street art (see also Troconi 2008: 72–73). The most present themes are state oppression, state violence, and corruption, including images of CCTV surveillance cameras and security personnel (e.g., illustrations 5.2a and 5.4a). Combined with representations of resistance, these criticize state violence against critical voices, whose oppression is often legitimized by counterinsurgency measures in the context of the so-called War on Terror or the War on Drugs.2 Historically oriented murals in Mexico City have the function of condensing collective memory and fostering national identity. They include motifs such as Indigenous pyramids, the Virgin Mary, and historical heroes. However, the modernist urban murals are influenced by the iconography of classical Mexican muralism, picking up the visual language of the three most famous muralists: Diego Rivera, José Clemente Orozco, and David Alfaro Siqueiros (Hernández Sánchez 2008: 49, 51). Traditional Mexican muralism in the early twentieth century aimed to rearticulate the national project by discursively reactivating the society’s roots in pre-Hispanic native civilizations. At the same time, it was linked with socialist ideals of the 1910 Mexican Revolution and intended to educate the illiterate masses of workers and peasants (Jaimes 2012). Rewriting history and reinterpreting the Mexica codices from a different perspective, the murals visually conveyed many narratives of anticolonial resistance against both the Spanish conquistadors and the growing influence of US capitalism. Commenting on one of Rivera’s pivotal works on Mexican history in Palacio Nacional, Vela notes: In this interpretation . . . the whole history is like a ladder. The Indigenous past, the Conquista, the independent Mexico, and its

Mexico City

|

129

project of the future. The key? A rigorous dialectic. The space? Impressive murals. The media? A passionate wet paintbrush in the colors and in the essence of Mexico. (Vela 2012: 28, my translation) Inspired by this political and artistic movement, contemporary street art often builds on the iconography of cultural roots and mythology, on anticolonial and anti-imperialist narratives (Vela 2012; Hernández Sánchez 2008: 102, 123; Castellanos 2017).3 Apart from the fighting eagle and snake, some images show Mayan or Aztec gods like Quetzalcoatl and his rival Tezcatlipoca, symbolized by a jaguar. Another such recurring subject in street art is the animal warrior (guerrero animal), an Aztec elite soldier dressed up as a jaguar, eagle, snake, or other animal to impress his enemies. Both politically and artistically linked with the muralist movement, and being a member of the Communist Party, Frida Kahlo (e.g., illustration 5.1a) has become an international icon of female power and creativity. Since in street art she is represented in various contexts, it remains unclear whether she is referred to as a symbol of socialist or feminist resistance or whether, by contrast, she may simply provide a (less political) cultural identification that is increasingly used in advertisement merchandise and is thus being commodified and touristified.

Material Dimension There are numerous large murals across the city (indicator M2), which are authorized and sponsored. One of the few repeatedly appearing pieces is a sticker of a so-called charro, a traditional Mexican horseman in varying recontextualizations, for instance with the Guy Fawkes mask (e.g., photo 8/HP). With regard to repetitions, the artist Yescka stresses that subversive visual communication needs to adopt the strategies of advertisement: “The logos and slogans of brands are repetitive, they stay in your mind because they are catchy and easy to recognize, simply because they are everywhere.”4 Further, Yescka underlines that the artists’ technical skills make a crucial difference when it comes to obtaining both the materials (tools and highquality paint) and the formal authorization to paint large murals. Spray cans are an expensive product, and big murals may cost thousands of dollars, particularly when auxiliary technique (such as lifting platforms) is needed. As a consequence, not only the size of the image but also its quality usually depends on public or commercial sponsorship (Hernández Sánchez 2008: 39) (indicator M3).

130 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

Space During my research trip, I documented pieces in several districts of Mexico City with very different urban environments and socioeconomic levels (indicator S2). The capital consists of sixteen political entities, the delegaciones (municipalities), each containing various colonias. The most central municipality is Cuauthémoc, in which I visited the city center including the historical old town, the hip and wealthy area of Condesa and Roma (Roma Norte and Roma Sur), and the colonias of Obrera, Guerrero, Buenavista, and Algarín. Other nearby municipalities are Venustiano Carranza (with the main street of Congreso de la Unión) and Miguel Hidalgo. While Coyoacán is vivid due to its touristic areas and university life, other visited municipalities on the edges of the city have lower socioeconomic standards, such as Azcapotzalco, Benito Juárez, and Itzapalapa. In the peripheries and marginalized barrios of the megacity, as in other urban areas, different social groups have always used graffiti and modern murals to mark their territories in conflicts and to symbolically appropriate space with the help of the spray can (Hernández Sánchez 2008: 31, 51, 54). This is to defend territory not only against (other) groups and gangs but also against a hegemonic visuality by external actors with economic interests: In our environment we observe a variety of ads asking us to “buy,” “drink,” or “use,” expressions of visual contamination. Nobody asked us for permission, nor did we agree that these brands and logos are imposed on us and invade our vital space. . . . When we paint graffiti, it is the walls that testify our everyday life, that reflect our problems and our passions. (Hernández Sánchez 2008: 32, my translation) In some districts, street art visually expressing social identity is strategically supported to upgrade economically neglected areas with high crime rates to make public space more secure and attractive for investors and tourists (see P level). Such instances are the painted pillars of a motorway bridge all along the street Congreso de la Unión (see illustrations 5.2a–b), or the Corredor de Arte Urbano Buenavista—Guerrero in a low-income residential area in the city center (see illustrations 5.1a–b). Similarly, several streets of the historical old town were upgraded, above all the tourist areas that had a rather shady reputation due to cases of petty crime.5 As in other cities, protestors leave stencils and slogans during political marches to mark their routes and leave visible traces of their claims on the walls in public space (indicator S1). Since such demonstrations often take

Mexico City

|

131

a

b

Illustration 5.2a–b. (a) Mural “No to the structural reforms—43”; location: Congreso de la Unión, Mexico City; producer: unknown; © Lisa Bogerts, 2017. (b) Mural; location: Congreso de la Unión, Mexico City; producer: La Banda Chilanga; © Lisa Bogerts, 2017.

132 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

place in the city center, pieces are left as well on governmental buildings to mark the locations of the institutions held responsible for the criticized circumstances (illustration 5.3b).6 Another case of making certain locations more visible by using art is a mural adorning the façade of the Mexico City branch of the EZLN, the Rincón Zapatista (see detailed analysis, illustrations 5.5a and 5.5b).

Time At the time of my research, one of the most pressing issues of protests in Mexico was the Ayotzinapa case and the involvement of politicians and the military. During demonstrations on the anniversary of the disappearance but also on other occasions (indicator T1), social movements and politically engaged artists make their claims visible through street art commemorating the forty-three students, repeating the words “fue el estado” (it was the state) or “gobierno asesino” (assassin government) (e.g., see illustrations 5.3b and 5.4a). Other such repeated slogans refer to the “500 years of struggle” in Latin America against external dependency and (neo)colonialism (see illustration 5.3d, and chapter 3).7 Such slogans that are related to Indigenous struggles are often sprayed on the occasion of so-called Columbus Day on 12 October (in Spain: Dia de la Raza), which social movements have renamed Day of Indigenous Resistance to protest the narrative that Latin America was “discovered” by the colonial European powers on behalf of the Catholic Church.8 However, most of these pieces have a rather short lifespan (indicator T2) because the authorities are quick to erase them (see A level).

Legal Dimension In Mexico, unauthorized street art is prohibited (article 26, Ley de Cultura Cívica, 2004).9 Depending on the value of the committed damage, it is punishable with a fine between 830 Mexican pesos and 20 days of minimum wage (around US$45 to 100) or 13 to 36 hours of detainment as well as the restoration of the painted surface (indicator L1). However, according to artists, bribing police officers (around US$10 to 50) is very common. For authorized painting on a surface, the permission of both the owner and of the municipality is needed.10 To prevent and penalize illegalized actions, the city authorities in 2003 established the so-called Anti-Graffiti Unit (Unidad Antigraffiti) based in the

Mexico City

|

133

a

b

c

d

Illustration 5.3a–d. (a) Whiteners of Unidad Graffiti; “The constitution has died”; location: Mexico City © Charro, 2014. (b) Stencils and slogans; “Justice,” “Burn the prison,” “Assassin government”; © Charro, 2014. (c) Stencil “Another world is possible”; location: Mexico City © Charro, 2014. (d) Slogan “500 years of struggle”; location: Mexico City © Charro, 2014.

134 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

Department of Public Security (Secretaría de Seguridad Pública). In 2006, it was renamed as Unidad Graffiti to demonstrate the changed approach in crime prevention.11 Since its establishment, this unit is, on the one hand, responsible for preventing unauthorized painting “for a better urban imagery and a higher security, which is perceived by the feeling of the citizens, the private investment, in the rise of tourism and the harmonious coexistence of those inhabiting the city” (official document quoted in Hernández Sánchez 2008: 72; my translation). Given that the Unidad Graffiti is located in the city’s Department for Public Security, it is not surprising that producers of unauthorized street art are explicitly associated with drug trafficking gangs who are perceived a threat for society. The unit aims to attack those who, in their view, use graffiti as a form of vandalism, cause “visual pollution” (contaminación visual), and contribute to the deterioration and crime rates of the city. The authorities claim that this form of communication is used in drug trafficking and organized crime circles to transmit information in order to organize themselves (Hernández Sánchez 2008: 74). On the other hand, the unit facilitates spaces for legal painting (Programa de Detección de Espacios) for “those who use it as a cultural expression of real urban art. It is not intended to limit topics or forms of communication, but only to organize them” (cited in Hernández Sánchez 2008: 74; my translation, italics added) (see also Unidad Graffiti’s Twitter account [illustration 5.4b]).12 The Department of Public Security further claims: “The Antigraffiti Unit does not oppose legitimate artistic expressions of the bustling youth but on the contrary aims to promote and support them. . . . But try to avoid the malicious paintings, synonyms of provocation, and vandalism that profoundly hurt the society” (Hernández Sánchez 2008: 76, my translation). For this purpose, they establish a network of citizens and neighbors and a permanent collaboration with different paint manufacturers who provide antigraffiti products, especially the biggest Mexican paint manufacturer Comex (illustration 8.2d). The legal dimension of street art in Mexico City demonstrates that, first, certain forms of street art (which are not considered art) are perceived as a threat to public security, which makes it a responsibility of the Department of Public Security (and not, for instance, the Department for Urban Development) and is therefore “securitized.” Second, it becomes obvious that the city government collaborates with businesses who economically benefit from its legislation, since they become official providers of antigraffiti products. And finally, the authorities act as a sort of “curator” who “organizes” cultural expressions and has the monopoly to define what is “real art” and what is not.

Mexico City

|

135

Producers In Mexico, street art advertisement is a very common phenomenon. Examples include murals, stencils, and stickers with ads by Coca-Cola, Budweiser, and the UEFA Champion’s League (illustration 8.2c), and by the sportswear manufacturers Nike,13 PANAM, Vans, and Adidas (illustration 8.2b). Another example is a big mural by Sony advertising an album by the popular Mexican singer Lila Downs, who is often considered a symbol of cultural self-determination of people with Indigenous heritage. The local enterprise Street Art Chilango cooperates with the city administration and procures commissioned paintings for enterprises, including the US company Facebook and the coffee company Starbucks.14 They also maintain a small gallery, organize street art projects, and offer guided street art tours, which focus on the hip districts of Roma. Companies also sponsor street art festivals, such as the private initiative Constructo, which is financed by the US firms Vans and Playboy, inter alia.15 At the 2017 event, the buildings housing the Political Science Faculty of the National University (Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, UNAM) were painted with topics on gender equality and environmental protection. However, this project caused a huge scandal because an old mural by a traditional political muralist was overpainted for that purpose.16 Besides private companies, the local authorities organize festivals and projects for the beautification of public space as well. For instance, within the framework of its Unidad Graffiti, the Department of Public Security arranged the Primer Mega Concurso de Graffiti on the occasion of the bicentennial celebrations of Mexico’s independence in 2010.17 Sponsored by various paint manufacturers and streetwear companies, the city administration hosted several editions of the international Meeting of Styles festival in the city center. In a similar project, the Culture Department called for participation in a project to beautify certain façades in the historical old town (see illustration 8.4a). While these public projects predominantly promote an iconography of either “biodiversity” or “cultural heritage” by representing local animals, traditions, music, or mythology, other public projects encompass a rather political visual content. Such an instance is the Urban Art Gallery Congreso de la Unión, financed by the municipality Venustiano Carranza (illustrations 5.2a–b). This open-air gallery also focuses on representations of historical icons, environmental protection, and the promotion of infrastructure and public traffic in the capital, but it further includes more controversial images (such as an image by Polo Castellanos of a policeman kicking an eagle as a symbol for the Mexican motherland, see photo 9/HP)

136 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

and dissident personalities, such as the EZLN icon Subcomandante Marcos (illustration 8.1a). Another example of rather critical visual content is the large wall painting around San Isidro cemetery, which is a giant street art memorial for the forty-three Ayotzinapa victims. Although the municipality of the delegación Atzcapotztalco sponsored this project,18 some of the images explicitly attack the security forces (see illustration 5.4a), blame the national government, and accuse it of censorship. Another interesting initiative is the so-called Factories for Arts and Office Space (Fábricas de Artes y Oficios, FARO), including FARO de Oriente in the eastern periphery of the city. Sponsored by the Department of Culture, this institution offers studios, offices, and cultural programs, including street art workshops for young people from marginalized neighborhoods (in this case, Itzapalapa), while also cooperating with political groups and creating politically articulated paintings.19 At the same time, the program officially focuses on “fighting insecurity through the appropriation of the public space by means of different artistic and cultural activities on squares and the streets . . . ,” and is thus part of the governmental action plan for security.20 In this context, it is worth mentioning at least two more examples of government-initiated street art projects. First, the project hidroARTE illustrates the abovementioned cooperation between the local government (more specifically, the local water supply department Sacmex) and the paint manufacturer Comex.21 Funded by both Comex and the US shoe company Converse, the city administration provides surfaces on its water basins throughout the city for murals on the topic of water and nature conservation. Ironically, the most successful Comex product is antigraffiti paint and varnish, which the company advertises with the help of wall paintings, which are clearly nonartistic.22 In this sense, some local street artists consider this cooperation between the city government and the paint company unfair, as it provides Comex with space for its advertisement while helping the city determine which paintings are “worth” getting a wall and which are not (illustration 8.2d).23 Second, in January 2017, in the Corredor de Arte Urbano Buenavista— Guerrero, low-income residential buildings were painted with huge murals, financed by the Delegación Cuathémoc and coordinated by the art initiative Liberalia Colectivo Itinerante/TransMuta. The aim of this project was to upgrade marginalized space and diminish violence and criminality in the area. Simultaneously, regarding the choice of visual motives, it claimed to realize the wishes of the dwellers from the neighborhood, which were assessed in a participatory dialogue.24 Interestingly, the art collective stated that

Mexico City

|

137

the project “has created a popular resistance with the help of street art.”25 While some parts indeed depict visual elements commonly used in political imagery and resistance aesthetics (e.g., illustration 5.1b), most of the works touch political topics only marginally and instead focus on motifs of cultural heritage and social representation (e.g., illustration 5.1a). Promoting its “participatory” approach, the project claims to “fight visual contamination” in the neighborhood caused by graffiti, for instance, through painting the walls with what they consider to be more artistic content: as an interviewed dweller states about graffiti in an official video promotion clip, “These visual expressions don’t mean anything.”26 Apparently, the term “visual pollution” (see also chapter on Buenos Aires) is used both by street artists (to delegitimize invasive advertisement) and by the authorities and dwellers (to delegitimize graffiti or nondecorative street art). The cases of the Comex wall paintings advertising for antigraffiti paint and of Corredor de Arte Urbano Buenavista—Guerrero demonstrate that a popular strategy of governmental actors is to support (publicly curated) street art to fight graffiti.27 This way, not only is public space upgraded and security allegedly enhanced but the authorities can also efficiently control the content and the aesthetics of the pieces. As should have become evident, much of the large-scale street art in Mexico City is initiated or supported by the government. However, a privately arranged festival with explicitly political ambitions is ManifestoMX, which is hosted by Fifty24MX, a gallery founded to raise public political awareness after the Ayotzinapa murders.28 Popular international artists known for their critical statements were invited to paint large murals in the city center, including BLU (see chapter 4 on Buenos Aires), Bastardilla (see chapter 7 on Bogotá), and the Italian artist Ericailcane, whose controversial mural was censored (see A level below). Fifty24MX also initiates the so-called Art Walk in Roma. Various popular artists participated in this event, and their pieces not only included decorative content and topics of cultural heritage but also encompassed images with more political connotations, inter alia, such as those by the Mexican artist Saner and the Colombian artist Bastardilla. Concerning political groups, two collectives from the southern Mexican state of Oaxaca—ASARO (Asamblea de Artistas Revolucionarios de Oaxaca) and Lapiztola (a play on the words lapiz [pencil] and pistola [gun])29— were very active and visible during the 2006 uprising that was triggered by a corruption scandal. While ASARO’s activities focus on Oaxaca, one of its founders, the artist Yescka, is active in Mexico City as well. At the time of my research, Yescka cooperated, inter alia, with the Brigada Cultural Subversiva, which promotes muralism, stencils, and other graphic media to mobilize support for the struggles of the native population and to express solidarity

138 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

a

b

Illustration 5.4a–b. (a) Mural “It was us”; location: San Isidro cemetery, Mexico City; producer: unknown; © Lisa Bogerts, 2017. (b) Police tweets about Unidad Graffiti in Mexico City; © Secretaría de Seguridad Ciudadana de la Ciudad de México, 2017.

Mexico City

|

139

with the EZLN.30 Other EZLN adherents and political artists are the (rather traditional) muralist Polo Castellanos and Vlocke, who is part of the leftist art collective Casa Tamatz Kallaumari.31 Although the EZLN mainly operates in Chiapas (in the south of the country), it runs local offices, including one in Mexico City that is adorned by a mural, which I will analyze in detail below. Given the ubiquitous wall paintings by various producers—with motifs ranging from religious icons and the announcement of public events and new laws and regulations to election campaigns by local parties—it is obvious that many groups compete for visibility in public space. Wall paintings are also used to decorate public buildings, including police stations. The majority of these paintings are accompanied by the logos of public authorities (either by the capital of Mexico City or the municipalities).

Audiencing Mexico City’s street art is actively perceived and altered by various groups of actors. As usual in the street paining scene, with regard to the local community (indicator A1), authorized street art images are frequently crossed out by means of (unauthorized) graffiti. Crossed-out pieces range from advertisements and images of politicians to merely beautifying decoration, such as sexualized portraits of women (see photo 21/HP). According to the interviewed artists, the authorities occasionally censor political imagery (indicator A2). For instance, officials of the governing party Partido Revolucionario Institucional (PRI) deleted images that criticized the government in Oaxaca.32 In the state of Atenco, several trade union murals were deleted in 2013, including a portrait of Emiliano Zapata, “an iconic mural of popular resistance of the people of Atenco in defense of their land” (Castellanos 2015: 54–57, my translation).33 For Polo Castellanos, “the only way the state manages to silence the visual discourses reinforcing the legitimate struggles of the people is to destroy them on all fronts” (Castellanos 2015: 56, my translation). A case of censorship that received international attention affected a mural painted during the abovementioned 2015 ManifestoMX festival. After the Italian artist Ericailcane had painted a monkey with a presidential sash in a vivid pedestrian area in the city center, he was urged to alter the image and blacken the presidential sash, since the image was mocking the president by comparing him with a monkey (photo 10/HP).34 Similarly, the Colombian artist Lesivo (see chapter 7 on Bogotá) stated that after his trip to Mexico City, three of his politically loaded images were deleted soon after.35

140 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

In general, slogans and stencils left during political marches are commonly erased by official whiteners of the Unidad Graffiti (see L level), who follow the protest marches to instantly clean the walls (see illustration 5.3a).36 However, these “prophylactic brigades of order” (Hernández Sánchez 2008: 82, my translation) do not clean all the paintings but only those that contain political messages.37 As a consequence, the artists and activists take digital photos of their works directly after painting them (see T level) to circulate them on their social media platforms and other political online forums. Apart from these reactions of rejecting or destroying street art, there are supportive reactions by governmental and nongovernmental actors in the art and economic sectors (indicator A3), including guided tours for tourists (e.g., Street Art Chilango). For instance, already in 2008, the Museo de la Ciudad de México organized a street art exhibition, inviting political artists from Oaxaca and other regions as well. The exhibition was sponsored by companies such as Vans and the German spray can manufacturer Montana.38 In their magazine Bitácora 09, the abovementioned government-sponsored cultural institution FARO de Oriente repeatedly reported on political street art and “graphics as a tool of identity and resistance” (p. 91), including leftist, anti-US, and anti-capitalist content.39 Beyond the media attention for street art festivals (indicator A4), it was especially the political work of the collectives Lapiztola and ASARO since the 2006 Oaxaca uprising that received a paramount attention from the international media40 and other international players.41 However, Yescka emphasizes that it is almost exclusively media and institutions from other countries, mainly from Europe, that are keen to report on their “exciting” and “exotic” street art critical of Mexican realities. By contrast, in Mexico itself there is much less attention and support.42

Detailed Analysis: “Another World Is Possible— Democracy, Freedom, Justice” To give an insight into Mexico City’s rich political street art iconology, I next analyze a mural (illustrations 5.5a–b) with two (anti-)imperialism theme codes, the conceptual code “cooperation” (indicator I2), and several motives that are among the most frequent in this city (indicator I1) (see table C.3). The piece contains both image and text (indicator I3). My interpretation of how resistance and rule are visually negotiated is based on a description of the iconological content of the image (see appendix A). Regarding the visual subjects in the mural, I distinguish five sections separated by architectural

Mexico City

|

141

a

b

Illustration 5.5a–b. (a) Mural “Another world is possible—democracy, freedom, justice”; location: Enlace Zapatista CDMX, Mexico City; producer: unknown; © Lisa Bogerts, 2017. (b) Detail of illustration 5.5a.

142 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

characteristics of the façade: the ground floor (section 1), the door of the main entrance (section 2); the upper left side (section 3) and the upper right side (section 4), divided by a small, prominent section between the two balconies (section 5) (see illustration B.2a in appendix B). The mural adorns the façade of Rincón Zapatista DF (Zapatista Corner Mexico City) and Cafetería Comandanta Ramona (indicator S1). Both are run by the political and militant group EZLN, more precisely, the Sixth Division of the EZLN (Comisión Sexta del EZLN). Rincón Zapatista is one of the Sixth Division’s representations in the Mexican capital that aims to raise support for the EZLN’s struggle and generate resources for its activities.43 Although the mural contains only indirect references to “resistance” (the black ski masks, inter alia), it expresses the worldview of a genuine militant resistance group, the EZLN. Instead of directly depicting actions of resistance against enemies or expressing struggle or anger, the image employs a positive rhetoric and visualizes “cooperation,” following the narrative of a “transnational counter-public” (Olesen 2005: 95). The demonstration of a positive, idealistic, even romanticized vision of the world goes hand in hand with the visual themes of indigenismo and biodiversity/harmony with nature. While the EZLN represents the rights of “the (Global) South” fighting the economic hegemony of the North, the image promotes the protection of the biosphere as well as “Amerindian” self-representation (see Mirzoeff 2011; 2017). It is a collective work that does not indicate any individual artistic signature or other means of striving for individual fame (indicator P1). At the same time, the artists seem to have been well aware of the ambivalences of typical resistance icons. In the portraits of the revolutionaries Emiliano Zapata and Ernesto “Che” Guevara in the stencil on the door (section 2), it humorously addresses the increasingly commodified aesthetics of resistance. These findings are based on the following interpretation: The black ski mask is not only repeatedly depicted in the image but is also its biggest visual element, and thus literally the “eye catcher” of the mural. Eyes are a common street art motif (see also chapter 6 on Caracas). As the common phrase “the eyes are the mirror of the soul” suggests, close-up views of eyes evoke a sense of closeness and intimacy and demonstrate spiritual expressivity. However, they may also simply symbolize vision, or even surveillance. The black ski mask or balaclava (in Latin America: pasamontañas) is a visual key symbol of the EZLN and (Neo-)Zapatismo. During the 1994 uprising in Chiapas, they were used to guarantee the anonymity of the rebels for two reasons: on the one hand, they helped them not to be recognized for arrest and potential criminal persecution by the police and other state forces; on the other hand, no individual person would be perceived as the leader, because the group aimed to promote collective leadership and a horizontal organization44:

Mexico City

|

143

The Zapatistas use an iconic black ski-mask to identify themselves as part of the movement, simultaneously granting them anonymity and unity. The act of covering their faces makes them recognizable as activists and resistors against the establishment and its treatment of indigenous people. The presence of the Zapatista mask in later Mexican activist art articulates memories of persistent local injustice and revolution. (Siyumbwa 2017) Guaranteeing anonymity, the ski mask has become a global resistance symbol in a more general sense. It is a common visual feature of several movements worldwide, including the Basque liberation group Euskadi Ta Askatasuna (ETA), the paramilitary Provisional Irish Republican Army (PRIA), and—in colorful versions—the Russian feminist punk band Pussy Riot. Nevertheless, a great variety of actors use this facemask, ranging from fascist groups to special police tactical units45 (who fight resistance against the state) (illustrations 8.1a–c). Hence, their interpretation highly depends on the context. Many of the pasamontañas among the frequently depicted masked or hooded persons in my photo material—not only from Mexico—express solidarity with the Zapatistas. This includes one portrait of the former EZLN spokesperson Subcomandante Marcos with his characteristic pipe, beret, and headphones (illustration 8.1a), which almost seems to be a parody of the ski mask worn by state security forces.46 Another Zapatista symbol and specific feature of masked or hooded persons (encapuchados) in the coded photo material is the paliacate (bandana), a kerchief with a characteristic colored pattern. Just as the pasamontaña, it has become a broader symbol of resistance when it is worn to cover the mouth. It is often combined with other protest symbols (e.g., photo 22/HP) or with symbols of specific conflicts in Mexico, such as the “43” related to the Ayotzinapa case. A look at the photo material reveals that masks are a frequent visual object in Mexican street art. Besides the pasamonaña, the paliacate, and other symbolic clothes such as the Palestinian kefya, there are several types of masks that may not carry an explicit political connotation. For instance, the typical Mexican wrestling (lucha libre) mask (e.g., on the right-hand side of photo 22/HP), wooden or golden pre-Hispanic animal masks, and Aztec animal fighters (guerrero animal) are frequent motifs that mostly appear in scenarios of fighting. Understood in this sense, the mask is a positive symbol providing the person who is wearing it with a feeling of identity, power, and a sense of belonging to a bigger group. Such imagery may as well be interpreted as indirectly referring to cultural and political struggle.

144 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

At the same time, returning to the Rincón Zapatista mural, maskwearing persons may also be perceived as intimidating and may evoke negative connotations, ranging from criminality and radicalism to danger and clandestinity.47 This stands in stark contrast to the positive imagery of nature and the rather fragile appearance of the two Zapatista dolls in their humble clothes, who are depicted underneath the big eyes. The skin tone of these typical Mexican dolls is different shades of brown and thus, in combination with the dark eyes, might indicate an Indigenous or “mestizo” (in any case: non-White) identity. The dolls’ traditional Zapatista clothes underline this impression. Following this interpretation, these characters may be considered (self-)representations of Indigenous (Zapatista) communities. At the same time, the blue and the pink shirts of the dolls may symbolize a male and a female character. Thus it not only implies cooperation but also gender equality, since the characters are “on the same level.” The EZLN explicitly underlines equal rights and duties by both men and women and often represents this concept in their visual material with female figures.48 The movement’s most iconic female representative is its former spokeswoman Comandanta Ramona—the namesake of the café at Rincón Zapatista. In Café Comandanta Ramona, adherents and sympathizers of the EZLN meet every Saturday for political debates or cultural events. All work in the café is unpaid.49 In its little shop, visitors can buy publications (journals, books, films, etc.) about the Zapatista struggle and other merchandise (postcards, clothes, etc.) with EZLN imagery. The operators emphasize that all products are produced (without any exploitation) by Zapatista communities and other anti-capitalist collectives that donate their profit to the Sixth Division. They stress that the income generated by the shop supports the continuation of the Zapatista struggle, “a common struggle together with others, from below and from the left.”50 Since I met some other foreigners during a community event at Rincón Zapatista, and photos of the façade with the mural can be found on the online image hosting platform Flickr, there seems to be a certain attention by tourists and other interested people who visit the place to learn about the struggle of the Sixth Division.51 The central location of the mural makes it an easy destination for visitors. It is located on the street of Zapotecos (No. 7) in the colonia Obrera, delegación Cuauthémoc, near the historical old town of Mexico City and the metro station Isabel la Católica (indicator S2). Although the street is only fifteen minutes by foot from the main square (Plaza de la Constitución, or Zócalo), it is a relatively quiet residential area. On the same street, no other bigger street art image could be found, but there are some in the neighborhood. The “Sixth Division” is a name for today’s EZLN adherents, because they support the Sexta Declaración de la Selva Lacandona (Sixth declaration

Mexico City

|

145

of the Lacondan jungle). Since its first anti-NAFTA uprising in 1994 in the state of Chiapas, the most southern and poorest state in Mexico, the EZLN presents its anti-neoliberal program, aims, and guidelines in the form of declarations. In 2005, the Sixth Declaration (in short: La Sexta) informed the public that the EZLN would stop pursuing a military-style, armed struggle, acknowledging that such a fighting mode is per se hierarchal and nondemocratic. Instead, it declared its new focus on a broader civilian national strategy to develop alternative politics to the state actor politics, the so-called La Otra Campaña (The other campaign). According to the Sixth Declaration, the autonomous municipalities (also called caracoles, English: snails) are responsible for keeping “the peoples and national and international civil society . . . well informed” and maintaining political and economic support, “the aid and contacts which they had attained throughout Mexico and the world during these years of war and resistance.”52 For the Sixth Division, cultural and visual means are crucial for internationally expressing and conveying their anti-neoliberal, anti-capitalist, and anti-imperialist struggle in order to defend Indigenous autonomy. Therefore, fine art is an integral part of the movement’s cultural life, and murals adorn the façades of many houses in the caracoles.53 Although there are certain outstanding individual artists, the Zapatista approach to mural painting is explicitly nonhierarchal and participatory. Commenting on the EZLN’s visuality, the visual culture scholar T. J. Demos points out: Their imagery is redolent with Indigenous iconography joined to revolutionary resurgence: Mayan ruins, bandana-clad planet Earths, native corns and flowers, and moons and snails wearing balaclavas join demotic, hand-painted texts relaying Zapatista cosmological poetics. . . . (Demos 2016: 93) A look at the EZLN’s official magazine Rebeldía demonstrates that photographs of murals regularly illustrate official statements by leading figures, reflections on campaigns or programs, or (guest) contributions on broader political developments on the local, national, or international level, such as new imperialism or solidarity with other resistance groups. Very frequent visual elements in the murals are, inter alia, Ernesto “Che” Guevara, Emiliano Zapata, the pasamontañas, the paliacate, the red star, the corncob, the Aztec speech bubble (see below), the white dove, and nature.54 This way, many murals in the magazine discursively link different struggles while still drawing on native cultural heritage, for instance through visual symbols of land rights, socialism, Indigenous autonomy, the struggle for peace in general, and environmental protection. As can be seen at Rincón Zapatista, the EZLN’s visual

146 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

language cross-historically links the 1910 revolution with pre-Hispanic Indigenous identities and resistance against colonization. This continuous fight is demonstrated by the Zapatista slogan “500 years of resistance,” which is as well depicted in a mural in Rebeldía (2004/15, p. 9)55 und is sprayed on walls during demonstration marches in Mexico City (see illustration 5.3d).56 A frequently depicted symbol of Indigenous identities are the big corncobs on the right-hand side of section 1 in the mural. For as Natasha Siyumbwa informs us on this iconology: The people of Mexico have been farming maize for thousands of years, an ancestral heritage that positions the crop as a prized cultural icon. The signing of NAFTA jeopardized this longstanding practice, as it allowed U.S. agricultural conglomerates to sell corn at nearly 1/2 the price of Mexican farmers. Depictions of maize reflect the precarious state of the time-honored tradition in the context of global capitalism. (Siyumbwa 2017) Although the corncob might not always be read in the context of anticapitalism, it can in any case be considered a Latin American symbol of Indigenous traditions and of historical bond with land rights and agriculture (see also chapter 6 on Caracas). Its visual tradition goes back to the iconography of the historic Mexica people (Vela 2012: 52–53),57 was repeated by the Mexican muralists, and is frequently found in contemporary street art. A similar traditional agricultural symbol is the cocoa or coffee bean, which appears on the left-hand side of section 1. These natural products belong to the same visual discursive strand as the flowers, the animals, the hills, the water, the sun, and other elements of nature represented in the mural. The appreciation of biodiversity and harmony with nature is an integral part of the Zapatista ideology. Both the depiction of the day-night rhythm and the spiral sunrays and stars symbolize a deeper, spiritual bond with the cosmological energy of planet Earth that goes beyond a pure interest in extractivism (Vela 2012: 70–71). In Mirzoeff’s words about the “Amerindian” perspective: “What is common here is that humans, spirits and animals all share the same form of subjectivity or personhood: the capacity to act” (Mirzoeff 2016: 210). The white dove as seen in the mural is an international sign for peace. With regard to the emergence of civilian Zapatismo fostering the role of civil society instead of military operations and the EZLN’s democratic vision of social change, the depiction of the white dove could be interpreted exactly as such a symbol for peaceful means instead of military resistance. In section 5 of the mural, the EZLN’s logo is complemented with a white snail-shell-like element. While the snail association could be linked

Mexico City

|

147

with the name of the autonomous Zapatista municipalities, caracoles (snails), it is at the same time a speech bubble from pre-Hispanic iconography. In mural paintings by native communities throughout Mexico, such forms visualize speeches and interpersonal conversations (see illustration 5.1c). In Aztec cultures, “the spiral-shaped (‘volute’) speech scroll in pre-Hispanic codices was used . . . to indicate the idea of speech itself, usually referring to ‘noble,’ ‘wise,’ ‘valuable’—i.e. ‘true’—speech.”58 This symbol occurs not only in Diego Rivera’s famous murals on the history of Mexico59 but also in contemporary Zapatista murals60 and other imagery present in the urban space of Mexico City. In addition, such speech bubbles make up the most common pattern on the paliacates. Against the backdrop of EZLN’s focus on democratic debate and the primacy of the spoken word, it is possible that the white speech bubble at Rincón Zapatista stands for its claim to be a space for facilitating political debate. As Olesen puts it: After twelve days of armed confrontations between the EZLN and the Mexican army in January 1994, the EZLN thus embarked on a new course in which the role of weapons has become increasingly symbolic, shifting the terrain of its struggle from the battlefield to the level of words and ideas. In doing so, the EZLN became a key actor in the process of democratic social change that Mexico has been going through since the late 1980s. (Olesen 2005: 1) The red star on black ground has become one of the most important visual features of the Zapatista movement (Castellanos 2015: 101). In more general terms, the color combination of red and black is associated with anarchism, socialism, or communism, while red has become a constitutive attribute of the revolutionary international labor movement. It thus fits the political imagery of the EZLN’s libertarian socialist ideology. In particular, the five-pointed red star is an international icon of a socialist or communist worldview. It adorns not only flags and logos of several left-wing guerilla organizations (like the red star on Che Guevara’s beret) but also monuments, products of popular culture, and other things expressing sympathy with leftwing worldviews. At the same time, in the Zapatista movement, the five arms of the red star may carry different meanings, including the five continents (Leetoy 2008: 78). The red star is displayed in numerous street art images in Mexico City (e.g., illustration 5.2a). Also in the other cities it is commonly depicted in the imagery of left-wing political resistance groups, but also of the governing United Socialist Party of Venezuela (PSUV) (see chapter 6 on Caracas).61

148 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

Returning to the façade of Rincón Zapatista, the text elements are also written in red color and partly accompanied by red stars.62 At the same time, the phrase above the logo demonstrates the Zapatistas’ link with the transnational alter-globalization movement. “Otro mundo es posible” (Another world is possible)—besides the other phrase “democrácia, libertad, justicia” (democracy, freedom, justice) and “¡Ya basta!” (Enough is enough!)—was one of the main EZLN slogans during the 1994 Chiapas uprising (see illustration 5.3c). Inspired by the “First International Encounter for Humanity and against Neoliberalism” organized by the EZLN in Chiapas in 1996, the founders of the World Social Forum in 2001 adopted the phrase as a motto. By using this slogan, the EZLN made clear that their enemy existed beyond the Mexican state, which oppressed the poor and native population with its militarized politics, inter alia. Emanating from the government’s ratification of NAFTA, the group aligned itself with a broader anti-free-trade, anti-neoliberal global network and therefore aimed to change not only the local (Chiapas) or national level (Mexico) but also the world (otro mundo). In turn, the movement generated interest and attraction beyond national borders. This resulted in an informal transnational solidarity network whose actors are geographically disperse but discursively related in their struggle. According to Olesen, this transnational solidarity frame of a “transnational counter-public” (Olesen 2005: 95), linking local struggles to others and therefore mobilizing an informal solidarity network, was also fostered by visual language.63 In the mural, this link with the alter-globalization movement is underlined by the written white lines underneath the big eyes in section 1. These written phrases include, inter alia, “nuestra lucha es por la humanidad y contra el neoliberalismo” (our struggle is for humanity and against neoliberalism) and “Y vamos, con respeto mutuo, a intercambiar experiencias, historias, ideas, sueños” (and with mutual respect, we are going to exchange experiences, histories, ideas, dreams). For instance, “our struggle is for humanity and against neoliberalism” is a quote from the Sixth Declaration related to the abovementioned First International Encounter for Humanity and against Neoliberalism in 1996.64 The other phrases are other quotes from the Declaration and from speeches by Subcomandante Marcos.65 Regarding the last part of the mural (section 2), one must not forget the importance of Zapatismo’s namesake himself, Emiliano Zapata Salazar (1879–1919). The man with the iconic mustache and sombrero, who is depicted in the stencil on the main door, led the peasant movement for land rights in the Mexican state of Morelos and was a protagonist of the 1910 Mexican Revolution. His portrait is omnipresent in Mexican everyday life and occasionally appears in street art as well.

Mexico City

|

149

Being both a muralist and an adherent of the Sixth Division, Polo Castellanos declares that large-size murals showing emblematic symbols and “heroes of the motherland” (patria) can be considered a form of resistance because they transmit traditional imagery of national identity from generation to generation and thus foster cohesion.66 In these terms, Zapata and his companion Pancho Villa keep representing injustice in Mexican history. However, despite his importance for the EZLN’s symbolic language of transnational solidarity, Zapata must not be considered a leftist symbol per se. By contrast, “his image was later appropriated by the Mexican state as a symbol of the government’s purported commitment to revolutionary reforms, which were never fully realized in the 20th century” (Siyumbwa 2017). The decreasing power as a resistance symbol—given that the 1910 revolution was symbolically “institutionalized” by the governing party and that Mexico City even named a metro stop after him—is accelerated by economic commodification and touristification of the EZLN’s iconic imagery, as demonstrated by, for instance, selling the paliacate as a touristic souvenir.67 Commenting on this increasing “Zapaturismo,” the stenciled Zapata at Rincón Zapatista wears not only a (stereo)typical Mexican sombrero but also a modern watch and sneakers, and he holds a cigarette in his right hand and a book in his left. On his long-sleeve shirt is a printed portrait of another Latin American revolutionary that has become extraordinarily commodified: Ernesto “Che” Guevara. Originally, a partisan (or guerillero) was an irregular combatant coming from the “average people,” fighting without uniform in clandestine resistance against the oppression of the people and giving his life for the motherland and his convictions (Skokan 2011: 219–21). In artistic iconography, the partisan is crucial for the construction of historical and cultural identity. No doubt, Ernesto “Che” Guevara is one of the most popular international “heroes” of resistance. He was a key figure not only of the Cuban Revolution in 1959 but also elsewhere in the Global South, as he practically realized his theory of guerilla fighting in an anti-capitalist, pro-socialist struggle that led him through various countries, mostly in Latin America. Commonly reproduced is the famous 1960 photograph by Alberto Korda, his portrait with the red-starred beret, which has become iconic and has made its journey through politics and popular culture alike. Besides Hugo Chávez and Simón Bolívar, who mainly appear in Caracas, he is the most coded personality in my photo material and appears in all four cities under consideration.68 However, in Mexico City his portrait appears only twice, surprisingly seldom. The stenciled Zapata with his Che shirt visually combines both icons of resistance as an ideological frame of reference while at the same time iron-

150 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

ically pointing to their degradation as icons of pop culture, and thus commercialization and appropriation. On the one hand, the modernly dressed, almost hipsterish Zapata (instead of adorned in his original charro style) is accessible for a diverse audience and helps the viewer identify by transferring his symbolic meaning into contemporary people’s reality and lifestyle. On the other hand, and more importantly, the fact that he is wearing touristy merchandise showing another commercialized icon of resistance is spinning a (self-)ironic narrative. Consequently, with this visual link, the EZLN humorously demonstrates awareness of the fact that their own namesake has become an ambiguous reference of resistance. Finally, it is worth addressing the characteristic Zapatista folkloristic painting style (indicator I7), which is here juxtaposed with the modernist aesthetics of the black-and-white stenciled hipster Zapata. The vast part of the mural is painted in a simple, childlike way, without consideration of perspective, shade, or spatial depth. In art history, this style—somewhat derogatorily—would be called “naïve art” or “folk art.” As Demos points out, the Zapatistas remain guarded against artistic and mediatized appropriations of rebellious visuality, particularly romanticized revolutionary imagery that is denuded of political traction, forming what the Zapatistas term a “complex maneuver of distraction,” such as charismatic portraits of Subcomandante Marcos. (Demos 2016: 92) This strategy, following the Zapatista artist Camilio, consists in “anonymity, repetition, no obsessive pursuit of ‘newness’ or difference, affordability, overcoming the separation between manual/intellectual work, no individual fame, no feeding the ego, collective aims, support for a real and rebel cause” (cited in Demos 2016: 93). Understood in this sense, the childlike painting style might aim to resist the appropriation by the art market. However, the principle of collective mural painting may forbid extravagant artistic endeavors and thus sacrifice artistic fame for the sake of communitarian practices to build a common imagery in public space—an aesthetic practice that is inseparably linked with the political aims of the Zapatista social movement. In the EZLN’s Rebeldía magazine (particularly an article by Delgado and Struck 2006), muralism and graffiti are said to be an integral part of an alternative approach to communication within the framework of La Otra Campaña. In the face of decreasing spaces for free communication due to a concentration of media power, murals are considered a tool of resistance and for (re)opening space, for sharing and strengthening dignity through alternative communication that opposes the official communication chan-

Mexico City

|

151

nels controlled by the government. Given the increasing commodification of media, information, art, and culture and in contemporary capitalism, for them “alternative media” are fundamental tools for the people’s struggle “from below” (Delgado and Struck 2006: 47, 50–51). Asking “How can information be organized to hear the voices of the compañer@s de la Otra in a simpler and clearer way?” the authors consider muralism a simple, clear, and accessible way to diffuse information and ideology through visual symbols to mobilize adherents (Delgado and Struck 2006: 53; my translation). Concerning international attention for the EZLN’s wall paintings, for instance, the street artist Banksy aimed to draw attention to the situation in Chiapas as well. In 1999 he visited the Zapatista communities, and they collectively painted a mural in the caracol of San Cristobal de las Casas (Indij 2011: 13).69 This activity contributed to Banksy’s public image as an internationally engaged activist artist, which was later reinforced by his paintings in Palestine (see chapter 2). Promoting muralism and graffiti as an alternative medium of communication, political mobilization, and identity building, Rebeldía has published photos of people with pasamontañas and/or gas masks spraying images on walls or buses70 or teaching other people how to spray. Finally, and funnily, in a comic drawing, even Subcomandante Marcos is holding a spray can in his hand.

Notes 1. In Mexico City, I took photos of 365 street art pieces, of which 154 were images, 31 were texts, and 180 combined both image and text (indicator I3). 2. See, e.g., https://nacla.org/article/war-terror-target-americas and http://www.wars capes.com/opinion/tlatlaya-ayotzinapa-apatzing-n-state-terror-mexico (retrieved 24 April 2020). 3. Interviews with the artist Polo Castellanos on 28 June 2017, and with the artist Yescka on 30 June 2017, in Mexico City. 4. Interview with Yescka on 30 June 2017 in Mexico City (my translation). 5. Interview with Charro on 27 June 2017 in Mexico City. 6. Interview with Charro on 27 June 2017 in Mexico City; photo courtesy of Charro (protest march in September 2016). 7. Photo courtesy of Charro (protest march in November 2014). 8. https://www.telesurtv.net/english/news/Indigenous-Peoples-Day-20160808-0014 .html# (retrieved 2 May 2020). 9. http://www.aldf.gob.mx/archivo-0f05874fac7a0a4b94b9935dd0998eae.pdf (retrieved 4 April 2020). 10. Interview with Charro on 27 June 2017 and with Yescka on 30 June 2017, both in Mexico City; participation in the Street Art Chilango tour on 1 July 2017; see also:

152 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

11. 12. 13. 14.

15. 16.

17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24.

25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32.

https://noticieros.televisa.com/ultimas-noticias/graffiti-ilegal-afecta-70-construccio nes-cdmx/ (retrieved 2 May 2020). http://cdmx.com/ssp-apoya-expresion-con-unidad-graffiti/362445/ (retrieved 30 October 2020). https://twitter.com/SSC_CDMX; reposted on https://la-saga.com/cultura-pop/uni dad-grafitti-ssp/ (retrieved 30 October 2020). See also https://culturacolectiva.com/generales/un-mural-en-el-mercado-de-jamai ca-como-parte-de-la-nike-reta-nike-invita/ (retrieved 2 April 2020). Participation in the Street Art Chilango tour on 1 July 2017; http://streetartnyc .org/blog/2017/01/03/speaking-with-street-art-chilango-founders-jenaro-derosenzweig-alejandro-revilla/ (retrieved 4 April 2020). http://constructoarte.com/ (retrieved 2 April 2020). http://pmmagazine.mx/festival-internacional-de-arte-urbano-constructo-2017/; for the scandal: http://danielmanriquearias.com/borran-mural-en-la-unam/; http://se manal.jornada.com.mx/ultimas/2017/04/04/protestan-por-destruccion-de-muralde-daniel-manrique-en-la-unam (retrieved 2 April 2020). https://sipse.com/mexico/grafiteros-nuevos-muralistas-ciudad-mexico-207234 .html (retrieved 4 April 2020). See also https://noticiasdeldf.com/nota-ciudad-mural-en-honor-a-los-43-estudiant es-desaparecidos-de-ayotzinapa-en-azcapotzalco2016281129 (retrieved 4 April 2020). Interview with Sergio Rodriguez Martinez (FARO de Oriente) on 5 July 2017 in Mexico City. http://farodeoriente.com/ (my translation). https://culturacolectiva.com/generales/concurso-de-arte-urbano-hidro-arte-2015/; https://www.facebook.com/hidroARTECDMX/ (retrieved 5 April 2020). https://www.coatingsworld.com/issues/2010-11/view_latin-america-reports/co mex-battles-mexican-graffiti-with-nanocoating-te/ (retrieved 5 April 2020). Interview with Charro on 27 June 2017 in Mexico City. See https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XYlf3K1cU3k; http://www.capitalmexico .com.mx/metropolitano/fotos-y-videos-del-corredor-de-arte-urbano-buenavistaguerrero/; http://www.eluniversal.com.mx/colaboracion/orgullomexicano/muralis tas-de-la-guerrero-contra-la-violencia (retrieved 4 April 2020). http://www.eluniversal.com.mx/colaboracion/orgullomexicano/muralistasde-la-guerrero-contra-la-violencia (retrieved 4 April 2020; my translation). http://www.eluniversal.com.mx/colaboracion/orgullomexicano/muralistasde-la-guerrero-contra-la-violencia (retrieved 4 April 2020). Participation in the Street Art Chilango tour on 1 July 2017. See https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gY3JQ-ERYDM (retrieved 4 April 2020). Interview with a member of Lapiztola on 11 July 2017 in Oaxaca de Juárez. Interview with Yescka on 30 June 2017 in Mexico City; see http://guerilla-art.mx/ yescka/ (retrieved 4 April 2020). Interview with Vlocke on 6 July 2017 in Mexico City. Interview with a member of Lapiztola on 11 July 2017 in Oaxaca de Juárez; see also http://murostreetart.com/2016/03/09/estallidos-de-censura-al-arte-urbanoen-mexico-por-daniel-von-g/ and http://www.m-x.com.mx/2015-10-26/el-gobi erno-de-la-ciudad-de-oaxaca-borra-murales-de-lapiztola-stencil/ (retrieved 2 May 2020).

Mexico City

|

153

33. Interview with Polo Castellanos on 28 June 2017 in Mexico City; see also https://tra bajadoresyrevolucion.wordpress.com/2013/12/08/mexico-borran-mural-en-aten co-provocacion-del-pri/ (retrieved 4 April 2020). 34. https://epaolarodriguez.wordpress.com/2015/03/11/ericailcane-censurado-mexico/ (retrieved 5 April 2020). 35. Interview with Lesivo on 4 November 2016 in Bogotá; see also https://www.you tube.com/watch?v=txVvt1VmxB4 (retrieved 5 April 2020). 36. Interview with Charro on 27 June 2017 in Mexico City; photo courtesy Charro. 37. Interview with Yescka on 30 June 2017 in Mexico City. 38. http://lascallesestandiciendocosas.blogspot.de (retrieved 5 April 2020). 39. Bitácora 09 5, no. 15 (2015). 40. For instance, https://www.theguardian.com/global-development/2015/feb/05/mex ico-oaxaca-murals-lapiztola-street-art-murals; https://www.aljazeera.com/indepth/ features/2017/03/oaxaca-revolutionary-street-art-1703200 85056182.html (retrieved 5 April 2020). 41. For instance, https://www.goethe.de/ins/us/de/kul/sup/abi/lap.html and https:// www.lonelyplanet.com/mexico/oaxaca-city/attractions/lapiztola/a/poi-sig/15291 10/361604 (retrieved 5 April 2020). 42. Interview with Yescka on 30 June 2017 in Mexico City. 43. https://www.facebook.com/RinconZapatistaDF/ (retrieved 5 April 2020). 44. http://crucedecordillera.blogspot.com/2009/04/pasaontanas.html (retrieved 5 April 2020). 45. See, e.g., http://www.alamy.com/stock-photo-dpa-an-officer-of-the-special-forcescommando-sek-of-the-german-police-53879467.html (retrieved 5 April 2020). 46. Thomas Olesen (2005: 10) stresses that an intelligent PR strategy enables the charismatic and humorous figure of Subcomandante Marcos to translate the EZLN’s Indigenous struggles to a broader, non-Mexican audience. This way the EZLN struggle is invocated “onto a universal level” (Olesen 2008). 47. With the outbreak of the coronavirus pandemic in 2020, the face mask has gained a whole new dimension of public visibility—including in street art—as it has become a global symbol of health protection and social distancing. 48. http://upsidedownworld.org/archives/mexico/art-for-revolutions-sake-voices-fromthe-ezlns-comparte-festival-in-chiapas/; https://nacla.org/article/zapatismo-and-eme rgence-indigenous-feminism (retrieved 2 May 2020). 49. Participation in a community event at Rincón Zapatista (Resonando Rumbo al CompArte; preparation for the Festival CompARTE por la Humanidad) on 8 July 2017 in Mexico City. 50. https://www.facebook.com/RinconZapatistaDF/ (retrieved 5 April 2020; my translation). 51. Participation in a community event at Rincón Zapatista (Resonando Rumbo al CompArte; preparation for the Festival CompARTE por la Humanidad) on 8 July 2017 in Mexico City. 52. http://enlacezapatista.ezln.org.mx/2005/06/30/sixth-declaration-of-the-selva-lacan dona/ (retrieved 2 May 2018). 53. See, for instance, https://hiveminer.com/Tags/ezln percent2Cmural/Timeline; http:// discursovisual.net/dvweb18/aportes/apohijar.htm; see also http://www.creativeresis tance.org/tag/zapatistas/ (retrieved 5 April 2020).

154 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

54. My research focused on the Rebeldía issues 6 (2003), 15 (2004), and 40 (2006), which I obtained in the shop of Rincón Zapatista during my visit on 8 July 2017 in Mexico City. 55. Also in http://discursovisual.net/dvweb09/imagenes/pages/ago_4-6.html (retrieved 2 May 2018). 56. Interview with Charro on 27 June 2017 in Mexico City. 57. For Mayan iconography, see Miller (2002: 49). 58. See, e.g., http://www.mexicolore.co.uk/aztecs/ask-us/is-there-name-for-speech-glyph; see also http://deecolonize.blogspot.de/2013/12/speak-on-it-then-speech-scrolls-pro ps.html (retrieved 3 May 2020). 59. For a depiction of the speech bubble and a good overview of how other preHispanic iconography was used in Mexican muralism, see the bottom edge of Rivera’s La Industria del maguey y del amate (https://arihua.es/wp-content/uploads/2011/08/ C%C3%B3dice-en-Industrias-de-maguey-y-amate-de-Diego-Rivera.jpg; retrieved 21 June 2020). 60. Image source: https://www.flickr.com/photos/garrettziegler/5317262033 (retrieved 26 June 2020). 61. However, the star in general is a very commonly used graphic element and can only be interpreted in combination with other elements (e.g., the color red, hammer and sickle) as a sign of left-wing politics. 62. For political meanings of typographic scripts, see Pater (2016: 10–17). 63. For visual injustice frames in protest mobilization, see Olesen (2013). 64. http://enlacezapatista.ezln.org.mx/sdsl-es/ (retrieved 3 May 2020). 65. “La dignidad rebelde” by Subcomandante Marcos; http://hispanicpoetrystudies .blogspot.com/2011/10/la-dignidad-rebelde-de-subcomandante.html (retrieved 3 May 2020). 66. Interview with Polo Castellanos on 28 June 2017 in Mexico City. 67. http://www.bbc.com/mundo/noticias/2014/01/131230_mexico_ezln_marcos_chi apas_turismo_zapatista_jcps (retrieved 3 May 2020). 68. Unsurprisingly, I found Zapata’s portraits not only in Mexico City but also in the (predominantly leftist) street art in Caracas. 69. http://www.soychiapanecote.com/banksy-en-chiapas-mexico/ (retrieved 3 May 2020). 70. See Rebeldía 40 (2006): 16, 17; and Rebeldía 15 (2004): 73.

Chapter 6

Caracas “El Comandante” Is Present

Iconology In the Venezuelan capital, at the time of investigation, street art was heavily shaped by the narratives of the governmental party. In my photo documentation, the portrait of Hugo Chávez Frías is the most frequently coded subject (indicator I1) (see table C.4, appendix C). It is followed by the Venezuelan national colors and the historical personality Simón Bolívar. Other frequent subjects are stars, Indigenous persons, eyes, hand gestures, horses, and campesinxs. Further, groups of anonymous persons are depicted in numerous images.1 Very many images in the city of 2.3 million inhabitants refer to the (anti-)imperialist themes of colonial legacy, Latin American integration and solidarity, indigenismo, and US domination. Repeatedly identified conceptual themes are resistance, the people, and cooperation. Concerning more general political themes, many images refer to political parties, biodiversity/harmony with nature, peace, and freedom of media/expression (indicator I2). While the most depicted person, Hugo Chávez, is often combined with the Venezuelan national colors as well as with painted eyes and the theme of Latin American integration and solidarity (see detailed analysis below), both he and Simón Bolívar recurrently appear with horses. This indicates a discursive link between the themes of colonial legacy and the struggle for national independence from external control in a more general sense, as fought by soldiers on horses (cavalry) in historical anticolonial battles. On the one hand, this independence is attributed to anticolonial heroes such as Bolívar or Francisco de Miranda. On the other hand, it is discursively connected with contemporary leaders such as Chávez and his successor Nicolás Maduro. Since the horse was the symbolic animal of noble generals and leaders in the early nineteenth century (see Mirzoeff’s thoughts on the “African hero,” chapter 1), heroes from colonial times are often depicted in combination with these animals. Linking this narrative to Chávez, his commemoration is repeatedly visualized by horses, for instance, on his mausoleum, the Cuartel de la Montaña 4 de Febrero (see S level below). Moreover, the horse with a

156 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

rider holding up his sword and “growing” out of the South American continent, all in red color, was the official logo of the bicentennial in 2010 (see T level below), celebrating two hundred years of independence (see illustration 6.1a). Given the bicentennial in various Latin American countries and taking up Bolivar’s narrative of the patria grande, the logo can also be found in a stencil in Buenos Aires, indicating the regional cooperation between the leftist governments in Venezuela and Argentina (see photo 1/HP and chapter 4 on Buenos Aires). The Caracas-born South American independence hero Simón Bolívar is commonly depicted in his traditional military garment and sometimes discursively connected with contemporary political issues, such as what the Venezuelan government called the fight “against fascism,” meaning the anti-Chavist opposition. However, in some images his physical appearance is visualized in more contemporary aesthetics. Such an instance is a stencil of Bolívar wearing modern hipster sunglasses, warning the viewer “pendiente que Bolívar sigue vigente” (watch out, Bolívar remains vigilant). Another case is a portrait of a young girl wearing Bolívar’s uniform and posing like a military hero.2 In other pieces, the portraits of both Chávez and Bolívar are combined with groups of anonymous persons, and thus with “the people” (e.g., illustration 6.1b). This visual link conveys the narrative of Chavismo as a popular, social movement. In combination with text elements, this takes, for example, the form of a Chávez portrait with the popular slogan “aquí no se rinde nadie, pueblo” (here nobody gives up, people), or it refers to his successor as in “el pueblo respeta a Maduro” (the people respect Maduro). The “popular” is addressed as well by more general slogans such as “aquí el poder no se delega, lo ejerce la gente” (here power is not delegated but executed by the people) or “todo el poder para el pueblo—contra el fascismo” (all power to the people—against fascism). However, at times, the famous leaders are replaced by anonymous individuals who are leading the masses. Such an example is a large mural in the city center, which combines resistance with the topic of freedom of expression/media (see photo 11/HP). Similar to the Kirchners in Argentina, the Venezuelan government pointed out its success in launching its own satellite to gain independence from Northern media that are perceived hegemonic.3 In Caracas street art, the freedom of media is often visually linked with a critique of US domination, frequently visualized by the figure of Mickey Mouse (e.g., illustration 6.2d) (see also Centro Nacional de Historia 2016: 82–83). This figure not only symbolizes a form of cultural imperialism but also, with its presentation as a soldier with weapon and uniform, a medially transmitted normalization of violence and war by the US media (and potentially Disney’s involvement in war propaganda in World War II and the

a

b

c

Illustration 6.1a–c. (a) Mural; location: Centro Histórico, Caracas; producer: Casa Taller de Pintura Tito Salas; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (b) Mural; location: Centro Histórico, Caracas; producer: Corriente Revolucionaria Bolívar y Zamora (CRBZ) and Patria Para Todos (PPT); © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (c) Mural The Last Supper; location: 23 de Enero, Caracas; producer: Colectivo Alexis Vive; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016.

158 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

Cold War; see Dorfman and Mattelart 1971). Other expressions of anti-US sentiment manifest, for instance, in mockery of Barack Obama or simply in slogans like “¡Gringo respeta!” (Gringo, respect!) or “Yankee go home!” (see also ECL 2011: 27, 53, 84, 95). In counterpoint to the rejection of external domination, much of the street art expresses solidarity with other liberation movements and their leaders. This refers to either historical struggles, such as the hero of the Mexican Revolution, Emiliano Zapata (see chapter 5 on Mexico City) and the Cuban poet José Martí, or contemporary ones, such as that in Palestine. The Argentine-Cuban revolutionary Ernesto “Che” Guevara is another recurring person, who is by some considered an authentic expression of an ideology instead of party-focused politics, because he is not a current leader but a popular symbol of Latin American heroism in more general terms (ECL 2011: 149–51). Some artists stress that twentieth-century Latin American aesthetic movements of cultural resistance, such as the Chilean muralist brigades, Mexican revolutionary muralism, and Chicano and Zapatista muralism, have influenced today’s street art iconography (ECL 2011: 160). At the same time, they underline the huge impact of both French Situationist tactics (see chapter 1) and 1970s/80s graffiti in New York (see chapter 3), which “was supposed to be the epicenter of a subculture of the rebellious fighting street . . .” (ECL 2011: 49, my translation), and the style of other US artists, including Shepard Fairey (ECL 2011: 53). Accordingly, there is a broad variety of styles whose influences range from proletkult and agitprop to US urban subculture. In sum, as opposed to decorative urban art, the group Ejército Comunicacional de Liberación (ECL) (Communicational Army of Liberation) considers political street art to fight against the abduction of public space by advertisement. . . . We believe that our work can contribute to the construction of a visuality of popular power . . . everyone who, with their everyday actions, contributes to collectively constructing a new relation to the public space . . . they help us understand the actual state of the Bolivarian process, and they give us clues about where our Second Independence is going to . . . or at least its visuality. (ECL 2011: 10, my translation)

Material Dimension Due to the economic crisis in Venezuela at the time of my research, paint and spray cans were imported only in very limited numbers and were there-

a

b

c

d

Illustration 6.2a–d. (a) Stencil “We keep resisting”; location: Centro Histórico, Caracas; producers: Comando Creativo; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (b) Oppositional stencils “Oh Nicolás, I see torture”; location: Chacao, Caracas; producers: unknown; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (c) Right-hand side: Stencil “No to media colonialism”; location: Avenida México, Caracas; producers: Comando Creativo, Red Bolivariana de Artistas Plásticos de Venezuela; left-hand side: stencil “Stop the MUD’s fraud”; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (d) Stencil “We bring war to your home”; location: Centro Histórico, Caracas; producers: Comando Creativo; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016.

160 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

fore extremely expensive.4 To achieve a good material quality, artistic groups may rely on the supply of adequate material by financially stronger partners, such as the government (indicator M3). However, two Caracas-based shops started to produce their own aerosol colors and other material supply to fill this gap and to avoid further material and economic dependence from abroad.5 The most ubiquitous stencil in the city by far (indicator M1 and M2) is Chávez’s pair of eyes, commonly accompanied by either his signature or the logo and abbreviation of his party, Partido Socialista Unido de Venezuela (PSUV) (see P level). In a more general view, Sujatha Fernandes considers the popular iconography of Caracas’s murals to have a genuine potential for resisting the incorporation into neoliberal logics due to their material qualities. Being not transportable and harder to commodify, she claims, they are less likely to be co-opted into cultural management and tourism: “These factors may give muralists greater opportunity to build alternative and collective modes of sociability” (Fernandes 2010: 148).

Space During my research trip in 2016, I documented street art in the central and western districts of Altagracia/La Pastora, Caño Amarillo, San Juán, and 23 de Enero; in the historical old town and La Candelaria, and in the wealthier Chacao in the east of the city. There is a heavy divide between the east and the west of Caracas, visibly indicated by street art (indicator S2). While the so-called barrios populares in the west are poorer and mainly populated by Chávez supporters, the eastern districts of Chacao and Chacaito are governed by an oppositional party and have a higher economic standard. This divide affects the local street art scene so strongly that artists even speak of a characteristic “aesthetic of the west” (Spanish: oeste), which they call oestética, as opposed to the estética of the east (Spanish: este) (ECL 2011: 192): “What the walls in the east and the west say is primarily and most fundamentally explained by history, a political attitude, a temperament, and a culture. Tame and frivolous people produce conformist art. Rebellious people create oestética . . . (ECL 2011: 14–15; my translation). For the pro-government collective Ejército Comunicacional de Liberación (ECL), the aesthetics of the west are an aesthetic of emancipation and of constant popular insurrection (ECL 2011: 91). By contrast, they associate the eastern districts with capitalist values, advertisement, and shopping malls, reinforced by architecture shaped by glass and steel:

Caracas

|

161

The formal advertisement and its aesthetics commonly promote transnational brands and products, but oestética is the weapon of small family businesses and individual initiatives. . . . The formal aesthetics serve the interest of big corporations. . . . Oestética is an insurgent, free, and libertarian discourse, and serves the freedom of the human being. (ECL 2011: 193; my translation) Consequently, street art located in the east differs much from its western forms. Whereas most images in the west are in line with the narratives of the national government, the (much fewer) pieces in the east are either advertisements or decorative and rather unpolitical. Some of them even draw the attention to the increasing authoritarianism of the government (see P level). These images refer to the domestic power struggle between the Chavista government and the opposition, while it mainly depends on their location within the city with which side they sympathize. In the east, streets and squares are often marked as pro-government areas to visually indicate that “you are in Chavista territory” (“estás en territorio Chavista”) (e.g., illustration 6.3b). In a more general sense, “the streets” are directly referred to as the political space in the hands of “the people,” often combined with a denunciation of the oppositional “fascists,” for instance in the slogan “las calles son del pueblo, no del fascismo” (the streets belong to the people, not to fascism). As the art collective ECL stresses, the importance of public space becomes even more obvious when looking at Latin America’s colonial past and the ubiquitous presence of Catholic iconography. Above all, murals of the virgin aimed to “convert millions,” and thereby they showed that “it is necessarily the masters of public spaces who win” (Monsiváis 1991, drawing on Serge Gruzinski; my translation). Further, images relate to the symbolic political meaning of specific buildings in Caracas (indicator S1). Most prominently, a long wall on the street leading to Hugo Chávez’s mausoleum Cuartel de la Montaña is completely covered with his portraits and other visual glorifications of his private activities and political deeds. The mausoleum is located at the top of a hill above the former president’s district of origin and strongest supporting base, 23 de Enero.

Time The meaning of street art images heavily depends on the specific political circumstances and power constellations at a given moment in history (indicator T1). The Venezuelan urban sociologist Andrés Antillano stresses that the streets have become an increasingly important arena due to an extensive

162 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

a

b

Illustration 6.3a–b. (a) Government-sponsored mural; location: El Valle, Caracas; producer: Misión Vivienda; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (b) Slogan “Chavista territory”; location: Centro Histórico, Caracas; producer: unknown; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016.

Caracas

|

163

politicization of the public in 2002, after an attempted coup d’état against Chávez.6 Beyond the abovementioned bicentennial campaign in 2010 (ECL 2011: 153), street images were an inherent part of several of the PSUV’s election campaigns. Most decisively, street visuality at the time of investigation was affected by the ongoing economic and political crisis in Venezuela. Numerous pieces directly or indirectly commented on the power struggle between the Maduro government and oppositional parties. In the oppositional district of Chacao, they drew the attention to food shortages, increased violence, or the government’s oppression of critical voices (e.g., illustration 6.2b).7 In the progovernment areas, by contrast, the stencils accused the oppositional party Mesa de la Unidad Democrática (MUD) of fraud and manipulation of the polls that led to the PSUV’s loss of power in the parliament (e.g., on the lefthand side in illustrations 6.1a and 6.2c).

Legal Dimension Although there is no official information on a certain law prohibiting street art in Caracas, the interviewed artists emphasized that painting requires the permission of the house owner (indicator L1).8 However, one artist points out that there are, again, differences between the east and the west of the city: while in the “capitalist” east most buildings are considered private property and thus painting without authorization is punished, in the socialist and pro-government west the streets and buildings are “owned by the community,” and thus unauthorized painting usually does not have any consequences. Consequently, he stresses, it is more important to discuss and cooperate with the local community (and the Comunas, the district authorities) than to obey to legal restrictions of free expression.9 Furthermore, visual interventions on the well-maintained walls of the wealthier east may be more easily perceived as questioning private property and the order of the public space than those on the decayed façades of the west. However, although in the east it is more likely to be persecuted than in the west, there are reports about punishments by the police with regard to both parts of the city.10

Producers Producers of street art in Caracas range from unpolitical decorative artists and hip-hop associations to government-supported collectives and partysponsored institutional departments (indicators P1/P3). One of the most

164 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

influential institutions is the cultural center Tiuna el Fuerte. Besides hosting one of the few shops for graffiti supply in the capital, in its Urban Art Laboratory (Laboratorio de Artes Urbanas) it offers stencil and graffiti workshops and organizes events related to “popular communication.”11 While the program is oriented toward hip-hop culture and youth work, some of the associated artists are also politically engaged and predominantly support the government. The center was a private initiative and is now financially supported by the government.12 However, the political orientations of its individual and independent artists vary widely. A rather political group is the Colectivo Alexis Vive, one of the governmental community organizations, based in the traditionally Chavista district 23 de Enero. This collective is famous for its murals conveying leftist and pro-Bolivarian messages, such as a large mural expressing solidarity with the Colombian FARC guerillas and celebrating its fiftieth anniversary. Most prominently, the collective recontextualized Leonardo Da Vinci’s mural painting The Last Supper (1490), showing Jesus surrounded by other (exclusively male) “heroes,” including Bolívar, Fidel Castro, Marx, and Lenin, and of course Chávez at the center as Jesus (illustration 6.1c). The Venezuelan government regularly provides financial support for street art collectives and commissions murals. The most influential collectives among these by far are the abovementioned Ejército Comunicacional de Liberación (ECL)13 and Comando Creativo. The former seems to have considerable resources since it has its own glossy magazine (called PLoMo—Patria Libre o Morir14) and has published at least two high-quality books on political street art in Latin America (ECL 2015)15 and in Caracas (ECL 2011).16 In the latter book, the organization declares that politicized art needed to be an aesthetic tool of alternative communication, “non-private but self-managed, linked with projects of emancipation and social transformation, as well as a constant critique and libertarian questioning of political and economic power in the face of neoliberal capitalism” (ECL 2011: 160; my translation). The ECL was also among the artists selected to paint huge walls (approximately forty meters high) in the context of the Caracas a Gran Escala festival in 2015 (indicator P4). The festival was sponsored by the government institution Gran Misión Vivienda, which is responsible for housing and city development.17 The ECL’s festival mural is called “La quema de Judas” (The burning of Judas) and conveys a clear anti-US statement: it depicts a creature consisting of dollar bills and a pyramid-formed head with the “eye of providence,” who is sitting on an oil barrel, which is set on fire by the angry popular mass (illustration 6.4). Another art collective, Comando Creativo, the most frequently coded Caracas street art producer in my database, took part in that festival as well.

Caracas

|

165

Illustration 6.4. Mural La quema de Judas (The burning of Judas); location: Maternidad, Caracas; producers: Ejército Comunicacional de Liberación; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016.

166 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

In both its street interventions and other modern graphic design, the collective commonly refers to street art as a nonviolent means of resistance and considers it a medium to regain the hegemony over the streets.18 This is illustrated, for instance, by the image of a spray can with the words “Los capitalistas dominan los medios pero las calles son nuestras” (The capitalists dominate the media, but the streets are ours) (Centro Nacional de Historia 2016: 105). Similarly, the logo of the abovementioned ECL is a slogan in the form of a rifle, saying, “la palabra es un arma” (the word is a weapon). Comando Creativo is part of a government program called Guerilla Comunicacional de Agitación y Propaganda,19 based in the Ministry of Popular Power, of the Communes and Social Protection (Ministerio del Poder Popular para las Comunas y Protección Social). The program coordinates public communication campaigns via street art by different actors and painting brigades.20 However, Comando Creativo underlines that the government does not directly influence the artists’ decision-making on the content (indicator P4), clarifying that artists themselves decide what to paint in discussion with the local communities.21 Consequently, they stress that the supported groups critically reflect on the government as well, for instance, in stencils that scrutinize its cooperation with transnational mining corporations in the south of the country. Likewise, the abovementioned ECL admitted that the “radical and extensive intervention in the urban visuality of Caracas” during the government’s 2010 bicentennial campaign “may be accused of being conservative because of its nationalist, indigenista, and tropicalist allegories” (ECL 2011: 153, my translation), and thus of reproducing stereotypes about Indigenous peoples. Besides the indirect support of collectives, the government also directly commissions murals. Several political parties use street art and murals for their campaigns, including the governmental party PSUV and the Workers’ Party PCV (Partido Comunista de Venezuela). However, not only pro-government actors utilize street art to convey their worldviews but the oppositional party MUD has as well, using murals, for instance, to advertise its candidate Henrique Capriles in its 2013 presidential election campaign.22 Additionally, the oppositional district government of Chacao, for instance through the cultural association Fundación Chacao, commissions murals, but with less political content.

Audiencing In Caracas, it seems to be common to damage murals to express disagreement with its visual content (indicator A1). Portraits of Chávez are often attacked with paint bombs, crossed with tags, or commented with oppo-

Caracas

|

167

sitional slogans.23 In turn, the PSUV government and its supporters react to these cases by declaring them “vandalism by fascist gangs”24 in progovernment media.25 Regarding street art audiences, artists like Comando Creativo claim that they do not aim to reach the big players in politics or the media but rather the average people on the street, in the community: The street is the central stage of social behavior. If we want to change the society’s attitude toward consumerism, if we want them to resist the false promises of capitalism, we have to disarm the psychological influence of the dominant media with the help of our own tools, with alternative media.26 In the local community, street art images are converted into items of popular culture or merchandise, such as stickers depicting Chávez as a basketball player or badges with Bolívar wearing a paliacate to express resistance (see chapter 5 on Mexico City). Interestingly, there are also humorous reactions to the ubiquitous imagery of revolutionary icons. On the website Murales Mutantes (mutant murals), for instance, Venezuelans upload their photos of the “most beautiful, terrible, sometimes deformed and funny street expressions of Chávez, Bolívar, and other personalities of our imagery”27 and thus ironically negotiate the meanings of their everyday political visuality. For instance, an artistically failed portrait of Chávez embracing an adherent is compared to the final embrace from Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” video.28 Public street images are generally a frequent topic in government publications.29 One example is a magazine edited by the national Ministry of Culture called La Roca de Crear, which dedicated two issues (in 2008 and 2010) to the social transformation of the public space by street visuality, which the authors understand to be “vandalism from above,”30 emphasizing “the multitude as a collective producer.”31 Furthermore, Caracas’ politically loaded street art scene has gained a lot of attention from both the national32 and the international media.33 On the one hand, street art images visualizing the difficult relationship between the Venezuelan and the US governments have been subject to several newspaper articles and reports, including those by the New York Times, Al Jazeera, and Reuters.34 For instance, an image by the ECL showing the biblical figure of David, who is holding the bloody head of (beheaded) Hillary Clinton, has gained particular attention during the 2010 US election campaign.35 On the other hand, media reports on the protests during the political and economic crisis are often illustrated with photos of street art. In many of these photos we see street art in the background of fighting scenarios between protestors

168 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

and the police, setting a theatrical stage design for these confrontations and thus conveying a common aesthetics of resistance.36

Detailed Analysis: “El Comandante” Is Present Caracas street imagery is rich in political references and heavily dominated by pro-government visual narratives. In the following detailed analysis, I take a deeper look at an image that reveals key narratives, since it combines several (anti-)imperialism theme codes (indicator I2) and some very frequent motifs (indicator I1) (see table C.4, appendix C). Furthermore, the artwork was produced by the most visible art collective in Caracas, in cooperation with other artists (indicator P1). In the following, I distinguish three compositional sections: the center (section 1), the right-hand side (section 2), and the left-hand side (section 3) (see illustration B.1a in appendix B).37 The mural visually commemorates Hugo Chávez Frías shortly after his death. In the interpretation I want to draw out here, it represents a positive vision of some ideals associated with the Bolivarian Revolution, that is the reevaluation of indigenismo and protection of the environment, food sovereignty, Latin American identity and integration, and, in general terms, dynamic progress represented by a charismatic leader. The most prominent and dominant element in the image is the personality Hugo Chávez, who is portrayed twice, both in section 1 and section 2. The painting in the center builds on a famous black-and-white photograph, which is often reproduced not only in street art38 but also in the fine arts,39 popular culture (e.g., in the poster for the Colombian TV series El Comandante40), and humorous fake ads mocking the politician,41 inter alia. The close-up view gives the viewer a feeling of intimacy and humanness, and the slight smile adds a touch of strength and confidence. At the same time, the central perspective of the face, positioned exactly in the center of the mural, underlines the key position of Chávez in the middle of the attention. A portrait using central perspective gives the depicted person (or object) a certain authority. Referring to the idea of “scopic regimes” (see chapter 1), the historian Martin Jay (1988) points out that the invention of perspective in the visual arts was hailed as an artistic revolution. In the Renaissance era, this technique gained authority and established a dominant visual order because of its mathematically correct depiction in geometrized space that pretended to represent its motives in a rational, “scientific” way and thus claimed to represent objective truth from a perspective of “god’s eye” (Mirzoeff 1998: 67–68). In the case of this Chávez portrait, this reminds me of Mirzoeff’s words on authoritative visuality: “Great men are great by virtue of

Caracas

|

169

a

b

c

Illustration 6.5a–c. (a) Mural; location: UNEARTE, Caracas; producers: Comando Creativo, Nicolay Shamaniko, and Ramón Pimentel; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (b) Mural at La Minka; location: La Pastora, Caracas; producers: Nicolay Shamaniko and others; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (c) State TV report (YouTube screen capture) and tweet about restoration of mural; © Venezolana, 2014.

170 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

their ability to visualize History while being in the midst of it, making them into Heroes” (Mirzoeff 2011: 131). In this sense, the Indigenous woman on the left, turned toward the left, and the other Chávez portrait, rising toward the right, are building a compositional frame for the central element. Building on principles of compositional design (indicator I6) and the direction of reading (in the Latin alphabet42), one could also say that the native woman looks back (into the past) and represents the roots while the rising Chávez looks forward (toward the future), thus representing progress. Whereas the colorful squares at the edge of Chávez’s black-and-white portrait do not reveal a political meaning at first sight, a similar image by the same artist provides clues on a cultural connotation by its title Chávez multiétnico (Multiethnic Chávez).43 As this title suggests, the artist Nicolay Shamaniko might have alluded to Chávez’s mixed Afro-Venezuelan, native Latin American, and Spanish descent by connoting colorfulness with cultural or ethnic diversity (Pater 2016: 74). At the same time, this stylistic feature might be a reference to the reevaluation of Venezuela’s multiethnic history as a basic narrative of the Bolivarian Revolution. The large mural is approximately 4.5 meters high and 11 meters wide (around 50 square meters) (indicator M2). Its three sections were created by different artists (indicator P1). The center was painted by the Colombian artist Nicolay Shamaniko, the left side by the Venezuelan painter Ramón Pimentel, and the right side by the government-supported art collective Comando Creativo.44 The wall belongs to the building complex of Universidad Nacional Experimental de las Artes (UNEARTE) (indicator S1), which is a vivid area due to student activities such as sales stands for arts and crafts. Due to its location, the mural is seen by numerous students and university staff on a daily basis (indicator A1). UNEARTE is a public art university that was inaugurated in 2008 by a decree of Hugo Chávez within Misiòn Alma Mater, one of the Bolivarian governmental missions for higher education.45 Its major research and teaching areas are cultural sovereignty, art and social transformation, and artistic and cultural creation.46 In order to “respond to the big sociohistorical and cultural changes of the twenty-first century and to build a society governed by the principles of participatory, inclusive, multiethnic and pluricultural democracy,” it underlines in its mission statement the cooperation with organizations “of the public power” and with “the peoples of the South.”47 The university is located nearby the historical center, close to the national Public Ministry (Ministerio Público) and cultural institutions such as Museo de Bellas Artes (Museum of Fine Arts) and the main theater Teatro Teresa Carreño. Although La Candelaria and San Agustín are still part of Western Caracas, it is quite central and borders Parque Central, where Eastern Caracas begins. In that area, particularly on Avenida México

Caracas

|

171

between the metro stops Parque Carabobo and Bellas Artes, there is a lot of street art, mainly political murals. The image was painted in July 201348 (indicator T1), three months after President Hugo Chávez had died of cancer. On their blog, the artists declare: “We jointly realized this mural at UNEARTE to always remember our Comandante in his infinite magnitude.”49 While undoubtedly being a very controversial personality, Chávez is by some considered “the most influential Latin American figure of the last twenty years” (Núñes Rodríguez and Sinhué Díaz 2015: 376; my translation), and his election as the president of Venezuela in 1999 and the beginning of the Fifth Republic is “one of the principal motors of what on the subcontinent is called the “new epoch’” (Wainer 2015: 343). At the bottom of section 1, below the artist’s signature, we see the signature of Chávez. Both this signature and the president’s eyes belong to the key visual features in the imagery of the Fifth Republic. Originating in Chávez’s election campaign in 2012, it was reproduced in posters, popular culture, and merchandise (Centro Nacional de Historia 2016: 56) and started to adorn huge walls in the public space, particularly the façades of Misión Vivienda buildings (see illustration 6.3a and 6.4). The signature and the eyes are often accompanied by slogans, such as “triunfa la paz” (triumph of peace), and by the PSUV logo with its red star. In a book published by the Ministry of Culture called Rostros y rastros de un lider: Hugo Chávez; Memorias de un pueblo (Faces and traces of a leader: Hugo Chávez—memory of a people)50 (Centro Nacional de Historia 2016), this imagery is considered one of the most successful visual campaigns of the Fifth Republic. In this publication, the politician is described as “a public figure with whom we feel an immediate identification” (Centro Nacional de Historia 2016: 67). The semiotic power of the eyes and the signature is explained as follows: The eyes are the mirror of the soul. This sounds like a cliché? . . . Drawing on Foucault’s “What is an author?” we assume that Chávez is watching us with an authority that we give him in ethical and moral terms, because he has consensual authorization by a broad part of society that supports him because he has an undeniable authorship of the political process in Venezuela of the twenty-first century. . . . He is as well the principal actor who has motorized these revolutionary changes and is therefore a protagonist. He requires and deserves it, because we need him looking at us from each and every corner of the urban or rural environment that we inhabit. (Centro Nacional de Historia 2016: 54; my translation)

172 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

Besides maintaining the authority of the charismatic leader, the PSUV’s visual campaign aims to evoke feelings of human connection and caring for the “average” people on the streets. The intimacy evoked by his close-up eyes aims to demonstrate that “Chávez is a social being, a man who dedicated and sacrificed himself for the well-being of his nation and all those below him” (Centro Nacional de Historia 2016: 54)—speaking of Chávez in the present form (“is” instead of “was”), as if he was still alive. Chávez’s eyes stand for “a more egalitarian, more autonomous and anti-imperialist, more solidary Venezuela led by love and respect . . . , the ideals that even transcended the borders of our nation and formed a new ethical and political identity for most of the South American peoples and a major part of the world” (Centro Nacional de Historia 2016: 69). Therefore his eyes—the sense of vision— were used as a key image because he was “a visionary, because he had the capacity to, before the world’s eyes, understand and unfold a reality that was obscured by the domination of the imperialist system . . .” (Centro Nacional de Historia 2016: 69). As this text suggests, the public omnipresence of Chávez and his eyes is part of a visual strategy by the government to keep the bonds between the PSUV and its adherents even after the death of the charismatic leader: And now, after Chávez has physically disappeared, it seems as if he is seeing us from every mural on the wall. . . . His eyes are with us and will follow us citizens, monitoring and protecting us from his eternal image. An omnipresent and omnipotent Chávez who keeps reminding us of our compromise with equality and justice. Visionary. Authority. Paternalism. Protection. God. Identity. Love. State. Transcendence. . . . Chávez, your look doesn’t change, it observes and reflects every new historical circumstance. (Centro Nacional de Historia 2016: 73) Furthermore, beyond this authoritative glorification, the strategic use of Chávez’s eyes draws parallels between him and “his predecessors” (Centro Nacional de Historia 2016: 55) Che Guevara and Simón Bolívar, whose eyes have been painted in the city in a similar manner. Paralleling the imagery of “progressive and left-wing sectors whose symbolic images of socialist conscience, of revolution and change . . . , from Che and Bolívar, Chávez turns into another icon evoking the emotions and ideals of every individual . . .” (Centro Nacional de Historia 2016: 56). Placing him in one line with historical icons such as Bolívar and Che, his political program is presented as continuing one big struggle that was fought by many generations and in many places of the world and therefore is

Caracas

|

173

trans-historically and trans-geographically acknowledged and legitimized by “every individual.” Historical icons are constantly utilized to reactivate the historical narratives the Bolivarian Movement is drawing upon (Núñes Rodríguez and Sinhué Díaz 2015: 345, 379, 390–91). Chávez is often depicted next to other icons of resistance and Latin American autonomy such as Che, José Martí, and the popular singer Alí Primera. In a stencil of a party-affiliated group, his profile is shown in one line with Francisco Miranda, Bolívar, and Che, repeating the iconography of Chinese Maoist posters from the 1960s51 (see illustrations 8.1d and 8.1e). Most prominently, in a reversion of Leonardo da Vinci’s The Last Supper in 23 de Enero (see P level, illustration 6.1c), Chávez and other leaders are sitting at Jesus’s table.52 Notably, all the Jesus portraits that I found in Caracas’s street art show him in direct proximity to Hugo Chávez, most famously a giant one on a hill high above 23 de Enero.53 To understand what this visual commemoration of Chávez may express with regard to political power and resistance, it is necessary to take a closer look at his rhetoric in political discourse. As Nuñez Rodríguez and Sinhué Díaz state, Chávez was able to recuperate the use of categories such as imperialism, dependency, socialism, and “Third Worldism” (Núñes Rodríguez and Sinhué Díaz 2015: 376). In his speeches, he created an ideological narrative able to combine nationalist, revolutionary, anti-neoliberal, civic-military, and popular strands as well as a concept of popular Bolivarian democracy challenging liberal-democratic political consent, which offered a symbolic platform of values, beliefs and imageries that managed to mobilize the collective action of the revolution (Wainer 2015: 355). Chávez’s early subversive actions in the 1980s led to the Movimiento Bolívariano Revolucionario 200 (MBR-200) and to an attempted military coup in 1992, after which the lieutenant colonel was imprisoned until 1994 and became the national president only a few years later in 1999. His ideological discourse was built around his idea of post-neoliberal resistance and an alternative to the neoliberal empire. He expressed this opposition through a rhetoric of distinct anti-US sentiment and anti-capitalism, which later developed into what he called “socialism of the 21st century” (Wainer 2015: 344). In 1989, protests against the financial adjustment programs by the IMF and the World Bank were brutally beaten down by the conservative government, leaving 276 people dead. This so-called Caracazo still plays a prominent role in the rhetoric against the international finance capital. After another decade of neoliberal reforms and dependency in Latin America during the 1990s, Chávez’s presidency was by many considered crucial for the revitalization of the category of anti-imperialism (Kozel, Grossi, and Moroni 2015: 7). The self-understanding as an anti-imperialist resistance movement is key

174 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

to Chávez’s political discourse and the collective identity of the Bolivarian Movement. However, it was not only his change in foreign politics but also his domestic policies that made him a controversial figure. As Ana María Sanjuan (2016) reminds us, critical points not only included the widespread clientelism, the intolerance toward any political opposition, and a disastrous focus on the state-owned petrol production but also an exaggerated focus on the figure of Chávez himself, a political personalism, whose drive became more and more authoritarian (Sanjuan 2016: 47). Returning to visual discourse, it becomes all too obvious here that the narrative of the “great, visionary man” (Mirzoeff 2011: 3) is heavily supported by visual means. In political iconography, the glorification of mystic, historical, or contemporary “heroes” is a common phenomenon through which the society aims to self-affirm its values through material expressions. As Wolfgang Brassat explains, a hero usually proves his heroic deeds in struggles or wars against a seemingly superior force—as in the biblical story of David against Goliath—and is at the same time willing to suffer for his people, and if necessary, to risk his life to protect the community against the evil (Brassat 2011: 474). While earlier in history, heroes were mainly powerful rulers or religious martyrs, since the late nineteenth century there has been an increasing need for nationalist and middle-class identification with visionary heroes from within the society, who were ahead of their time. In Socialist societies of the twentieth century, even the anonymous working-class “hero of labor” became a role model for the proletarian population to identify with (Brassat 2011: 477–78). Concerning street art in Caracas, both kinds of heroes seem to complement each other: Chávez is a humble worker and a ruler at the same time; a working-class hero who has come to power but still defends the interest of his people—a phenomenon Mirzoeff called the popular hero. This heroic popular figure aimed to make the masses feel part of a revolutionary process by “revisualizing the domain of the hero, as an inclusive space” (Mirzoeff 2011: 154). From this perspective, the PSUV employs a narrative of the popular hero protecting the people from the evil of neoliberal (neo-)imperialism. However, Mirzoeff points out that, at a certain point in history, the popular and the vernacular hero compete with the imagined figure of the national hero, who is clearly not part of the average population anymore. Therefore, “the tensions within the imaginary of the revolution between subaltern vernacular heroism and the national hero had now become an open conflict” (Mirzoeff 2011: 111). Here we see the ambivalences of Chávez’s visual glorification, making it all too obvious that the narrative of the popular hero stands in contrast to an individual hero attributed with

Caracas

|

175

godlike omnipotence. In this view, Mirzoeff reminds us that the resistance potential of vernacular heroism may be “a trap as well as a resource” (Mirzoeff 2011: 150) because it is prone to be appropriated. Both this personality cult and the dominant symbols of revolution conveyed by the media are ubiquitous in the streets of Caracas. While during Chávez’s presidency the state imagery focused on the Caracas-born independence hero Simón Bolívar (1783–1830), after Chávez’s death, his own portrait became the key visual: “Since Chávez died, the government has continued to use his image to sell the idea that he’s still alive. Watching us. The current government is going through the worst period. . . . They use the image of Chávez to keep the connection that he had with his followers.”54 Politically speaking, this demonstrates that the eyes are a very ambivalent symbol. Intimacy, (fatherly) protective omnipresence, and (almost religious) visionary skills may be positive associations. Ubiquitous visual reminders that someone is “watching us,” however, may be considered sarcastic symbols of increasing control and surveillance in the Venezuelan society. In my own photo database, Comando Creativo is the by far most represented art collective. In the mural analyzed here, they painted the right side with the South American continent and Chávez’s head coming out of it (section 2).55 In that image, Latin America and Chávez are merged as one physical body. His eyes are closed, and he directs his face toward the sun. The diagonal composition given by the colorful stripes evokes the impression of movement toward the sunlight. Against the backdrop of Chávez’s role as a “visionary” leader, this upward movement symbolizes progress, which is underlined by the optimism of the blue sky. At the same time, the sun not only symbolizes light (and thus illumination) but might also, in the Venezuelan context, combined with the depicted Latin American continent, represent alba, which is the Spanish word for “dawn” or “sunrise.” The Bolivarian Alliance for the Peoples of Our America (ALBA) is one of Chávez’s most influential foreign policy initiatives for Latin American integration, cultural sovereignty, and the empowerment of left-wing governments opposed to the neoliberal economic policies of the Global North. Drawing on Bolívar’s aspirations for the patria grande (see chapter 3), this specific Latin American post-neoliberal anti-imperialism is based on the narrative of a common history and identity and common resistance movements against the (neo-)colonial experience perpetuated by economic Eurocentrism and the Washington Consensus. At the same time, it is one of the key characteristics of the Bolivarian Revolution. Consequently, in Chávez’s rhetoric, the spirit and the conscience of “the South” is a central narrative (Núñes Rodríguez and Sinhué Díaz 2015: 392). It is fostered by common

176 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

achievements, such as the defeat of ALCA through a cooperation with other leftist governments including the Argentine Néstor Kirchner (see chapter 4 on Buenos Aires) and Bolivia’s Evo Morales. As the visual abundance of the theme “Latin American integration and solidarity” in my data material shows, this narrative of “the South” (see Mirzoeff 2011) is vividly expressed by street art, such as in the abovementioned bicentennial logo and direct references to the ALBA. In some images, the continent is depicted upside down to symbolize its endeavor not to be “below” the United States but instead to be on top of the world. Art collectives like Bravo Sur (Courageous South) connect the notion of “the South” with the aesthetics of socialism, inter alia, through the red star. In other paintings, Latin American solidarity is expressed by motifs such as the geographic shape of Latin America (see photo 12/HP), endemic animals and nature, national flags and the Wiphala flag, (broken) shackles and oil pumps (i.e., extractivism), and of course, “the people.” The conscience of Nuestra América (Our America) is highlighted by militant urban art, permeating the streets with the diverse iconographies from the regions (Centro Nacional de Historia 2016: 101). In a similar vein, using Galeano’s metaphor of the “open veins,” the group ECL notes: “To retell the history of Latin America interrupted by colonialism, our walls take us on a trip through the veins of the rebellious America. Because almost from the beginning of colonial and postcolonial history, Latin American walls have been walls of rebellion” (ECL 2011: 37; my translation). Both the theme of leftist regionalism and of solidarity with the Bolivarian revolution are transnationally expressed by street art in other Latin American cities as well. Portraits of Chávez and slogans in favor of the Bolivarian Movement could be found in Buenos Aires and in Bogotá, particularly at the campus of the National University, including a large piece on the roof of the main building. Returning to the mural, the urgent need of Latin Americans to reactualize “the keys to our own existence” and to “return to the roots” (Chávez quoted in Wainer 2015: 346) might also manifest in the corncobs as a symbol of regional cultural heritage (see chapter 5 on Mexico City). Understood in this sense, the visionary hero Hugo Chávez is leading Latin America toward the sunrise, while he is still keeping his connection with the soil, represented by the cornfield and the wheatears. However, it is not only the cornfield that connects section 2 with section 3 but also the woman’s hair, which makes her seem to be rooted in the Latin American soil as well. Turning to this last part of the mural, section 3, the (seemingly naked) woman may be interpreted as an allegory for the connection of humans with the earth, evoking ideas of “mother earth” (pachamama,

Caracas

|

177

see chapter 3), while she is looking at the corncob—the harvest—in her hands. This female portrait illustrates how seemingly progressive imagery of liberation reproduces stereotypes. Not only is the native woman represented as traditional and naturalist, (passively) rooting the male protagonist (Chávez) in order for him to realize his progressive actions. She is also depicted naked, with light skin tone and unnatural makeup, fulfilling an ideal of beauty far from representing women or Indigenous persons as political protagonists. At the same time, the corncob and the jewelry made of autochthonous natural material might express appreciation of traditional local resources and, in particular, regional products and food. In the economic crisis in Venezuela, the debate about a lack of imported goods, mainly food and medication, is one of the most critical issues of confrontation between the government and the opposition.56 This shortage—and its denial by the PSUV and its adherents—is repeatedly made visible in street art. While oppositional stencils, for instance, claim that there were only bullets instead of milk (see general analysis, illustration 6.2b) and, on social media, aim to get international attention with the slogan “#SOS Venezuela,”57 the governmental murals are keen to emphasize that there was sufficient food supply (see photo 13/HP). Regarding the Indigenous woman, the importance of marginalized social groups is constantly being emphasized in Bolivarian discourse, and the potential of the people in the “peripheries” of the “empire” has been one of the focal points of Chávez’s ideological-political program (Núñes Rodríguez and Sinhué Díaz 2015: 376). Linking this part to the black-and-white portrait in the center, Shamaniko painted a similar version of Chávez’s eyes onto the façade of the cultural-artistic center La Minka in the western district La Pastora in Caracas. This mural is discursively connecting Chavismo with the heritage of native peoples (illustration 6.5b). Indigenismo and the empowerment of other marginalized groups, including campesinxs and the formerly enslaved Black hero “Negro Primero,” is also reflected in the work of Comando Creativo. For instance, a common motif in their stencils is a black-and-red (stereotypical) Indigenous man with bow and arrow next to the words “seguimos en resistencia” (we keep resisting) (illustrations 6.2a). In another version, the Indigenous person stands on a TV with a broken screen, hit by an arrow. The stencil is accompanied by the logo of a Bolivarian artists’ association (containing the colors of the Venezuelan flag), and by the slogan “no al colonialismo mediático” (no to media colonialism) (illustration 6.2c). Several artists in Caracas consider the search for their Indigenous identity to be a central motif of their work (e.g., UKI in ECL 2011: 26). Since Comando Creativo is one of the art collectives that is supported by the national government, the organization’s work enjoys considerable public

178 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

attention. The mural analyzed here was mentioned in several domestic publications (ECL 2015: 222–23) and media articles58 as well as in the international media.59 For instance, in a 2016 issue of Le Monde Diplomatique on Venezuela, it illustrates an article by the Colombian Nobel Prize laureate Gabriel García Marquez (2016), which is commented with the caption: “Omnipresence: In consonance with the motto ‘We are all Chávez,’ the figure of the ex-president invades the streets of Venezuela, on murals, graffiti, stencils, and posters that present him doing all kinds of activities” (my translation). However, most interestingly, the mural got much attention after Chávez’s portrait in the center (section 1) had been damaged with white paint bombs in September 2014. Only a few days later—on 21 September, the International Day of Peace—the artist Shamaniko restored the piece (indicator T2).60 On this occasion, in a public event (indicator P2), the national minister of culture (formally minister of the popular power for the communes and social movements), the PSUV politician Reinaldo Iturriza, visited the location, accompanied by several media teams. In an extensive statement on state TV (the government channel Venezolana, illustration 6.5c), he expressed his concerns about “the attacks on the artwork that were a fascist action of intolerance and hate.”61 He underlined that today we are here to celebrate the International Day of Peace with the recuperation of the mural to, once again, fight back such demonstrations of hate and intolerance by a small minority of people who do so much harm to the Venezuelan society. . . . We need to respond to this violence with the assertion of our public spaces for peace, for democracy, for justice, for equality, which are the values we are constructing in the Bolivarian Revolution.62 In this media report, the governmental defense of the mural was illustrated by photos of the minister himself spraying on the mural and thereby symbolically helping to restore the piece (illustration 6.5c).63 The events around the restoration of the mural received much attention from both the national government and the media (indicators A2 and A4).64 Following another article, the incident mobilized activities of UNEARTE students who prepared posters in defense of the university space against the “fascist attacks.”65 Ultimately, the media image of the minister with a spray can may be associated with a stencil of Chávez painting on the wall while wearing his presidential sash, illustrating that the eternal president is literally defending the Bolivarian struggle with the help of street art (Centro Nacional de Historia 2016: 111).

Caracas

|

179

Notes 1. In Caracas, I documented 246 images. Among them are 54 figurative images, 51 texts, and 142 pieces combining both image and text (indicator I3). 2. In other images, the “father of American rebellion” is wearing a mask just like contemporary militant protestors during demonstrations or street fights, see Centro Nacional de Historia (2016: 74). 3. Interviews with Badsura (Tiuna El Fuerte) on 12 November 2016, and with members of the collective Comando Creativo on 13 November 2016 in Caracas. 4. Interviews with Badsura (Tiuna El Fuerte) on 12 November 2016, and with members of the collective Comando Creativo on 13 November 2016 in Caracas. 5. Interview with Badsura (Tiuna El Fuerte) on 12 November 2016 in Caracas; see also https://reclaimyourcity.net/content/wandmalerei-graffiti-und-streetart-caracas (retrieved 30 March 2020). 6. Interview with Andrés Antillano on 18 November 2016 in Caracas. 7. For more oppositional street art (as of 2014, before my investigation), see http://ca racasshots.blogspot.de/2014/04/walls-of-war-stencil-chavez.html (retrieved 30 March 2020). 8. Interviews with Badsura (Tiuna El Fuerte) on 12 November 2016, and members of Comando Creativo on 13 November 2016 in Caracas. 9. Interview with members of Comando Creativo on 13 November 2016 in Caracas. 10. https://reclaimyourcity.net/content/wandmalerei-graffiti-und-streetart-caracas (retrieved 30 March 2020). 11. http://laboratoriodeartesurbanas.blogspot.com/ (retrieved 30 March 2020). 12. Interview with the artist Badsura (Tiuna El Fuerte) on 12 November 2016 in Caracas. 13. http://nosabemosdisparar.blogspot.de/ (retrieved 30 March 2020). 14. The phrase “Free homeland or death” goes back to the Nicaraguan guerilla leader Augusto C. Sandino, who refused to submit weapons to the US military occupants in 1927. It is still a common leftist slogan across Latin America to express resistance against perceived attacks against sovereignty. The acronym of “patria libre o morir”—“plomo”—also means “plump” in Spanish and is a slang word for “bullet.” 15. “Alerta que Salpica” (2015), https://issuu.com/ejercito.comunicacional/docs/aqs_ beta (retrieved 30 March 2020). 16. “Mural y Luces” (2011), https://issuu.com/ejercito.comunicacional/docs/mylfinal wev (retrieved 30 March 2020). 17. http://www.radiomundial.com.ve/article/anunciados-ganadores-del-festival-de-mu rales-gran-caracas-gran-escala; the festival was first organized in 2014; see https:// www.youtube.com/watch?v=V3TN2N4ByLc (retrieved 30 March 2020). 18. Interview with members of Comando Creativo on 13 November 2016 in Caracas. 19. http://guerrillacomunicacional.blogspot.de/; see also http://www.psuv.org.ve/tem as/noticias/brigadas-agitacion-y-propaganda-se-declaran-campana-comunicacion al-permanente/#.Wr9Fay5ua70; https://ciudad-futura.net/2010/05/30/agitpropvenezuela/ (retrieved 30 March 2020). 20. Interview with members of Comando Creativo on 13 November 2016 in Caracas.

180 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

21. Interview with members of Comando Creativo on 13 November 2016 in Caracas; see also interview with Andrés Antillano on 18 November 2016 in Caracas. 22. https://www.aljazeera.com/indepth/inpictures/2012/09/2012930144527686313 .html (retrieved 31 March 2020). 23. https://www.aporrea.org/actualidad/n226798.html (retrieved 31 March 2020). 24. http://latinamericasocialforum.blogspot.com/2013/04/video-denuncian-bandasfascistas-que.html (retrieved 1 May 2020). 25. http://albaciudad.org/2013/04/con-propaganda-opositora-danan-en-chacao-mur al-dedicado-a-chavez/ (retrieved 31 March 2020). 26. Interview with members of Comando Creativo on 13 November 2016 in Caracas (my translation). 27. http://mutachavez.tumblr.com/ (retrieved 31 March 2020; my translation). 28. For the “mutant murals” expressing the relations between “the people” and Chávez, see Mondragón and Schwartz (2017). 29. For instance, http://misionverdad.com/fotos/mural-el-morral-del-comandante-cha vez-de-41-metros-de-altura-realizado-en-el-marco-del (retrieved 31 March 2020). 30. https://issuu.com/laroca/docs/la_roca_ii, La Roca de Crear 1, no. 2 (2008): 25–28 (my translation). 31. https://issuu.com/laroca/docs/la_roca_iii, La Roca de Crear 3, no. 3 (2010): 52–57 (my translation). 32. For instance, http://albaciudad.org/2015/01/movimiento-venezolano-de-muralis mo-y-graffiti-realiza-primer-encuentro-en-aragua/ (retrieved 31 March 2020). 33. See Le Monde Diplomatique in the detailed analysis; see http://suffragio.org/2013/ 04/13/photo-essay-political-graffiti-and-street-art-in-caracas/; https://es.news-front .info/2017/10/28/fotoreportaje-un-tovarishch-ruso-en-un-recorrido-al-graffitipolitico-en-caracas-parte-2/; https://justseeds.org/venezuela-political-graffiti/; https:// elpais.com/internacional/2015/03/04/actualidad/1425499467_729230.html; https://www.fes.de/referat-lateinamerika-und-karibik/suedamerika/venezuela/ ?tx_digbib_digbibpublicationlist percent5BpageIndex percent5D=8&cHash=f31c0 50926bb72fa7f450c4345ebe958 (retrieved 31 March 2020). 34. https://www.aljazeera.com/indepth/inpictures/2012/09/2012930144527686313 .html; https://www.reuters.com/news/picture/venezuelas-anti-us-graffiti-idUSRTR 4TOWS (retrieved 1 April 2020). 35. See for instance http://www.nytimes.com/2010/04/12/world/americas/12caracas .html?_r=1 (retrieved 26 June 2020). 36. See for instance https://www.nytimes.com/es/2017/07/21/la-hora-cero-de-venezu ela (retrieved 26 June 2020). 37. As in the previous chapters, the detailed description of the image content (I level) in the appendix makes my interpretation more transparent and comprehensible; see appendix B. 38. https://static1.squarespace.com/static/5491f357e4b0504e1896abee/54c9277de4b0 4589336383df/54c92789e4b0 458933638429/1423072878834/9.jpg (retrieved 1 April 2020). 39. https://twitter.com/neohve/status/612069884462284800 (retrieved 1 April 2020). 40. http://www.faz.net/aktuell/feuilleton/medien/el-comandante-eine-serie-ueber-hu go-chavez-14799710.html (retrieved 1 April 2020).

Caracas

|

181

41. http://www.brainbulb.nl/hugo-chavez-is-hugo/ (retrieved 1 April 2020). 42. See chapter 4 on Buenos Aires: the movement toward the right fosters the impression that the group on the left was moving “forward,” symbolizing progress (Pater 2016: 145). 43. https://issuu.com/centronacionaldehistoria/docs/libro_web, p. 90 (retrieved 1 April 2020). 44. https://comandocreativo.wordpress.com/2013/06/18/unearte/ (retrieved 1 April 2020). 45. http://www.unearte.edu.ve/acerca (retrieved 1 April 2020). 46. http://www.unearte.edu.ve/saberes (retrieved 1 April 2020). 47. http://www.unearte.edu.ve/saberes (retrieved 1 April 2020; my translation). 48. https://comandocreativo.wordpress.com/2013/06/18/unearte/ (retrieved 1 April 2020). 49. https://comandocreativo.wordpress.com/2013/06/18/unearte/ (retrieved 1 April 2020; my translation). 50. https://issuu.com/centronacionaldehistoria/docs/libro_web (retrieved 1 April 2020; my translation of all the quotes). 51. https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Category:Portraits_of_Karl_Marx#/media/ File:Long_Live_Marxism-Leninism-Maoism!.jpg (retrieved 30 October 2020). 52. See, for instance, https://www.aljazeera.com/indepth/inpictures/2012/09/2012930 144527686313.html (retrieved 1 April 2020). 53. https://elpitazo.net/gran-caracas/coronavirus-colectivos-del-23-de-enero-asegur an-un-caso-en-bloque-39/ (19 October 2020). 54. http://www.iwpcollections.org/nw1-vladimir-marcano/ (retrieved 2 April 2020). 55. In one of the abovementioned books, there is a slightly different version of this stencil, where it is depicted accompanied by the slogan “Tenemos Patria” (We have a homeland) (Centro Nacional de Historia 2016: 58). 56. https://www.theguardian.com/world/2018/jan/21/venezuela-looting-violencefood-shortages (retrieved 2 May 2020). 57. For instance, http://news.trust.org/item/20140225144123-a1m6o (retrieved 31 March 2020). 58. For instance, https://www.caripito.2833radio.online/el-chavismo-como-secta/; http://albaciudad.org/2017/04/por-que-el-gobierno-no-permite-a-la-oposicionmarchar-a-la-defensoria-del-pueblo/; http://www.abrebrecha.com/345315_Juvent ud-revolucionaria-realizan-este-domingo-murales-por-la-paz-en-la-Gran-Caracas.html (retrieved 31 March 2020). 59. For instance, https://es.news-front.info/2017/10/28/fotoreportaje-un-tovarishchruso-en-un-recorrido-al-graffiti-politico-en-caracas-parte-2/; https://www.marxist .com/video-latin-america-from-revolution-to-counter-revolution.htm (retrieved 3 May 2020). 60. https://twitter.com/culturasunearte/status/841272264586870789; https://www.yo utube.com/watch?v=h5gEv7R6MmQ (retrieved 1 April 2020). 61. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=go9yfR1LYv0&feature=youtu.be; see also: http:// albaciudad.org/2014/09/restauran-mural-del-comandante-chavez-en-la-unear te-es-una-obra-emblematica-que-rememora-la-figura-del-comandante/ (retrieved 31 October 2020; my translation).

182 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

62. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=go9yfR1LYv0&feature=youtu.be (retrieved 31 October 2020; my translation). 63. https://twitter.com/ReinaldoI (retrieved 31 October 2020). 64. For instance, http://albaciudad.org/2014/09/restauran-mural-del-comandante-cha vez-en-la-unearte-es-una-obra-emblematica-que-rememora-la-figura-del-comanda nte/ (retrieved 1 April 2020). 65. http://albaciudad.org/2014/09/vandalizaron-mural-de-plaza-armando-rever on-en-la-unearte-ministro-iturriza-denuncia-agresion-fascista/ (retrieved 31 March 2020).

Chapter 7

Bogotá “Exploitation Destroys Life”

Iconology No doubt Bogotá’s street art scene is among the most famous in Latin America, and probably even in the world. In the photos I took of the metropole of almost eight million inhabitants, the most frequent motifs (indicator I1) (see table C.5) were weapons, especially the rifle, followed by Indigenous persons. Other frequently depicted professions were the campesinx (peasant) and different security personnel, ranging from soldiers and police officers to (exclusively male) guerilleros and paramilitary forces. These subject codes are followed by birds, the dollar ($) symbol, landscapes, hand gestures, and skulls and skeletons. The most depicted personality is Ernesto “Che” Guevara. When we look at topics in political discourse (indicator I2), recurring (anti-)imperialism themes on the walls are Latin American integration and solidarity, class struggle, socialism, communism, indigenismo, and exploitation of natural resources. Among the frequent general political themes are violent conflict or dictatorship and peace. Both primarily refer to the armed conflict between the Colombian government, leftist guerilla groups like FARC and Ejército de Liberación Nacional (ELN), far-right paramilitary groups, and different crime networks. Frequent interrelated topics in street art are state oppression, violence, and corruption, as well as biodiversity/ harmony with nature. Some of these most frequent motifs tend to appear in combination with each other, as revealed by the code intersections between common visual subjects. They reveal that Indigenous persons (and the theme of “indigenismo”) are often depicted together with nature-related image content, such as landscapes and biodiversity/harmony with nature (see photo 14/HP). Additionally, many of these images convey a narrative of “cooperation,” which means that they employ a positive visual language, evoking harmonious identification rather than struggle or political fight. The visualization of nature and landscapes is also often combined with campesinos or campesinas, since many of the ongoing struggles of the rural (and urban) population are linked with

184 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

questions of territory.1 Although in my photo material the (anti-)imperialist theme of land rights does not appear very often, the peasant might, in some images, represent the rural population’s right to land. Discursively linking the rights of native populations and peasants to their lands, these images make them visible not only as the primary victims of the armed conflict but also as active political rights holders. The topics of displacement and victims’ rights are important discursive strands in Bogotá street art (see also Gama-Castro and León-Reyes 2016: 357). Another central issue is the politics of memory. The Bogotá-based art collective Dexpierte (see P level below) notes that “the topics of memory and victims as well as the related resistances and struggles by Latin American peoples are very similar.”2 More specifically, the group highlights the struggle over land, the self-determination of the native population, the government elites who strive to stay in power, and the politics of oblivion, particularly with regard to state crimes. Other topics of debate, such as migration and drug trafficking, refer to specific countries, as these activities are particularly virulent in Colombia and in Mexico. In most images, these conflicts are made visible by depicting and thus reminding of the ongoing violence and suffering, as in the frequent portrayals of weapons, especially rifles, and security personnel (e.g., illustration 7.1b) (see also Bogotart 2016: 36). The quantity of visual motifs in Bogotá illustrates what Rose meant by “numbers do not translate easily into significance” (Rose 2016: 102). The theme of class struggle, socialism, and communism is among the most frequent (see illustration 7.2a), and Ernesto “Che” Guevara is the most depicted personality. However, the majority of these pieces are located in a specific area of the city (the campus of the Universidad Nacional) (see S level). The campus area illustrates the broad variety of political content in Bogotá’s open-air imagery. While leftist student groups visualize resistance with the symbolic “socialist trio” of the worker, the peasant, and the intellectual, others express solidarity with the Marxist guerilla FARC-EP or explicitly advertise for the local Anti-imperialist Brigades. Further, there are many intervisual references to and recontextualizations of existent motifs in (art) history. One example is an anti-catcalling version of the famous 1941 portrait of a Russian female worker saying “Don’t chatter!” by Nina Vatolina (see illustrations 8.1f and 8.1g).3 Another case is a mural showing various female icons of resistance, including Angela Davis, Rosa Luxemburg, and Lolita Lebrón.4 In a similar vein, “the people” are often depicted in a socialist realist style. Some images adopt the aesthetics of the 1960s/1970s Chilean pro-Allende resistance movement Brigadas Ramona Parra,5 whose muralist logo—the raised fist with a pencil (or paintbrush)—is recontextualized as

a

b

c

d

Illustration 7.1a–d. (a) Mural; location: Calle 26#17, Bogotá; producers: Bastardilla, Chirrete Golden, Ark; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (b) Mural; location: Avenida Jimenez, Bogotá; producer: unknown; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (c) Mural “Our north is the south”; location: La Candelaria, Bogotá; producer: Guache; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (d) Mural “[No] peace”; location: Chapinero, Bogotá; producer: CRISP; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016.

186 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

well (on the left-hand side in illustration 7.2a). Unsurprisingly, many of these images on the university campus are positioned within a discourse on education. With regard to Latin American integration and cooperation, the images express solidarity with various resistance movements discussed in the previous chapters, including the Mexican EZLN, the Argentine Madres de Plaza de Mayo, the Bolivarian Movement in Venezuela (Movimiento Bolivariano, MB), and of course, the Cuban Revolution, predominantly with the help of the iconic “Che” portrait.

Material Dimension Stencils can be found either as individual pieces scattered in the streets or as parts of murals that consist of numerous small, stenciled elements that make up a complex story in this combination (indicator M1). To some extent, the ubiquity of rifles and dollar symbols in Bogotá’s street art is due to the large number of stencils with these motifs (indicator M2). There are, for instance, various versions of soldiers with “rifles” shooting hearts instead of bullets or of dollar signs with integrated rifles (see illustration 7.4c). Among other frequent pieces is a portrait of then-president Juan Manuel Santos with half a skull face. With regard to the material requirements, the interviewed local artists point out that the choice of technique relies on the technical skills of the producer. While almost everyone should be able to handle an aerosol spray can for creating basic symbols and (written) messages, preparing and applying a stencil requires more technical knowledge and experience. At the same time, certain materials (e.g., aerosol spray) may not always be available.6 Understood in this way, the material dimension does not keep people from expressing their opinion in public space, but it surely does affect the choice of technique and thus the quality of the image and the appeal of the message to the audience.

Space In my research, I documented images in the (rather affluent) district of Chapinero, in the city center Santa Fé, and in the historical old town La Candelaria as well as in Teusaquilla, where I focused on the campus of the Universidad Nacional de Colombia. Although the Colombian armed conflict mainly affected other regions in the country, its visual presence on Bo-

Bogotá

|

187

gotá’s walls aims to memorize it in the capital as well. In this way, the spatial inequalities and asynchronicities between urban and rural areas, which are closely intertwined with issues of internal displacement and forced migration into the bigger cities, become visible (see illustration 7.1b). An example of space-related content is a statue of General José de San Martín, who is—besides Simón Bolívar—one of the most honored anticolonial liberators of Latin America. Someone wrote slogans right on the statue’s base to protest against privatization and call for strike, and also to remind the pedestrians of the “524 years of resistance” (“524 años de resistencia”) since the European colonization of Latin America. The city of Bogotá illustrates how street art relates to the specific areas in which it is positioned (indicator S2). As mentioned above, the campus of Universidad Nacional is a spatially determined microcosm of diverse contents and actors. On the one hand, visual discourse here directly relates to university life within the borders of the campus. Numerous pieces on campus buildings refer to the very institutions (e.g., faculties) that the respective buildings accommodate, or they adorn the walls enclosing the campus (indicator S1). On the other hand, different student groups and the university administration constantly struggle with each other over controlled and autonomous spaces, partly fighting with the help of territorial painting (alternating between painting and whitening; see A level). Most famously, the students are constantly defending the main square of the campus—originally named Plaza Santander but unofficially renamed Plaza Che—by occupying the space with the help of images and slogans (see illustration 7.2b).7 Another such specific location is the district of La Candelaria, including the historic old town. As Herrera and Olaya point out, the dense concentration of the colonial buildings and historical heritage, the highest political power institutions, and the touristic highlights give this location a strong symbolic weight and make it a space of power struggles, social tensions, and exclusion (Herrera and Olaya 2011: 112). Being continuously gentrified, La Candelaria is also the city’s most touristic street art hub. The struggle over space manifests in the decreasing number of political articulations in that area (see T level), which have been replaced by rather decorative images (of animals, flowers, and beautiful women). By visually upgrading urban space, the authorities strive to attract tourism and economic investment (Gama-Castro and León-Reyes 2016: 364). Similarly, the city administration authorized street art painting in certain areas (see L level). The most controversial case is Calle 26 (26th street), one of the main car and bus routes, which has been considered rather unsafe for pedestrians, especially for tourists. In recent years, the city administration

a

b

c

d

Illustration 7.2a–d. (a) Mural; location: Universidad Nacional, Bogotá; producer: Red Revuelta, PN Identidad Estudiantil Palmira, CTR; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (b) Plaza Ché; location: Universidad Nacional, Bogotá; producer: unknown; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016 (c) Far-right stencils “Join the dissidence”; location: Universidad Nacional, Bogotá; producer: unknown; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016 (d) Overpainted far-right stencil on leftist mural; location: Universidad Nacional, Bogotá; producer: unknown; mural by Grupo Estudiantil Anarquista (GeA); © Lisa Bogerts, 2016.

Bogotá

|

189

has invited select street artists for the decoration of the surrounding façades. As members of Dexpierte Colectivo point out: Before the authorities called to paint on Calle 26, people just went there and appropriated the space themselves, without any planning or organization. It was their response to the logic of the market and the control of public space and communication media; society made itself visible on its own terms. By authorizing select artists to paint in that area, the authorities have reappropriated that space to silence the critical voices. With the help of public tenders and contests, they regained control over this area. You now have to apply for consideration as an appropriate “artist” by sending a portfolio of your work, a project proposal, a sketch, etc. They only choose those who have proven their artistic skills; you can’t simply express a political message anymore.8 Consequently, street art has stopped simply being an “easy, uncomplicated, and inexpensive way to get across your message.”9 Many artists feel limited in their freedom of expression by this compromise, both regarding the location and the content of a piece: “The deal [with the city administration] is now, ‘Okay, you can paint here, but then you don’t paint anywhere else.’ And, ‘I give you the permission to paint, so in turn you don’t say anything against me.’”10 With regard to the content, this means: “Officially you can paint whatever you want, as long as it’s not ‘Fuck the government,’ of course.”11 These measures led to a territorial order dividing urban space into authorized and unauthorized areas (Gama-Castro and León-Reyes 2016: 365). To ignore these spatial (and content-related) regulations would mean to oppose these endeavors to control public space of expression.

Time Such opportunities and limitations for political expression via street art in Bogotá were directly affected by the political circumstances of the time (indicator T1). The abovementioned street art policies developed over the last decade were heavily influenced by particular incidents and changing communal governments. Most crucially, the authorities changed their attitude after the death of a sixteen-year-old sprayer called Diego Filipe Becerra, who was shot by a police officer while spraying in September 2011. This caused a major scandal in both the street art community and the broader society and led to a change in street art legislation (see L level).12 This change

190 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

was enhanced by the circumstance that from 2012 to 2015 the capital was governed by the leftist mayor Gustavo Petro, who developed a rather open approach toward street art. By contrast, the local government at the time of my research, under the conservative right-wing mayor Enrique Peñalosa Londoño, was said to have shifted back to a more restrictive attitude.13 My photos illustrate how the content of street art images changes over time, according to the political circumstances (indicator T2). Such an instance is a mural commenting on the difficult peace process to end the violent conflict, whose content was altered after the failed peace referendum in October 2016, shortly before my visit to Bogotá (see illustration 7.1d). After the negotiators who represented the parties involved in the Colombian civil war had announced an end of the conflict in summer 2016, the referendum on 2 October failed by an extremely narrow margin (50.2 percent of the population voted against it). The mural was painted before the referendum and shows flying unmanned drones and a symbolic handshake between the parties, who are in the image still screaming at each other. Above the hands the artist wrote the word paz (peace). However, when the agreement failed, he or someone else added the word “no,” resulting in the message “no peace” (for the original version, see Bogotart 2016: 101). As history has shown, days after the failed referendum, then-president Santos was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize for his “good intentions” (see also photo 20/HP) and subsequently let the congress ratify the revised peace deal instead of a second referendum. Unfortunately, there is no photo that shows if and how the mural was altered, again, after the peace deal was finally signed.

Legal Dimension Legislative measures have played a key role in the city administration’s new approach to street art. Since the establishment of a municipal “Graffiti Roundtable” (Mesa Distrital de Graffiti), actors from different realms (public authorities, police, artists, etc.) regularly discuss legal and spatial regulations.14 While unauthorized painting is generally prohibited by law (Ley 482/ 2011), some “artistic and responsible practices of graffiti” were authorized in certain designated areas in 2013 (Decreto 75).15 Besides these spatially limited authorizations, all one needs is informal permission of the house owner. A person caught painting without permission is obliged to erase the image and to pay a fee of approximately 180 Colombian pesos (around US$60).16 While beautiful and decorative murals are often supported as being “art,”17 graffiti is still suspected to entail an atmosphere of insecurity. Therefore, endeavors to legally restrict graffiti are justified with the objectives of

Bogotá

|

191

maintaining social order and fighting criminal activities. However, in the end, it rather seems to be the protection of public property that renders it necessary to fight “vandalism.” This illustrates the more general political struggle of what is considered private property and what is a public good, which is common in metropolises like Bogotá (Gama-Castro and LeónReyes 2016: 358, 367–68).

Producers In the capital city, there is a variety of different street art producers, ranging from political collectives and trained artists (indicator P1) to both local and transnational companies commissioning artists for their advertisement campaigns (indicator P3). Regarding the latter, several local companies advertise their products through “guerilla marketing” with stencils, for instance, Bogotá Beer Company (BBC). Also, religious groups utilize murals to transmit the message of the bible and to glorify Jesus (see photo 18/HP). In some cases, street art images express political messages and resistance on the iconographical level, although they were produced by actors who do not have overtly political ambitions but rather commercial ones. In 2010/2011, for instance, La Candelaria was scattered with stencils and paste-ups featuring intervisual political references. Two such recontextualizations were Banksy’s famous “flower thrower” and the graffiti spraying soldiers, which were both adapted to the context of protests in Colombia at that time (photo 15/HP).18 However, a closer look revealed that these images were accompanied by the logo and address of a streetwear shop called The Banana Republics of America, selling shirts and other merchandise. Since none of the artists and activists interviewed has ever heard of this group, I assume that it was only a marketing idea of selling the “aesthetics of resistance” rather than a serious political endeavor. Similar to local brands, multinational corporations cooperate with both artists and advertising agencies. A street campaign by Adidas, Europe’s largest sportswear manufacturer, is a case in point. Between 2010 and 2016, the Germany-based company launched at least five murals and a stencil campaign to “celebrate originality”19 in cooperation with different Colombian street art crews and Cartel Media. This same outdoor advertising agency conducted street art campaigns for several other companies, such as Foot Locker,20 Coca-Cola/Sprite,21 Red Bull,22 Heineken,23 and for the Disney/ Pixar movie Monsters University.24 Such campaigns are often accompanied by graffiti events and hip-hop jams for youngsters, as an example of the US automobile manufacturer Chevrolet (General Motors) shows.25

192 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

Other performative events (indicator P2) include festivals and projects, such as the Meeting of Styles,26 to which the organizers invite local and international artists. At times, the local authorities, mainly the Secretaría de Cultura, Recreación y Deporte de Bogotá (Department of Culture, Sports, and Recreation), initiate and sponsor street art festivals as well. As Herrera and Olaya remind us: This governmental institution, which has been supporting hip-hop and street art events, causes some tensions between, on the one side, the character of protest and resistance that graffiti and street art may have and, on the other side, what it means to participate in the dynamics of the official institutions. (Herrera and Olaya 2011: 107, my translation) Another state institution involved in street art activities is the Centro Nacional de Memoria Histórica (National Center of Historic Memory). It primarily initiates muralist projects in rural areas (e.g., Cauca) within their programs of “symbolic reparation to give the victims a voice by visual means.”27 Similarly related to memory politics, the city-administered Centro de Memoria y Reconciliación (Center for Memory and Reconciliation) has supported mural painting on Plaza de Memoria (see A level).28 Besides this, one can occasionally find institutionally supported murals to promote the peace process with the logo of the local authorities (see also illustration 8.4b). In another case, a street painting shows the national coat of arms and the national colors (illustration 8.4c). Besides the Colombian authorities, international governmental institutions have been involved in the production of street art as well. For example, since 2013 the Gesellschaft für Internationale Zusammenarbeit (German Development Agency, GIZ) has regularly been supporting a hiphop festival in the region of Norte de Santander. Accompanied by the motto “somos historia viva” (we are living memory), the GIZ logo appears in several YouTube clips that present the work of the participating youngsters.29 Another example is the Institut Français (affiliated with the French Foreign Office), which repeatedly organized exhibitions and “urban art weeks” sponsored by companies such as Airbus, BNP Bank, and Renault.30 Of course, there are also numerous independent artists who paint on the walls of Bogotá. In my photo database, frequently identified artists include the Colombian art collective APC crew (see photo 16/HP) and the individual artists Toxicómano and Lesivo (see detailed analysis below). Above all,

Bogotá

|

193

the works of DJLU/Juegasiempre (see illustrations 7.4c–e) are ubiquitous due to his stencils (of weapons, dollar signs, etc.) scattered all over the city. The Australian street artist CRISP both produces politically loaded stencils—such as the one with the “screaming” handshake on the peace negotiations (see illustration 7.1d)—and has initiated the Bogotá Graffiti Tour. All these artists travel regularly to paint in other countries, while some also sell prints, arts and crafts, and other articles in small street art galleries (for instance, Galería Infierno or DIBS gallery). Among the politically active art collectives is the abovementioned Dexpierte (DXPT), who describe their work as resistance against the oblivion of state crimes committed during the armed conflict.31 On their website, they claim: This oblivion is accompanied by lies, silence and domination as a structural part of a political and economic system that is committing genocide against its own people. The DXPT Collective opposes this silence by the resignification of public space through its transgressive communicative actions . . . and gives everyday spaces a face, for artistic scenarios of demands and claims, and the reconstruction of history.32 For this purpose, they not only travel to other countries (including Mexico and Venezuela) to cooperate with other artists and marginalized populations but also offer street art workshops as a pedagogic measure to promote art as a tool for artistic actions.33 Although some might claim that “it has almost always been the left and the democratic progressive sectors who have been the protagonists in producing murals with political messages,”34 stencils in Bogotá illustrate how this type of street art is also produced by right-wing or even fascist groups. On the campus of Universidad Nacional I identified various stencils and slogans that left no doubt about their fascist orientation. Next to the fasces (the symbol of the Italian National Fascist Party), the stencils show the portrait of Benito Mussolini and of the controversial Colombian politician Jorge Eliécer Gaitán.35 Furthermore, some pieces prompt the spectator to “únete a la disidencia” (join the dissidence) or to “smash communism” (see illustrations 7.2c and 8.1c). In the old town district La Candelaria, I even found a stencil of Nazi leader Adolf Hitler. These cases demonstrate that admirers of far-right dictators and right-wing groups consider themselves resistance (or dissidence) as well and sometimes even employ street art in the same spatial and discursive arenas as leftist groups with competing political narratives.

194 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

Audiencing One of these fascist stencils—the one with “smash communism” next to two masked persons with black ski masks—illustrates how street art pieces are altered by their audience (indicator A1). It was sprayed onto a mural with a female worker in a protest pose, which has a clear leftist aesthetic and was produced by an anarchist students’ group. Apparently, in turn, the stencil was overpainted in order to restore the original mural (see cover image of this book and illustration 7.2d; for the whole mural, see photo 19/HP). In several cases, street art images on the university campus provoked reactions by their audience and this way attracted the attention of the media and the broader society. First, in 2015, an unknown student calling himself Señor Rayón got considerable attention when he ironically commented on images and slogans on the campus that heralded leftist icons, for instance by supplementing the sentence “Camilo vive!” (Camilo lives!) with the words “. . . con su mama” (. . . at his mom’s place). The phrase “Camilo vive!” refers to the Colombian priest and socialist liberation theorist Camilo Torres (1929–66), who was an active member of the guerilla organization ELN. This incident must be regarded in the context of the public debate on the “socialist” influence by the neighbor country Venezuela, whose government was suspected to have supported the FARC guerillas and whose supporters in Colombia are commonly pejoratively called “Castro-Chavistas.” Señor Rayón aimed to “make fun of the harangues and claims of the leftist graffiti on the walls of the campus and to caricature the revolutionary icons, in order to express the voice of those who have been silenced by the political monopoly of public space.”36 In this sense, as has been confirmed by a street survey I carried out on the campus, many students support the predominantly leftist visual discourse, while others perceive it to be a discursive hegemony.37 A second incident happened only shortly before I visited the campus in fall 2016. The huge portrait of Ernesto “Che” Guevara that visually dominates the campus’s main square (“Plaza Che”) (see illustration 7.2b) was overpainted by unknowns (and was then repainted right afterwards). As they later explained in one of Colombia’s most important newspapers, they aimed to criticize the overall presence of the Cuban revolutionary and wanted to “make the students reflect upon their ideals.”38 There are several other cases in which political murals have been commented or destroyed. For instance, a mural on a square at Calle 26 (unofficially called Plaza de los Murales de Memoria) was partly overpainted and commented with fascist slogans and a dismissal of the FARC. The mu-

Bogotá

|

195

ral commemorates trade unionists and members of the leftist party Unión Patriótica (UP) who were killed by the national armed forces. The Centro de Memoria y Reconciliación (see P level), which had sponsored the mural, condemned this act of “vandalism” as a “symbol of intolerance.”39 On the contrary, the Dexpierte collective considers such reactions to be part of the game, or even a sort of success, since the artists were apparently able to trigger a reflection and stimulate public discussion. They shared an example of one of their murals that was overpainted by unknowns because it criticized (then) president Álvaro Uribe’s involvement in paramilitary politics and was located next to a military school. Yet, for them, street art must address sensitive and controversial political issues and thus intervene in public discourse, despite the resistance it may face by opponents: “We want to evoke discomfort in the people. Sometimes you need to say things in public that haven’t been said before.”40 In this view, it is not without reason that their name Dexpierte (derived from the Spanish word despierte) in English, means “wake up!” In Bogotá the reactions to street art by the local authorities (indicator A2) vary, apparently depending on the visual content, the producers, and the location. An infamous instance was the abovementioned shooting of Diego Felipe Becerra by a police officer, which caused a huge scandal, especially in counterpoint to another case of police reactions. When in 2012 the Canadian pop singer Justin Bieber visited Bogotá on his concert tour, he left his hotel to spray graffiti images (allegedly a Canadian flag with a hemp leaf instead of a maple leaf ). Instead of punishing him for this unauthorized act of vandalism, the police even escorted and protected him from any inconveniences.41 Protesting this double standard, the local community, in turn, crossed Bieber’s piece and organized a street event inviting dwellers and supporters to send a powerful message to the authorities.42 Some cases illustrate that even whitened walls—which may be considered a depoliticization of public space—can be part of a political measure. In the touristic old town of La Candelaria, for instance, the local authorities whitened political content themselves. “Our mayor hates graffiti,” claimed the tour guide of Bogotá Graffiti Tour, and therefore “the authorities curate the walls according to their own taste,” only authorizing less political, high-quality pieces. As he further explained, “Of course, the authorities don’t want the Yankees to be scared away by stencils saying “Yankees out!’”43 Therefore, they erased most of the explicitly antiimperialist pieces, such as a stencil saying “Yanquis fuera de Colombia y el mundo!” (Yankees out of Colombia and the world!) by the Anti-imperialist Brigades.44

196 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

On the other hand, both the government and the media (indicator A4) are proud to regularly report on the “laissez-faire politics” of the local authorities45 and the “rich street art scene in La Candelaria and other districts, which they call the “Latin American Mecca for graffiti artists.”46 Apparently, the tourist sector benefits from the street art boom in Bogotá as well. Touristic items like postcards are sold in many souvenir shops in the old town (indicator A3), often reproducing pieces that comment on the violent conflict (see also Bogotart 2016: 29) or even street art advertising (e.g., the Adidas logo).47 As a Bogotá Graffiti Tour guide told the tour participants, “After the world thinks we are crazy and we want war because we voted ‘no’ in the peace referendum . . . please take your street art photos back home to change the world’s perception of Colombia.”48 In this spirit, such photos are published on numerous travel blogs and websites, often accompanied by articles reporting on Bogotá’s vivid street art scene.49 Similarly, national and international media report on that topic, and academic as well as policy institutions use street art photos to illustrate their texts about the armed conflict.50

Detailed Analysis: “Exploitation Destroys Life” As in the analysis of the other cities, a concrete image example will help illustrate which narratives and truth claims shape the public imagery, which strategies of meaning-making are employed by the producers to bring across their claims, and how other people perceive and maybe even react to this. However, as opposed to the previous chapters, I will provide an alternative way of presenting the detailed analysis, namely by first describing it (as objectively as possible) according to the seven dimensions of my analytical framework, before I turn to the actual interpretation. This way, in this last detailed analysis of the book, I offer one example for those scholars who are interested in how to accurately apply the suggested method of visual analysis (see table 1.1), separating it into these steps: first, apply objective description to discover all visual elements with fresh eyes and make transparent all information that could be important for meaning-making about resistance and rule; then, provide the—necessarily subjective—interpretation. The selected image from Bogotá narrates various topics related to (anti-) imperialism and the conceptual theme codes of “rule” and “resistance” (indicator I2), and it depicts some of the most frequent motifs (indicator I1) (see table C.5). The artist is among the most visible ones in Bogotá. In the following, I describe the image (illustration 7.3a) along the seven analytical dimensions.

Bogotá

|

197

a

b

Illustration 7.3a–b. (a) Mural “Exploitation destroys life”; location: Cl. 20#4-43, Bogotá; producer: Lesivo; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (b) Detail of illustration 7.3a (section 2).

198 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

Image Description Iconology The piece contains numerous figurate elements and one textual element (indicator I3). In the following description of the subjects (indicator I1), I distinguish three compositional sections: the left side (section 1), the central part (section 2), and the narrow part on the very right-hand side, including the section above the garage gate (section 3) (see illustration B.2b in appendix B). In section 1, the biggest and most dominant subject is the torso of a man who is holding his open hands to the right and the left, with palms toward the sky (illustration 7.4a). His head and eyes are slightly facing upward; he has a wide smile showing his teeth. Instead of a human nose, he has the nose of a pig. The torso merges into another figure, whose hands are held in a similar gesture directly below the man’s hands. The second pair of hands belongs to a gray, patterned suit jacket that seems to be empty. The hands are locked in two holes that are part of a big horizontal object that has the shape of a (materialized) dollar sign. Through a third hole in the middle of the object rises the head of an ibex with its two big, curved horns. On the right side of the $-shaped object, there is a little padlock. Above the man’s torso, there are three gray circles, each containing a subject: a TV with a spiral on its screen, a house with a gable roof and a chimney, and a car with a key on its windshield. Below the two figures, on the lower edge of the mural, there are eleven sacks, some open and some closed with cords. The open sacks show a huge number of small round objects (seemingly coins), which also make up several piles besides the sacks. Above the sacks, and to the left of the double-torso figure, there is a human (probably male) head in a lighter shade of gray. Painted in a different style, the face shows a wide smile and has a pig’s nose as well. Two horns are growing out of the forehead, just below a big top hat. In the background, around the double torso, there are several small birds flying toward the left. Some of these birds are also depicted in section 2, which is visually separated from section 1 by a big gray-and-red circular form that is repeated in the space between sections 2 and 3, thus marking the borders between the three sections. The biggest element of section 2 is the head of a vulture that is facing downward and toward the left (illustration 7.3b). Its beak is open showing its tongue. The vulture’s neck is coming out of the collar of a suit (with the same pattern as the jacket in section 1). To the left of the vulture’s head, the suit’s arms appear with big human hands coming out of it, folded in a praying position.

Bogotá

|

199

The vulture wears a mining helmet with a closure buckle. On the side of the helmet, which shows some cracks, there is a round frame in which there is a lightly painted (and therefore hardly visible) female head with long hair and widely opened eyes, whose mouth and chin have no flesh but lay bare the skull and teeth. On the front of the helmet, there is a lamp facing toward the left shining red light and projecting a circle form in front of it. The lower half of the circle consists of a grid with a black (geographical) form on it, which is divided by a zipper that is opened on the left side. Three small, round forms (probably coins) are falling out of the opened hole, each with the skull of a bull and wheat ears depicted on it. The upper half of the circle is covered by a work helmet. The circle is surrounded by two banners with waving ends, each displaying a textual element. Whereas the upper banner says in red capital letters “la explotación,” the lower banner says “arruina la vida” (both together: exploitation destroys life). In the bottom part of section 2, underneath the vulture’s beak, the background is filled with light gray barb wire. Between the bird’s beak and chest are two persons seen from the back. The seemingly male figure on the left side wears a jacket and holds his right arm around a woman, who is wearing a necklace and an elegant top. Below the couple, we see the artist’s signature: LESIVO. To the right of the couple, there is another figure: the head of a seemingly male person with many wrinkles and long bright sideburns, shaggy eyebrows, a long beak-like nose, and big empty eyes, giving the face an evil expression. The person is wearing pince-nez spectacles on his nose and a big crown on his head. This part is connected with section 3 only through a slim space above the garage gate, filled with round and abstract gray, black, and red forms. To the right of the gate, there is a narrow part that is almost completely filled with gray barbwire. In the foreground, there is a monkey in an upright body posture with its arms raised high behind its head, holding a big hammer (illustration 7.4b). Its mouth is wide open showing its teeth as if roaring. The monkey is coming out of a box (from which it is separated by an architectonic element) that is opened but much too small for an animal of that size to fit into it. On the box, we see, again, the artist’s signature, which is partly overpainted by some white paint surrounding the small door. The mural does not have an official title (indicator I4). However, the artist titles one of his Flickr photos of the piece with Pagando Para No ser Libre! (Paying to not be free!),51 and another one La Explotación Arruina La Vida (Exploitation destroys life).52 Regarding style (indicator I7), some of the subjects are painted in the aesthetics of cartoons, and the human characters partly resemble US advertisements of the 1940s and 1950s. Regarding

200 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

the colors (indicator I5), the mural is completely black and white except for a few shades of gray and several elements in hues of red.

Material Dimension Technically, the piece is an assemblage of stencils combined in a high-quality mural (indicators M1 and M3). It measures around ten meters wide and four meters high (indicator M2). Since there is a big garage gate in the wall, the painted surface is approximately thirty square meters. At the time of my visit, the piece was in good material condition, although it showed a few signs of color decay at the bottom, and there were several small tags and stencils added later (probably by other producers).53

Space The piece is located in Calle 20 with Carrera 4, number 43 (Cl. 20#4-43), a street in the city center in the district of Santa Fe (indicator S2). From the mural it is a five-minute walk to both a central public transportation stop (TransMilenio Las Aguas/Universidades) and to the historical old town. This area, La Candelaria, is the capital’s most touristic zone with many museums and historical buildings as well as several governmental institutions. Despite its proximity to this touristic and historical area, the street itself (and its surroundings) is most frequented by dwellers and people who work in the nearby office buildings and who eat in the bistros located on that street. The buildings are not as beautifully maintained as in the old town, and there is a big parking lot, giving the street a rather shady atmosphere. The mural is part of a larger wall with several pieces (see P level). The surface is the outside wall (indicator S1) of a warehouse, which is the depot of the Colombian private tourism agency Aviatur.54 However, the artist stated that, at the time when the mural was painted, the building belonged to Caracol Televisiòn, a private Colombian TV and radio company.55 On the right side of the piece, the building borders a four-story residential building.

Time As photos on the artist’s Flickr page indicate, the image was painted in January 2012 (indicator T1).56

Legal Dimension According to the artist, the wall was painted without the permission of the owner (indicator L2).57

Bogotá

|

201

Producer As the signature (see section 2) indicates, the mural was painted by the Colombian street artist Lesivo (indicator P1). In a joint painting session on the respective wall, he and each of his three colleagues from the art collective Bogotá Street Art (DJLU, Guache, and Toxicómano) painted a mural. There is no information on either related events (indicator P2) or financial support by any other party (indicator P3).

Audiencing The wall with its several murals, including the one of interest here, regularly gets attention by both local guided street art tours (indicators A1 and A3) and by the media (indicator A4). Besides the online circulation by the artist (see above), photographs of the mural are shared and commented on in various online forums.

Interpretation The mural aims to raise awareness for two forms of exploitation: that of workers and of natural resources, particularly in the mining sector in Latin America. Accordingly, it sheds light on the “dark sides” and consequences of consumerism. At the same time, it carries several very ambiguous connotations, such as indirect references to (US) capitalist lifestyle (e.g., the dollar sign, the person with the top hat, the US propaganda aesthetics, the vulture, and the buffalo coins), to the armed conflict in Colombia (and its war economies), and to resistance (the aggressive monkey). The political message of this piece is not as bold and simple as in others. Rather it represents different forms of power, exploitation, and control in a more subtle way that leaves the spectator much room for individual meaning-making. It is thus an example of a complex and multireferential visual language that demands specific contextual knowledge. While the political critique represents leftist concerns (e.g., worker’s rights, anti-capitalism, anti-imperialism, skepticism toward the church), the aesthetics and visual rhetoric are far from being classical leftist—and are not as politically loaded as socialist realism and classical muralism, for instance. They rather appropriate the aesthetic style (advertisement and cartoons) of the phenomenon that it criticizes (Northern capitalism). In this way, through modern graphic design, the image may not primarily appeal to the traditional left-wing constituency but opens itself to a wider audience, including those who might reject a Marxist rhetoric with its sometimes “outdated” touch.

202 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

These conclusions are based on the following interpretation of meanings: The biggest and most prominent subject at the center of the mural is the praying vulture that is wearing a mining helmet and a suit made for humans. In classic iconography, “vultures are considered less “regal” than eagles, since they are known only as eaters of carrion . . .” (Biedermann 1992: 370). Being both a predator and a scavenger, the vulture may be associated with the act of unscrupulously hunting and eviscerating its prey, even though that prey might be dead and thus defenseless already. However, although in my photo material the vulture is a frequently depicted animal, its symbolic meaning differs according to the local context. Whereas in Buenos Aires (US “vulture funds,” see chapter 4 on Buenos Aires) it is primarily represented in negative contexts, in Bogotá it is mainly depicted among other animals as part of the local biosphere or simply as the heraldic animal of the Colombian national coat of arms. Interestingly, the decisive symbolic difference between its meanings—a symbol of the United States on the one hand and for the Colombian biosphere on the other hand—is the precise individual species of vultures. At a closer look, the images in Bogotá show the Andean condor with its characteristic comb crowning the head of the male animal, which is part of the national coat of arms of many Andean countries (Colombia, Peru, Bolivia, Ecuador, Venezuela, and Chile). By contrast, the negative depictions in Buenos Aires’ street art display a vulture that inhabits the North American continent, without the characteristic comb.58 In Lesivo’s piece, the bird seems to represent a North American vulture. Its human characteristics—suit, hands, and helmet—allow for a comparison of humans with animals. The helmet is commonly worn by mine workers. In the sign projected by the lamp we can see another worker’s hat next to a globe and the slogan “Exploitation destroys life.” This reveals that section 2 can be understood as a critique of the current mining business in Latin America, particularly in Colombia (see also illustration 7.4d). While the helmet on the “head” of the globe protects the Northern Hemisphere, Latin America lays blank and is penetrated by the zipper that runs directly across the equator and Colombia. The coins falling out of the opened globe show wreaths of wheat and the skull of an American buffalo, an animal living in North America. The skull is repeated in an element of the mural that is hardly visible because it is overpainted in white: the female character on the mining helmet. In street art, skulls and skeletons are ubiquitous. With regard to iconographic traditions, most often “skeletons are viewed symbols of death, since bones last beyond the decay of the flesh. . . . Usually . . . a skeleton is a visual metaphor personifying death . . .” (Biedermann 1992: 309). In an interview,

Bogotá

|

203

Lesivo mentioned that he was influenced by Mexican calavera tradition and often depicts skulls in this style in his artwork. Although he might not have negative associations with death culture, in Bogotá skulls and skeletons are most often depicted in negative contexts. In my photos, they are either linked with the physical and moral “decay” of people (e.g., a paste-up of then-president Manuel Santos as half a skull/zombie), with the extinction of species and the destruction of the biosphere due to the mineral industry, or with the victims of the armed conflict (illustration 7.1a). In Lesivo’s work there is much explicit critique of the internationalized mineral and other extractive industries, including the petroleum sector, often connected to the United States (see e.g., the piece Damn Petrol 59). In other images there are skeletons with the uniforms of soldiers or paramilitaries (e.g., illustration 7.1b). Another version of Lesivo’s skull woman shows the female character even more zombie-like, and she is wearing a military beret.60 Either way, the buffalo skull may be interpreted as a symbol for the extinction of species, and the skull woman for the (physical and moral) decay of human beings. Interestingly, this element of the mural was overpainted, maybe due to complaints by dwellers. In the interview, Lesivo mentioned an old lady who complained about the “demonic” representation of the woman.61 The specific material features of street art techniques (see M level) make a crucial difference in the dissemination of their messages. A stencil can be applied multiple times in different spaces in order to either spread the same message various times or combine it with other stencils to create a different message. Lesivo says, “For me, it’s a project of mass communication. With a stencil and a spray can we can leave fifteen to twenty interventions that are seen by up to ten thousand people on the next day.” In this sense, for him, street art is “a political act because it is a public act.”62 For instance, a different mural with the praying vulture stencil is titled Sí a la Vida, No a la Mina (Say yes to life and no to mining) and is accompanied by the slogan “No a la minería en Colombia!!!” (No mining in Colombia!!!)63 and a hyperlink with the text “NeoColonización,” leading to a nationwide civil society anti-mining campaign.64 Another version is titled 520 Años de Saqueo (520 years of plunder),65 unambiguously referring to external aggression since the colonization of the American continent starting in 1492. Herewith the artist sheds light on global economic (inter)dependences and neo-imperialism. In contrast to much of Bogotá’s street art that depicts nature, the artist refuses “to paint another decorative mural as we see everywhere in Calle 26 or in La Candelaria.”66 Instead of romanticizing the rich Colombian biosphere, he decided to “put some poison on the wall,” since for him it is absolutely clear who is to blame: the transnational corporations who

204 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

plunder the country’s natural resources, most prominently petroleum and gold but also carbon and the monocultural African oil palm.67 Accordingly, in other murals and stencils, he criticizes the genetic manipulation of vegetables and animals (petro animales) by transnational food corporations. Understood in this sense, the vulture with the mining helmet may represent the external forces, cooperating with the national elites, who “eviscerate” their “prey”: Latin America. For a participant in the focus group interview that I conducted in Bogotá, the vulture symbolized the “contradiction between the collective production of wealth by the workers and the private appropriation of the benefit by individuals, mainly managers and other businesspeople.”68 This contradiction is expressed by the visual juxtaposition between the helmet—the symbol for the working class (see chapter 4 on Buenos Aires)— and the business suit worn by the vulture. In my database, men in suits are a common visual figure. Throughout Bogotá, Caracas, Buenos Aires, and Mexico City, they symbolize, inter alia, reckless politicians, corruption and moneymaking, public surveillance and control, unquestioned media consumption, or exploitation by a capitalist business elite (see photo 16/HP). In short, this visual figure is negatively associated with bureaucracy or technocracy. On the other hand, the symbol of the mining helmets draws attention to the exploitative working conditions in the Colombian mineral industry and to the exploitation of the working class in general.69 In line with this, another mural by Lesivo (showing the same person with the top hat as the piece I am analyzing here) is titled Esclavitud Corporativa (Corporate slavery)70 and reminds us of Mirzoeff’s view on the working class as the enslaved of the metropole.71 Potentially this unquestioned belief and obedience is also expressed by the vulture’s praying position. In a devoted downward-facing position, the vulture’s head and folded hands are directed toward the sacks full of money. The motif of the money bag is commonly used to represent profit-oriented politicians and businesspeople (e.g., photo 16/HP), similar to coins or bills. In the focus group’s interview, the participants concentrated on the religious connotation. They perceived a subtle critique of the power of the Catholic Church in Colombia that “today is partly replaced by an almost religious belief in the ideology of capitalism.”72 The religious connotation of the hand gesture is repeated in section 1: one interview participant noticed that the open arms and hands of the male torso reminded her of Jesus Christ, either hanging on the cross or embracing the “sinners,” who are expected to unconditionally believe, with devotion and sacrifice.73 The triangle composition of the double torso, just like crucified Jesus, strengthens the Christian symbolism. In this view, the workers sacrifice themselves to maintain their lifestyles, while the managers profit from their resources.74 At the same time,

Bogotá

|

205

the upward gaze and the hand gesture of the pig-nosed man make it look like he is either waiting to receive something “from above” (from God or heaven) or juggling with the bubbles containing the consumer products of his dreams (TV, car, house). According to the artist Lesivo, he indeed aimed to criticize both capitalist lifestyle and the role of the Catholic Church in Colombia, whose role— particularly in the failed peace referendum in 2016—he still considers as a heritage of European colonialism that is too powerful, which once exported Catholicism to Latin America. At the same time, he views today’s “religion” of capitalism as a modern Reconquista, which instead of the sword, the cross, and the bible, brings Coca-Cola, the hamburger, and MasterCard to “evangelize and sell ideals for the North Americanization of the world.”75 For him, “the global hegemonic vision in the world keeps being too North American and Eurocentric, and it is still extremely ‘Western’ and Greco-Roman, which has brought us Latin Americans many problems.”76 Consequently, in their work, Lesivo and his associates (Guache, inter alia, see illustration 7.1c) address cultural impositions and the “racist segregation of society that still exists in Colombia,” because it keeps the population from appreciating their roots and their own cultural heritage (in contrast to openly “plurinational” states like Bolivia).77 Many street artists in Colombia, such as Bastardilla (see illustration 7.1a), aim to “break with this traditional, catholic, hippocratic, racist and colonial society. . . . The walls are turned into sites of confrontation. . . . In the context of political violence, the only way is to resist with the help of the symbolic” (Bastardilla 2009; my translation). A very bold illustration of these points is another mural by Lesivo, which he painted in Peru, titled Si Perdemos el Norte, Buscaremos el Sur (If we lose the North, let us search for the South).78 This image contains not only the skull, the US flag, and the euro symbol but also some very explicit symbols of the continuously unequal global North-South relations. This includes, on the one side, a colonial ship, coins, the cross, the sword, and the crown, and on the other side, Mickey Mouse, Coca-Cola, a hamburger, a credit card, and a truncheon. In this image, Lesivo brings across a postcolonial and anti-imperialist message by criticizing “hegemonic images and a hegemonic discourse that aim to tell people what they should like and what is the best product.”79 This problem, for him, gets even bigger when—as in Colombia—the cultural, economic and political power is concentrated in the hands of very few persons, including then-president Santos, whose family owns the biggest media corporation (El Tiempo). Therefore, he points out, for those who control both the business and the media and information sectors, “it is very easy to manipulate a population.”80

206 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

In this context, the small couple seen from behind (in section 2 of the mural), maybe watching TV, might address indifferent media consumption, as the artist’s comment on another version of the stencil (“Información sin Manipulación” [Information without manipulation]) indicates.81 Against this backdrop, the man with the pig nose in section 1 may be interpreted as the typical consumer or the “super-capitalist gringo guy,” aspiring a capitalist lifestyle that makes him happy and indifferent to both the exploitation of labor and of natural resources.82 In Christian iconography, the pig “is a symbol of ignorance and voracious appetite” (Biedermann 1992: 265). In my photo material from the four cities, the pig is either sitting on a pile of money, wears a police hat, or refers to the cruel ruler Napoleon in George Orwell’s 1945 allegorical novel Animal Farm. In the mural, the pig nose is repeated in the figure with the top hat, the horns, and a similar bright smile. While the association with the (US) “American way of life” was, so far, rather implicit due to the aesthetics that resemble the advertisement propaganda from the United States of the 1940s or the aesthetics of US (Marvel) cartoons of that time, the top hat makes the person “clearly identifiable as the Yankee.”83 In general, the symbol of the (fat) man with a tailcoat and a top hat is commonly used in negative representations of capitalism (Steinkamp 2011: 370). Furthermore, James Montgomery Flagg’s famous 1917 World War II propaganda poster “I Want You for the U.S. Army” implemented the top hat as a symbol for the authoritative Uncle Sam, the most iconic allegory and personified caricature of the United States.84 While in my material the top hat sometimes refers to the United States, the capitalist elite, or the upper class (in historical times), other depictions leave more space for interpretation. Further, combined with the sacks full of money and painted in cartoon aesthetics, the top hat may also be associated with Walt Disney figure Scrooge McDuck, a wealthy and stingy counterpart to Donald Duck (Dorfman and Mattelart 1991).85 Interestingly, the tour guide of the Bogotá Graffiti Tour suggested that the character represented former US president Ronald Reagan, who is infamous in Latin America for his starkly interventionist and anticommunist foreign policy (so-called Reagan Doctrine) and state-sponsored terrorism.86 More precisely, Reagan was responsible for the hidden war against the socialist Sandinista government in Nicaragua through the support of the Contra rebels in the 1980s and for the 1983 military occupation of the Caribbean island of Grenada. However, although the character may resemble the fortieth US president—who initiated the so-called War on Drugs that led to several military bases and other violent antidrug politics, later (from 1999 on) in the context of so-called Plan Colombia—this interpretation was not explicitly

Bogotá

|

207

confirmed by the artist and thus must be left open. Yet, other versions of the stencil contain more indirect allusions to the United States (e.g., a baseball bat87 or a top hat with stars and stripes88). Another feature of the person with the top hat is the horns growing out of his forehead, which evokes the connotation of the devil, Satan, or the antichrist.89 In Christian iconography, the devil is commonly depicted with horns and sometimes with cloven hooves. This symbolism is derived from its association with the goat, or ibex, probably originating from the bible (as the bad and stubborn counterpart of the “good” sheep or lambs90) and the demonization of the god Pan of ancient Greece (half man, half goat) by the Christian church (Biedermann 1992: 252–53). In my photo material, the devil’s horns are used to demonize businessmen or politicians. In Lesivo’s mural, the character is repeated in much smaller versions, hidden in the barbwire in section 3, as if the artists intended to demonstrate that “the devil is in the detail.” In section 1, the motif of the horns is repeated in the very subject of the ibex. It is growing out of the suit, and its hands are shackled by the giant materialized dollar sign, locked by a padlock. Resembling either a pillory for the public humiliation of delinquents or wooden yokes used for the transport of captured slaves,91 it is by any means an instrument of captivity, or even punishment, because the small holes and the padlock hinder the depicted (business)person to move freely. The similarity between the hand gestures of the upper torso (meaning freedom of market and free consumerism) are now directly juxtaposed with the other extreme—captivity—probably to demonstrate how close these two conditions actually are in life. The subjects of shackles or chains are common visual elements in street art images. Occasionally, they illustrate (historical) slavery or oppression or indicate political prisoners. In most cases however, in counterpoint, they visualize the liberation from oppression and “slavery” in the context of political emancipation and resistance, and they are often combined with the symbol of the fist. While in this mural the shackle, or yoke, takes the form of a dollar sign to illustrate the shackles and force (and coercion) of money, the symbol ($) itself is far from unambiguous. Besides its designation of US dollars (US$), both the symbol $ and the word “dollar” indicate numerous currencies in the world, the former including the Colombian peso (COL$), and thus might either refer to the Colombian economy or the US economy, and it is even seen as a symbol of money in a more general sense. Interestingly, the dollar sign originates in the Spanish American peso that was a common currency in transatlantic trade after the Spanish colonization of territories in the Americas, and it was only adopted by the (freshly independent) United States in the late eighteenth century.92 Following a common theory, it derives

208 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

a

c

b

d

Illustration 7.4a–e. (a) Detail of illustration 7.3a (section 1). (b) Detail of illustration 7.3a (section 3). (c) Stencil pictogram; location: La Candelaria, Bogotá; producer: DJLU; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (d) Stencil pictogram; location: La Candelaria, Bogotá; producer: DJLU; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (e) Stencil pictograms; location: La Candelaria, Bogotá; producer: DJLU; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016.

e

Bogotá

|

209

from the symbol of the “pillars of Hercules” in the Spanish coat of arms, representing the “possessions” in the “New World.”93 Consequently, in its broadest sense, one might say that the dollar sign carries a colonial aftertaste, both with regard to European colonialism (in North and South America) and to US imperialism (in Latin America). However, most artists and audiences might only associate it with the USA. In Bogotá, the $ symbol as used by both Lesivo and his colleague DJLU (illustration 7.4c) aim to draw the viewer’s attention to the Colombian war economy and the fact that economic elites might be interested in the continuation of the armed conflict.94 Other producers use the dollar sign in the context of corruption in the political elite or in the police, the business managers’ greed for profit, and the extractive industry, in particular the mineral industry. At times, it is explicitly used for anti-US statements, for instance in Caracas. Another character in the mural is the old man with the “crown” and the bushy sideburns. Notably, his nose in the form of a bird’s beak is a visual feature of the devil used in historical depictions (Biedermann 1992: 94). While I do not share the interpretation of Bogotá Graffiti Tour suggesting that the portrait caricatures the former Colombian president Álvaro Uribe,95 the crown surely marks the man as a king, be it in the literal or the metaphorical sense. The historical connotation is underlined by his old-fashioned spectacles and beard. In a different version of the stencil, the artist adds the text “Alteza Rapaz. 1492–2012” (His highness the bird of prey. 1492–2012) and as a caption of the photo “Saqueados y Depredados. Ya Casi 520 Años!!” (Plundered and depredated. Almost 520 years already!!).96 In combination with the historical cloths depicted in this version, the character represents a ruling personality from colonial times, probably personifying the continuity of colonialism beginning in 1492 and, for the artist, still existing today. In line with Lesivo’s comment on today’s Reconquista (see above), the mural carries allusions not only to US neo-imperialism (personified by the man with the top hat) but also to European colonialism (personified by the old man with the crown). The last element in the mural is the monkey in section 3. In another version of the stencil,97 one can see that the same monkey is jumping out of the small box on a spiral just like a Jack-in-the-box, which surprises the playing children by suddenly popping out. Therefore, the outraged and ultra-strong monkey with the heavy hammer (as a weapon) might symbolize a “bad surprise” to those “playing” with it. In other words, nature is fighting back against those who oppressed and exploited it. The barbwire is metonymic for barriers in the context of either war, borders, or other areas where trespassing is forbidden. In any case, it symbolizes limited movement and

210 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

liberty. In a third version of the stencil on the artist’s Flickr page, the monkey is accompanied by the text “gira tu rabia” (channel your anger).98 Understood in this sense, the monkey might represent the potential to use the anger at the exploitative system fruitfully to fight back, and actively to resist. Instead of painting nature and the Colombian biodiversity in a harmonious way, Lesivo here depicts a rather violent and angry animal. Lesivo’s name is derived from the Spanish word lesionar, which means “to hurt.” Whereas he prefers to convey critical, potentially hurtful messages instead of beautiful landscapes or animals, he stresses that he has to do this in a rather indirect visual language, because there is a sort of informal censorship depending on the (political) content of the image.99 In the mural, the artist employs a visual rhetoric of sarcasm and irony, for instance by depicting smiling persons while actually referring to something negative. This stylistic element adds another layer of meaning to the image, which might not be understood by every viewer. While in my street survey some pedestrians saw political references, others perceived the mural as visualizing something funny, or even “the happiness of the Colombian society.”100 For Lesivo, the case of the oppositional journalist Jaime Garzón, who was assassinated in 1999 after publicly saying Colombia was a “país de mierda” (shit country)—there is a big mural with his portrait and this quote on Calle 26—revealed that critical voices are still risking their lives, including street artists. Although very often the police are indifferent to painters, the artist repeatedly had to pay fines and also experienced physical abuse by police officers who caught him painting an unauthorized image. Additionally, he mentions that the authorities overpainted some of his explicitly political images, including those criticizing Álvaro Uribe.101 With regard to street art, Lesivo goes on to explain, the city authorities are very biased, depending on the content and the economic and touristic value of the respective image. Therefore, as the artists of the piece analyzed here painted the wall without the permission of the owner, the mural was “like a paradigm” for them, because they were free to paint whatever they wanted without providing any sketches or facing any other a priori regulations. In counterpoint to these administrative politics, he sees the role of street art in opposing the hegemonic imagery of advertisement and in offering an alternative and accessible medium for those who cannot access the dominant media and advertisement business.102 Lesivo underlines that his ambitions are explicitly anti-consumerist and directed against advertising. This is why he appropriates the strategies and aesthetics of advertising companies to provide “a counterweight to these he-

Bogotá

|

211

gemonic images”: “They neither ask me for permission when they put an ad or a billboard in the bus station.”103 Consequently, the sheer presence of an image in public space and the mass of people potentially reached is key to his understanding of the political practice of visual communication, or more precisely, by mass media communication via “street propaganda.” Since he rejects the appellative visual language of advertisement, he avoids creating images with only one possible interpretation or message: The mural is not an ad, and it’s not a billboard. It doesn’t have a single meaning. The ad says “Drink Coca-Cola!” they don’t want you to stop and watch for twenty-five minutes to understand, “Aah, they want me to drink Coca-Cola.” By contrast, we do want people to stop and to think a little. . . . In the overflow of visual information in our cities, we lost that ability to make the spectator think in the street.104 Apparently, with this visual strategy, the artist gained a broad audience for his images. Although he does not represent a politically militant activist group, he is part of the art collective Bogotá Street Art, which is considered the “elite” of high-quality local street artists.105 In his parallel activities, he sells art products in their shop, exhibits in small galleries, and offers stencil workshops to teach other people how to use street art as a mass medium in the public space. Additionally, the Bogotá Street Art collective regularly organizes events and publishes books (see illustration 8.1h).106 Lesivo’s street artworks are represented in several publications on the art scene in Bogotá, in Colombia, or in Latin America (e.g., Bogotart 2016: 54, 94, 98, 110–11) as well as on international blogs and other online forums in both the (street) art107 and the tourism108 sector. Furthermore, the work of the artist is known beyond Bogotá because of his international cooperation and trips to paint in other countries, for instance in Peru, Mexico City, or Berlin.109 The mural analyzed here110 and the other murals on that wall by his Bogotá Street Art colleagues111 are not only reproduced in international publications112 but also comprise an inherent part of guided street art tours.113 In this way, its visual messages are seen and photographed by many tourists who, in turn, publish their photos on their blogs or in other online platforms (such as Flickr, Pinterest, or YouTube). In November 2017, the New York Times published a video documentary on the guided tour, showing a huge group of tourists and journalists in front of the wall—who probably were also trying to find the “devil in the detail.”114

212 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

Notes 1. Interview with members of Dexpierte Colectivo on 5 November 2016 in Bogotá. 2. Interview with members of Dexpierte Colectivo on 5 November 2016 in Bogotá. 3. Image source: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:The_Secret_Soviet_Bunk er_(14360593542).jpg /; this motif was also used as a cover for a street art book by Lesivo and other artists (see illustration 8.1h, detailed analysis) (https://www.fli ckr.com/photos/lesivobestial/7159902593/in/datetaken/ [retrieved 30 October 2020]). 4. This assemblage also adorns the cover of a book about stencils of revolutionary women published by a feminist collective based in New Zealand (https://secure.pm press.org/index.php?l=product_detail&p=260 [retrieved 28 March 2020]). 5. For the original painted in 1968, see https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File: Mural_Brigada_Ramona_Parra_02.jpg (retrieved 28 March 2020). 6. Interview with members of Dexpierte Colectivo on 5 November 2016 in Bogotá. 7. Interview with Edwin Cubillos, Centro Nacional de Memoria Histórica, on 28 October 2016 in Bogotá. 8. Interview with members of Dexpierte Colectivo on 5 November 2016 in Bogotá (my translation). 9. Participation in the Bogotá Graffiti Tour on 29 October 2016. 10. Interview with members of Dexpierte Colectivo on 5 November 2016 in Bogotá (my translation). 11. Participation in the Bogotá Graffiti Tour on 29 October 2016. 12. Interview with Edwin Cubillos, Centro Nacional de Memoria Histórica, on 28 October 2016 in Bogotá. 13. Participation in the Bogotá Graffiti Tour on 29 October 2016, guided by Carlos Vargas. 14. http://www.las2orillas.co/la-mesa-del-grafiti/; http://www.culturarecreacionydepor te.gov.co/es/programas/cultura-democratica/grafiti-en-Bogota (retrieved 28 March 2020); interview with Edwin Cubillos, Centro Nacional de Memoria Histórica, on 28 October 2016 in Bogotá. 15. http://www.elespectador.com/noticias/bogota/un-museo-de-arte-urbano-cielo-abi erto-articulo-553089 (retrieved 28 March 2020). 16. Interview with the artist Lesivo on 4 November 2016 in Bogotá; participation in the Bogotá Graffiti Tour on 29 October 2016, guided by Carlos Vargas. 17. Interview with members of Dexpierte Colectivo on 5 November 2016 in Bogotá. 18. I took photos of these images on a much earlier trip to Bogotá in March 2011. 19. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sZqYuqB-_M4; http://www.pictame.com/tag/ senilstencil (retrieved 8 May 2020). 20. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ih1-4ffNmBk (retrieved 28 March 2020). 21. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a0uMFsvZDPc (retrieved 28 March 2020). 22. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b26iAvzAyJg (retrieved 28 March 2020). 23. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E_tyz-Q0fyM (retrieved 28 March 2020). 24. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FUAsFZQ59tc (retrieved 28 March 2020). 25. https://oropictures.com/chevrolet-find-new-roads/ (retrieved 28 March 2020).

Bogotá

|

213

26. http://www.graficamestiza.com/index.php/actualidad/noticias/mos-colombia-con vocatoria-internacional/ (retrieved 28 March 2020). 27. Interview with Edwin Cubillos, Centro Nacional de Memoria Histórica, on 28 October 2016 in Bogotá (my translation). 28. http://www.resumenlatinoamericano.org/2017/10/10/colombia-el-arte-urbanoen-bogota-una-herramienta-para-la-paz/ and http://centromemoria.gov.co/memo ria/murales/ (retrieved 28 March 2020). 29. http://contraluzcucuta.co/articulos/somos-historia-viva-festival-de-hip-hop-delnorte-bravos-hijos-dnbh-2016/; e.g., “Artesanas de Paz” (female artisans of peace): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LlszjJhy4ZM&list=PL38krl5-6mZzS7bfRSbv TXsJpii5km0UO (retrieved 28 September 2020). 30. See http://cartelurbano.com/eventos/agenda/exposicion-de-graffiti-hablan; http:// www.colombiafrancia2017.com/content/semana-del-arte-urbano (retrieved 28 March 2020). 31. Interview with members of Dexpierte Colectivo on 5 November 2016 in Bogotá (my translation). 32. http://dexpierte.blogspot.de/p/prueba.html (retrieved 28 March 2020; my translation). 33. Interview with members of Dexpierte Colectivo on 5 November 2016 in Bogotá (my translation). 34. http://www.resumenlatinoamericano.org/2017/10/10/colombia-el-arte-urbanoen-bogota-una-herramienta-para-la-paz/ (retrieved 29 March 2020; my translation). 35. For Gaitán’s controversial ideology, promoting “a swing between Marxism and fascism,” see https://colombiareports.com/amp/jorge-eliece-gaitan/ (retrieved 22 November 2021). 36. https://cromos.elespectador.com/node/8729/karen-martinez-se-une-la-lucha-cont ra-el-cancer-de-seno-15776 (retrieved 29 March 2020; my translation). 37. Street survey with students at Plaza Che on the campus of Universidad Nacional on 3 November 2016 in Bogotá; see also: http://www.colombiainforma.info/graciaspor-salvar-a-la-universidad-nacional-rubiano; https://ourun.wordpress.com/2013/ 12/06/the-script-of-my-video/ (retrieved 29 March 2020). 38. https://www.elespectador.com/noticias/bogota/borramos-el-che-universidad-nacion al-reflexione-articulo-661415 (retrieved 29 March 2020). 39. Image source: http://centromemoria.gov.co/los-murales-renaceran-como-la-memo ria/; see also https://pacifista.tv/notas/chirrete-golden-nos-habla-de-graffiti-y-paz/ (retrieved 29 March 2020). 40. Interview with members of Dexpierte Colectivo on 5 November 2016 in Bogotá (my translation). 41. https://www.theguardian.com/world/2013/dec/30/bogota-graffiti-artists-mayor-col ombia-justin-bieber; https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2aW0YORzSc8 (retrieved 29 March 2020). 42. Interview with Edwin Cubillos, Centro Nacional de Memoria Histórica, on 28 October 2016 in Bogotá (my translation). 43. Participation in the Bogotá Graffiti Tour on 29 October 2016. 44. I already documented this stencil on an earlier trip in April 2010.

214 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

45. http://www.bogota.gov.co/article/localidades/la-candelaria/el-arte-se-toma-las-call es-de-la-candelaria (retrieved 9 May 2020). 46. https://wtop.com/latin-america/2015/03/graffiti-boom-born-in-tragedy-brightensup-colombia-capital/slide/3/ (retrieved 29 March 2020). 47. See also: yolandabando.blogspot.com (retrieved 29 March 2020). 48. Participation in the Bogotá Graffiti Tour on 29 October 2016. Besides this company, there are several others, including the Graffiti Bike Tour along the government-commissioned murals on Calle 26. 49. http://tradingvoyageur.com/street-art/bogota-graffiti-art/graffiti-bogota-a-biketour-of-bogotas-graffiti/ (retrieved 9 May 2020). 50. For instance, https://www.nytimes.com/2017/09/06/world/americas/pope-franc is-visits-colombia-where-even-peace-is-polarizing.html; https://www.yahoo.com/ news/colombian-street-artists-graffiti-peace-150212711.html; http://emirates-busi ness.ae/colombian-artists-use-graffiti-to-spread-peace/; http://www.resumenlatino americano.org/2017/10/10/colombia-el-arte-urbano-en-bogota-una-herramientapara-la-paz/; https://pbicolombia.org/peace/; http://foreignpolicy.com/2015/07/13/ is-colombia-getting-played-by-the-farc/; and http://foreignpolicy.com/2015/07/14/ colombias-last-chance-for-peace-farc-santos-agreement/ (retrieved 29 March 2020). 51. https://www.flickr.com/photos/lesivobestial/6826300163/in/datetaken/ (retrieved 29 March 2020). 52. https://www.flickr.com/photos/lesivobestial/6826354641/in/datetaken/ (retrieved 29 March 2020). 53. As can be seen in photos taken in January 2012, these small interventions were not there directly after the image was painted: https://www.flickr.com/photos/lesivobes tial/6826300163/in/datetaken/; https://www.flickr.com/photos/lesivobestial/6826 354641/in/datetaken/ (retrieved 29 March 2020). 54. http://www.grupoaviatur.com/acerca-de-nosotros/empresa/historia (retrieved 29 March 2020). 55. Interview with Lesivo on 4 November 2016 in Bogotá; https://www.caracoltv.com/ (retrieved 29 March 2020). 56. Photos posted by the artist on 8 January 2012, https://www.flickr.com/photos/lesivo bestial/6826300163/in/datetaken/ and https://www.flickr.com/photos/lesivobestial/ 6826354641/in/datetaken/ (retrieved 29 March 2020). Although the artist says it was painted in 2010 (“if I’m not mistaken”), postings of the other artists prove the date of January 2012; see, e.g., https://www.facebook.com/toxicomano/photos/a .298387666863530.61481.151880381514260/309431202425843/?type=3&thea ter; see also tourist documentation of the painting process: http://mikesbogotablog .blogspot.de/2012/01/toxicomanos-massive-mural.html (retrieved 29 March 2020). 57. Interview with Lesivo on 4 November 2016 in Bogotá. 58. Interestingly, the coat of arms of the National University of Mexico (UNAM) combines both the Andean condor and the golden eagle and thus seems to symbolize a bridge between the two American continents. 59. https://www.flickr.com/photos/toxicomano666/5880362907/ (retrieved 29 March 2020). 60. https://www.flickr.com/photos/lesivobestial/5066297586/in/datetaken/ (retrieved 29 March 2020).

Bogotá

|

215

61. Interview with Lesivo on 4 November 2016 in Bogotá. 62. Interview with Lesivo on 4 November 2016 in Bogotá. 63. https://www.flickr.com/photos/lesivobestial/6809035707/in/datetaken/ (retrieved 29 March 2020). 64. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N-Pwv2Vch8o (retrieved 29 March 2020). 65. https://www.flickr.com/photos/lesivobestial/8088626623/in/datetaken/ (retrieved 29 March 2018); the image is accompanied by the lyrics of the song “Latinoamérica” by the famous Puerto Rican rapper Calle 13, who promotes the narrative of trans– Latin American solidarity to defend the region against external interventionism. In the music video, street art plays an important role as well. 66. Interview with Lesivo on 4 November 2016 in Bogotá. 67. Interview with Lesivo on 4 November 2016 in Bogotá. 68. Focus group interview on 7 November 2016 in Bogotá; mentioned by the participant Orlando (my translation). 69. See also https://wtop.com/latin-america/2015/03/graffiti-boom-born-in-tragedy-br ightens-up-colombia-capital/slide/6/ (retrieved 29 March 2020). 70. https://www.flickr.com/photos/lesivobestial/5112679158/in/datetaken/ (retrieved 29 March 2020). 71. Mirzoeff interlinks the history of the antislavery and the working-class movement in both Europe and the Americas by suggesting “proletarian countervisuality” (Mirzoeff 2011: 221). 72. Focus group interview on 7 November 2016 in Bogotá; mentioned by the participant Daniela Maldonado; similarly by Michel Candelaria and Jerzon Carrillo. 73. Focus group interview on 7 November 2016 in Bogotá; mentioned by the participant Michel Candelaria; see also http:// www.beliefnet.com/faiths/christianity/ galleries/jesus-return-10-things-you-did-not-know.aspx (retrieved 2 May 2020). 74. Focus group interview on 7 November 2016 in Bogotá; mentioned by the participant Daniela Maldonado. 75. Interview with Lesivo on 4 November 2016 in Bogotá. 76. Interview with Lesivo on 4 November 2016 in Bogotá. 77. Interview with Lesivo on 4 November 2016 in Bogotá. 78. https://www.facebook.com/337882986312128/photos/a.782403915193364 .1073741841.337882986312128/782 404888526600/?type=3&theater (retrieved 29 March 2018). 79. Interview with Lesivo on 4 November 2016, in Bogotá. 80. Interview with Lesivo on 4 November 2016 in Bogotá. 81. https://www.flickr.com/photos/lesivobestial/6790901282/in/datetaken/ (retrieved 29 March 2020). 82. Focus group interview on 7 November 2016 in Bogotá; mentioned by the participant Orlando. 83. Focus group interview on 7 November 2016 in Bogotá; mentioned by the participants Daniela Maldonado and Orlando. 84. Actually based on a British World War I poster; see https://www.wdl.org/en/ item/576/ (retrieved 29 March 2020). 85. Special thanks to Priska Daphi (Duck) for this idea.

216 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

86. Participation in the Bogotá Graffiti Tour on 29 October 2016 with the guide Carlos Vargas. The interpretation of the character as being Reagan is reproduced in the following article: http://loisislost.com/a-look-at-bogota-street-art/ (retrieved 29 March 2020). 87. https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=117137455000826&set=t.10000 0984734368&type=3&theater; for poster version, see https://www.flickr.com/ photos/amenaza2010/4743256931 (retrieved 29 March 2020). 88. https://www.flickr.com/photos/lesivobestial/5077698647/in/datetaken/ (retrieved 29 March 2020). 89. Focus group interview on 7 November 2016 in Bogotá; mentioned by the participant Michel Candelaria. 90. https://www.quora.com/Why-is-the-Devil-associated-with-cloven-hoofs (retrieved 29 March 2020). 91. Focus group interview on 7 November 2016 in Bogotá; mentioned by the participant Orlando; http://www.slaveryimages.org/details.php?categorynum=3&catego ryName=Capture percent20of percent20Slaves percent20and percent20 percent20 percent20Coffles percent20in percent20Africa&theRecord=30&recordCount=43 (retrieved 29 March 2020). 92. https://en.oxforddictionaries.com/explore/what-is-the-origin-of-the-dollar-sign (retrieved 29 March 2020). 93. http://en.antiquitatem.com/dollar-the-pillards-of-hercules (retrieved 29 March 2020). 94. Interview with DJLU/Juegasiempre on 7 November 2016 in Bogotá; participation in the Bogotá Graffiti Tour on 29 October 2016, with the guide Carlos Vargas. 95. Participation in the Bogotá Graffiti Tour on 29 October 2016, with the guide Carlos Vargas. 96. https://www.flickr.com/photos/lesivobestial/5854919255/in/datetaken/ (retrieved 29 March 2020). 97. https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10154097908845201&set=t.10000 0984734368&type=3&theater (retrieved 29 March 2020). 98. https://www.flickr.com/photos/lesivobestial/5023823937/in/datetaken/ (retrieved 29 March 2020). 99. Interview with Lesivo on 4 November 2016 in Bogotá. 100. Street survey, person 11. 101. Interview with Lesivo on 4 November 2016 in Bogotá. 102. Interview with Lesivo on 4 November 2016 in Bogotá. 103. Interview with Lesivo on 4 November 2016 in Bogotá. 104. Interview with Lesivo on 4 November 2016 in Bogotá (my translation). 105. Interview with Edwin Cubillos, Centro Nacional de Memoria Histórica, on 28 October 2016 in Bogotá. 106. https://www.flickr.com/photos/lesivobestial/7159902593 (retrieved 29 March 2020). 107. See report in the Mexican magazine Illegal Squad: https://www.flickr.com/photos/ lesivobestial/12409530324/in/datetaken/; https://blog.vandalog.com/tag/lesivo/ (retrieved 29 March 2020). 108. http://miblogota.tumblr.com/image/12180069701 (retrieved 29 March 2020).

Bogotá

|

217

109. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=txVvt1VmxB4; interview with Lesivo on 4 November 2016 in Bogotá; https://www.pinterest.de/pin/399764904408290608/; https://www.flickr.com/photos/lesivobestial/4621262834/in/datetaken/ (retrieved 29 March 2020). 110. For instance, https://thestreetisthecanvas.wordpress.com/2015/02/13/toxicoma no-bogota-colombia/; http://trans-americas.com/blog/2016/03/bogota-street-artpolitical/; https://inbetweenismine.wordpress.com/type/gallery/; https://jacquelin emhadel.com/2012/09/30/the-wall-gouache-djlutoxicomano-lesivo/; http://mike sbogotablog.blogspot.de/2012/01/toxicomanos-massive-mural.html; http://loisisl ost.com/category/thoughts/ (see 18 November 2016); https://www.pictaram .org/post/BdTy1piAz8a; https://atravellerawriter.com/tag/bogota-street-art-tour/; https://jennyskyisthelimit.blog/2017/09/04/bogota-recorrido-de-arte-callejerograffiti-tour/; http://www.loveantoinette.com/street-art-spotted-bogota-colombiapart-2/ (retrieved 29 March 2020). 111. http://www.brooklynstreetart.com/theblog/2015/01/29/bogota-a-liberal-app roach-to-art-creates-exceptional-street-culture/; http://www.i-love-urbanart.com/ wordpress/graffiti_bogota_derk_hoberg/; https://blog.suncelo.eu/streetartbogota2/; http://lateinamerika-nachrichten.de/?aaartikel=graffiti-in-zeiten-der-legalitaet; https://www.reise-nach-kolumbien.de/schmerzliche-kritik-die-botschaften-an-bog otas-waenden/; https://www.radionica.rocks/noticias/el-arte-urbano-de-bogotainmortalizado-en-google (retrieved 29 March 2020). 112. For instance, https://issuu.com/ejercito.comunicacional/docs/aqs_beta, pp. 18–19 (image 45). 113. Participation in the Bogotá Graffiti Tour on 29 October 2016, with the guide Carlos Vargas; also, interview with Lesivo on 4 November 2016 in Bogotá. 114. https://www.nytimes.com/video/world/americas/100000005337042/south-ameri cas-street-art-mecca.html (retrieved 29 March 2020).

Chapter 8

Across the Cities Strategies of Visual Meaning-Making

The previous analysis of street art in Buenos Aires, Mexico City, Caracas, and Bogotá provided a detailed empirical insight to understanding how street art images serve as resistance and are simultaneously entangled within power structures. Drawing together the results from each city in a broader view, I next summarize the most important findings following the seven analytical levels (see table 1.1). Subsequently, from a cross-city perspective, I take a closer look at the most frequent codes and strategies of meaning-making and persuasion with the help of both qualitative and quantitative data.

Summary of Empirical Findings First, regarding the iconological dimension of image content (I level), I examined the depicted subjects and key themes, the image-text relationship, titles, colors, image composition, and aesthetic style, as well as intervisual/ -textual references. Street art images contain catchy symbols that are easy to recognize in the regional context, for instance the paliacate/bandana (mainly in Mexico City) or the white kerchief of the Madres de Plaza de Mayo (mainly in Buenos Aires). Various other and more general symbols originate in socialist imagery, such as the red star and the clenched fist, in which physical power connotes political organization and power. Colors play a key role for identifying political orientations (e.g., red and black stand for socialism, communism, or anarchism), patriotism (national colors), or other identities (e.g., the Indigenous Wiphala). Additionally, general signs are appropriated and attached a new meaning in the local context (e.g., the “V” sign in support of Kirchnerist Peronism or the sun for Argentine patriotism). Many symbols require specific context knowledge, such as in Mexican mythology and Indigenous history (e.g., the Aztec animal warriors or the speech bubble). Consequently, far from employing a universal visual language, many symbols are ambiguous, and their meaning varies according to the local context. For instance, the black ski mask (pasamontañas) guarantees anonymity

Across the Cities

|

219

and expresses solidarity with the EZLN (mainly in Mexico), but it is also used by fascist groups in Bogotá to make the viewer “join the dissidence” and “smash communism.” At the same time, it may be associated with special tactical units of the police. In Bogotá, skulls and skeletons are mainly used in negative contexts (physical or moral decay, inter alia), while in Mexico City they are part of the cultural heritage and help to commemorate the dead. Finally, in Buenos Aires, images of vultures often criticize external debt (“vulture funds”), while in Bogotá it mostly represents the local biosphere or the national coat of arms in a positive way—only the specific features of the animal indicate whether it is a North American vulture (negative) or an Andean Condor (positive). Visual metaphors, caricatures, and animal comparisons (e.g., “vulture funds” or the “police pig,” see photo 17/HP) are common rhetorical tools. While some images recontextualize the aesthetics and characters from popular culture (e.g., Mickey Mouse symbolizing US cultural and medial dominance in Caracas), others contain references to (political) art history (e.g., in Bogotá, the revolutionary female worker or the pro-Allende muralist brigades on the campus of the Universidad Nacional). Another rhetorical strategy is humor, which is employed not only to mock politicians (in caricatures, inter alia) but also to express awareness of the commodified aesthetics of resistance (as in the case of hipster Emiliano Zapata wearing a “Che” shirt in Mexico City). Numerous images depict heroic figures and/or anonymous groups of people. Since they personify political ideologies and identities, both historical “heroes” (e.g., Che Guevara, Evita, Simón Bolívar, José de San Martín) and more contemporary ones (e.g., Hugo Chávez, Néstor and Cristina Kirchner) provide the viewer with an individualized access point to identification. As several portraits of Donald Trump (mainly in Mexico), Barack Obama, and Mauricio Macri (mainly in Buenos Aires) demonstrate, a personalized approach is also used when it comes to negative visualizations of rule. Apparently, due to support by populist leftist parties (see P level), in Caracas and Buenos Aires there are both more images of individual celebrities and party-related pieces than in Mexico City and in Bogotá. Demonstrating the support of the masses and visualizing the claim to represent a social movement, individual leaders are repeatedly backed up with anonymous groups of people and traditional aesthetics of street demonstrations. While these street protest aesthetics (e.g., waving flags and banners) are very common, more radical means (slingshots, Molotov cocktails, throwing rocks, or burning tires) are rather seldom motifs. Political action is often expressed by body language, hand gestures (raised fists, etc.), and facial expressions showing anger, like open mouths visualizing screaming and “raising one’s voice.”

220 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

Compositional features help to create the illusion of movement and progress (e.g., the diagonal lines in the portrait of Chávez rising toward the sun) or of authority (e.g., the Chávez portrait in central perspective). Particular aesthetic styles help the viewer quickly recognize the political orientation of the message. While paintings in the socialist realist tradition leave no doubt about the artists’ leftist orientation (e.g., Red Sudakas and others in Buenos Aires and Polo Castellanos in Mexico City), others prefer a more subtle, open, and ambiguous visual language. For instance, in Bogotá, Lesivo appropriates the aesthetics of the phenomenon he is actually criticizing (advertisement and US capitalism) in order to ironically comment on its (visual) strategies and appeal. The Mexican artist Yescka stresses that, if advertisement appropriates the aesthetics of street art, then street art in turn needs to adopt the strategies of advertisement as well. At the same time, groups like the EZLN in Mexico even employ a completely different folkloristic style that refuses to be commercialized. However, the detailed image interpretations demonstrated why most pieces are image-text combinations and how such combinations make visual messages much less ambiguous. For instance, Lesivo’s statement against exploitation was only made obvious by the written phrase “exploitation destroys life,” the Latin American solidarity theme in Red Sudakas’s mural was supported by Peron’s quote (“Latin America—now or never”), and the transnational justice frame in the EZLN mural only became clear through the slogan “another world is possible.”1 Second, concerning material characteristics (M level), I considered the techniques of the images, their sizes, and quantity, as well as their material quality. In all cities, stencils are used as a technique to repeat the same motifs in large numbers. The mere quantity of images can have strong effects. Most obviously, in Caracas, the ubiquitous visual presence of Chávez—and particularly his eyes—give the viewer the feeling of his omnipresence, as if he was constantly “watching us.” In Bogotá, the armed conflict, its war economy, and its victims are visually present due to DJLU’s uncountable pictograms (e.g., dollar signs with rifles). In Buenos Aires, the trend towards

Illustration 8.1a–h. (a) Mural “Subcomandante Marcos”; location: Congreso de la Unión, Mexico City; producer: unknown; © Lisa Bogerts, 2017. (b) Police officer of the German Special Units (SEK); 2019; Wikimedia Commons, public domain. (c) Far-right stencils; location: Universidad Nacional, Bogotá; producer: unknown; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (d) Maoist poster produced by the Revolutionary Communist Party USA (detail); Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 International. (e) Details of a mural; location: Avenida

a

b

c

d

e

e

f

g

México, Caracas; producer: Frente Francisco de Miranda; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (f ) Anti-sexist stencil “Shhh . . . I don’t want your compliment”; location: Universidad Nacional, Bogotá; producer: unknown; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (g) Soviet propaganda poster “Don’t chatter!” (original by Nina Vitolina); Wikimedia Commons, public domain Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic. (h) Poster for launch event of the book Calle esos ojos by the Bogotá Street Art collective, 2012; © Bogotá Street Art, courtesy of Lesivo.

h

222 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

gigantismo demonstrates that spectacularly large murals get a great deal of media attention, although most are not overtly political. Since large images are physically impressive and allow for combining various narratives on the same surface, the size of an image may reinforce the appeal of its message. However, the cases of the Kirchner mural on the National Ministry of Communications in Buenos Aires and of Chávez’s eyes and signature on high rises in Caracas (e.g., in the Misión Vivienda or the project Caracas a Gran Escala) illustrate that very large surfaces are made available for producers who cooperate with the authorities or who are even directly commissioned. In addition, images of a certain artistic quality are acknowledged as “art” and therefore more likely to be authorized (see L level), financially supported (P level), and protected (A level). Consequently, since materials like aerosol spray cans and lifting platforms are expensive, high-quality images require material and/or financial support, especially in times of limited supply due to economic crises, like in Caracas. Third, regarding the spatial dimension (S level), the surface and location of the image play a key role for street art in all the cities. During political demonstrations in Mexico City and Buenos Aires, protestors plaster their marching routes with stencils to preserve the visibility of their claims in public space. Similarly, slogans and stencils mark specific locations associated with power abuse, such as governmental buildings (e.g., the stencils of the forty-three killed students in Mexico City). In Caracas, political groups mark their territory (e.g., “Chavista territory”) and even speak of two distinct aesthetics visualizing the different political attitudes in both parts of the city. On the campus of the Universidad Nacional in Bogotá, the large “Che” portrait materializes territorial claims in the students’ struggle over autonomous space and visually represents the perceived discursive hegemony on the campus. In the historical old town La Candelaria, the authorities “cleaned” the walls of political slogans and, in turn, authorized beautiful images of animals, flowers, and cultural heritage (music, dance, food, etc.) in order to attract tourism and business investment. Nevertheless, political street art is still present in the vivid city centers, where nearby governmental institutions and tourist areas enable a broader audience. Whereas low-income and working-class districts are visually upgraded by murals (e.g., in the Corredor Buenavista—Guerrero in Mexico City), hip and wealthy areas are particularly attractive for advertising via street art (Roma and La Condesa in Mexico City and Palermo in Buenos Aires, inter alia). At the same time, street artists strive to reclaim space taken by advertisement, because the official communication channels are, to some extent, controlled by governments or media conglomerates (as stated by Lesivo and Dexpierte in Bogotá, Comando Creativo in Caracas, and the EZLN in Mexico). The (re)appropriation of space is con-

Across the Cities

|

223

sidered crucial because, as the group Ejército Comunicacional de Liberación in Caracas pointed out, “it is necessarily the masters of public space who win” (ECL 2011: 38). Fourth, regarding both the date of production and temporal changes, numerous images refer to the specific circumstance of their time (T level). Current political scandals, such as the Ayotzinapa killings in Mexico, are among the issues most addressed in street art. The explosion of stencils during the 2001 uprisings in Argentina and the government’s crisis of legitimacy in Venezuela suggest that street art production rises in times of crisis. The political orientation of the local government seems to influence whether there are open or rigid political approaches to street art during their terms of office. Bogotá-based artists state that it was much easier to paint overtly political images under the leftist mayor Petro than under the conservative Peñalosa government (which was in power at the time of my research). Illustrating street art’s direct commenting function, a “peace” mural in Bogotá was updated to “no peace” after the failed referendum in October 2016. Similarly, in the streets of Buenos Aires, numerous images and slogans commented on Macri’s newest neoliberal adjustments (e.g., the so-called tarifazo). Street art is habitually linked with particular occasions, ranging from political events and demonstrations (e.g., Obama’s visit in Buenos Aires) to anniversaries and memorial days (e.g., International Day of Peace, the 2010 Bicentennial of Independence in Caracas and in Buenos Aires). Fifth, regarding the legal dimension (L level)—the general legislation and the legal basis of the particular image—painting is not rigorously forbidden in any of the cities. Whereas fines and penalties are only officially imposed if the painting is at an unauthorized location, unofficially it also depends on the content, as overtly critical images are more likely to be destroyed. In other words, the legislation often helps the authorities to “curate” public space and execute informal censorship. In Mexico City, “artistic” street art is considered a means to fight “vandalism” and “visual pollution” (graffiti and political slogans), which is, in turn, associated with insecurity, gang criminality, and drug trafficking. Consequently, the securitization of street art is evident through the fact that street art projects are in the responsibility of the Department of Public Security (instead of Culture or Urban Planning), for it is assumed to “severely hurt the society.” Therefore the authorities created a special police Graffiti Unit (formerly Anti-Graffiti Unit), which they present as if it provided space for artistic creativity instead of, in reality, ordering images in legalized and illegalized categories and thus ordering power over public space. Moreover, in Mexico City, the paint manufacturer Comex provides the authorities with antigraffiti paint, while the public water supply authority Sacmex offers them advertisement surfaces—ironically, with the

224 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

medium of street art, demonstrating their openness toward creative practices. In line with this, in their public street art projects, the municipal authorities in Mexico City particularly emphasize their participatory approach in order to demonstrate the inclusion of the local population. However, the detailed analyses of the Red Sudakas mural in Buenos Aires and Lesivo’s mural in Bogotá indicate that, even without legal permission, it is still possible to reclaim unauthorized space for political messages. As Dexpierte and Lesivo point out, unauthorized walls give the artists more freedom because they do not have to provide sketches, portfolios, etc., to the authorities or to house owners. Sixth, I examined the producers of street art (P level), including the authors, principals/financiers, their assignments, and performative frameworks. Politically motivated producers range from individual artists expressing solidarity with political groups (e.g., Vlocke and Yescka in Mexico City) to organized political art collectives (e.g., Comando Creativo and ECL in Caracas, Colectivo Carpani and Red Sudakas in Buenos Aires, and Dexpierte in Bogotá). Numerous pieces aim to visually represent marginalized actors as strong political subjects on the streets, as indicated by images in support of the Indigenous leader Milagro Sala, the Mapuche struggle, and the Madres de Plaza de Mayo in Buenos Aires. However, in many cases, the marginalized groups do not employ street art to represent themselves, but solidary artists (or art collectives) create the images. Yet, for some of them it is a sort of self-representation because they consider themselves part of the marginalized group (e.g., artists with Indigenous roots). Many artists, collectives, and initiatives have pedagogic endeavors and offer stencil or muralism workshops in order to share their skills and enable others to express themselves via street art (e.g., Dexpierte and Lesivo in Bogotá, Comando Creativo in Caracas, and the EZLN in Mexico). Moreover, cases of collective authorship demonstrate that painting not only serves for communication with external actors but is also a practice to foster internal group cohesion and the feeling of agency among a group’s members and adherents. Street art is particularly supported by leftist parties, either through partyaffiliated projects (e.g., Guerilla Comunicacional in Caracas and La Cámpora in Buenos Aires) or direct commissions (e.g., the “ALCArajo” mural and the homage to Néstor Kirchner at the Ministry of Communications in Buenos Aires). In turn, claims by conservative parties—who are said to dominate the mainstream media—are barely visible in street art. Nonetheless, different party affiliates use this medium for mutual accusations in public discourse, as stencil campaigns by both PSUV and MUD adherents in Caracas illustrate. In this sense, the situation in Caracas considerably differs from the other locations. While in most cities the local authorities support murals with rather unpolitical content (in order to beautify the city and attract invest-

Across the Cities

|

225

ment and tourism), the PSUV government is fostering a stark politicization of public space through street imagery and even made street art an inherent part of its political campaigns (e.g., via Chávez’s eyes during the 2012 election campaign). Consequently, in Caracas, there are much fewer images criticizing state violence or negative depictions of (domestic) rule than in the other cities. Although there is no doubt that the Bolivarian revolution originated in a social movement, given the fading legitimacy of the current government, it seems to maintain its claim to represent a popular movement with the help of street art. In the other cities, the authorities launch and support projects producing (less political) imagery of cultural heritage, biodiversity, etc. However, there are a few exceptions. For instance, in Mexico City, the communal government sponsored the huge Ayotzinapa memorial wall at San Isidro cemetery, although it very explicitly accuses the national government and the police forces. Touristic street art tours play an ambivalent role in image production. Since they exclusively support authorized “artistic” paintings, they—be it involuntarily or not—contribute to the repression of primarily political content but still benefit from the touristic appeal of subversive street art. In the words of a tour guide in Buenos Aires, “it is legitimate when individuals express themselves in an artistic way” (in that case: the giant turtle mural), but it is illegitimate when political collectives “pollute public space by spreading their political propaganda” (the slogan by the “Revolutionary Left”). In terms of city marketing, street art agencies often cooperate with both the authorities and the companies, for instance in the context of festivals and hip-hop events. While domestic governmental institutions integrate street art projects in their social programs (e.g., Centro de la Memoria Histórica in Bogotá for symbolic reparation), external players (such as the German GIZ or the Institut Français) engage in street art projects to promote their activities in the context of foreign policy or development cooperation. Both local and international companies extensively use street art in their advertisement campaigns—with the exception of Caracas, where there is very little commercial use. In commissioning stencil series and murals, company marketing draws on the street credibility of the medium, at times explicitly referring to the locality of the “street” (e.g., Reebok in Buenos Aires). Interestingly, it is not only brands related to hip-hop, sports, and street wear (e.g., Adidas, Nike, Vans, Converse) who employ street art but also others, such as Disney/Pixar, Warner Bros., Coca-Cola, inter alia. The ambivalence of using the seemingly subversive aura for commercial interests is illustrated by a case in Bogotá, where a local streetwear shop recontextualized Banksy’s popular aesthetics of resistance for advertising its products without pursuing political interests or activities.

a

b

c

d

Illustration 8.2a–d. (a) Havana Club advertisement; location: Palermo, Buenos Aires; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (b) Adidas advertisement; location: La Condesa, Mexico City; © Lisa Bogerts, 2017. (c) Coca-Cola and Champion’s League advertisements; location: Roma Sur, Mexico City; © Lisa Bogerts, 2017. (d) Comex advertisement for (antigraffiti) paint “Together we beautify and protect life”; location: Coyoacán, Mexico City; © Lisa Bogerts, 2017.

Across the Cities

|

227

Finally, with regard to audiencing (A level), I considered reactions by the local community, political authorities, and economic players, as well as the circulation by and attention from the media. While unauthorized painting detected by the police commonly entails fines (or a short period in prison), there are some instances in which sprayers have even been killed by the police (most prominently, Felipe Becerra in Bogotá). In all the cities, it is common that politically explicit street art is commented or destroyed. Occasionally, the authorities censor murals with critical imagery, for example the Milagro Sala mural in Buenos Aires or—more indirectly—Ericailcane’s monkey portrait of the Mexican president. In Mexico City, protest marches are followed by the (Anti-)Graffiti Unit, which instantly cleans critical messages. However, in some cases of destruction, it remains unclear whether it was the dwellers, the political groups, or the authorities who disagreed with the message. To some extent, these reactions may even be regarded a dialogue between different political actors, such as between leftist and conservative/ fascist groups on the campus in Bogotá. Artists like Dexpierte do not claim to possess their images, opting instead to strive and open space for public debate and potential disagreement. Especially when images of specific personalities are targeted (e.g., Chávez portraits in Caracas or Kirchner portraits in Buenos Aires), their destruction may express resistance against a visuality that is perceived hegemonic. In this view, it is not the image itself but its destruction that is resistance. The humorous comments by Señor Rayón at the Universidad Nacional campus in Bogotá, for instance, scrutinized the visual dominance of leftist revolutionary icons on the campus. A similar case of what Hall (1993) called “oppositional decoding” and Sturken and Cartwright (2001) called “oppositional looking” by alternative meaning-making is the Venezuelan homepage Murales Mutantes, which makes fun of artistically failed portraits of Chávez, Bolívar, and others and thus uses humor to ridicule the system. Besides these negative reactions, high-ranking politicians occasionally give positive credits to street art (e.g., Cristina Kirchner in Buenos Aires, or the minister for cultural affairs in Caracas). Illustrated by the serious attention for the restored Chávez mural in Caracas, the Venezuelan government considers muralism a key tool for demonstrating popular support and even relates it to the core values of the Bolivarian revolution. In other locations, famous international artists draw media attention to political issues (e.g., Banksy in Chiapas, BLU in Mexico City and Buenos Aires). However, artists like Yescka stress that the international media tend to be more interested than the domestic press in political street art (e.g., regarding the Oaxaca uprising in 2006). This is not only because the domestic media are often

228 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

dominated by the governing parties (who are commonly not interested in conveying critical imagery) but also because street art seems to medially illustrate subversion and conflict in a country (see the media coverage on the 2017 protests in Caracas). Concerning international attention, commercial tours should not be underestimated. Since a large number of tourists spread their digital street art photographs in social networks, they potentially shape how a country is perceived abroad. Simultaneously, the tourist sector benefits from street art’s appealing aura. For instance, a Copa Airlines magazine promotes flights to Buenos Aires by hailing the street art scene as “authentic” expressions of social protest by the local people, who “own the city,” while it ignores that most of the mentioned images are curated and authorized and may have negative consequences on the local population as well (e.g., gentrification).

Code Frequencies and Visual Strategies of Meaning-Making The analysis of the empirical data reveals which political actors, social groups, claims, and narratives street art makes visible and how they are presented in public space. This way, I identified common narratives, truth claims, and strategies of persuasion and meaning-making. The code frequencies in the content analysis of street art in all four cities (see illustration 8.3a; for frequencies of all codes, see table C.1) illustrate that there is a difference between what is represented and how it is represented. Mere quantitative representation does not translate into political empowerment but may also be a form of misrepresentation. The most frequent subject is the “Indigenous person” (coded in 132 images),2 and among the most common theme codes is “indigenismo” (127). In a broad understanding of anti-imperialism, the representation of Indigenous people in the public space may be considered a statement against the marginalization of Latin America’s native population and their descendants. On the other hand, only some images of “Indigenous persons” depict scenarios of “resistance” (these codes intersect in only 35 pieces) and they are almost as often visualized in the context of “biodiversity/harmony with nature” (29 intersections) and “landscape/countryside” (18 intersections). In many of these images, they do not seem to be represented as a (socio)political subject but rather fulfill an exoticizing, decorative function, since they are stereotypically reduced to being connected with nature and thus simple (“primitive”) or even backward (see chapter 1). Images of Indigenous people, traditions, or “ornaments” (35)

Across the Cities

|

229

a

b

c

Illustration 8.3a–c. (a) Most frequent codes across the cities. (b) Code co-occurrence model for theme code “resistance” and coded subjects (min. 15 intersections). (c) Code co-occurrence model for theme code “political parties” and coded subjects (min. 10 intersections).

230 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

are also used in advertisement and in the tourist sector and thus do not necessarily entail a claim to political empowerment and representation with regard to their political rights. Other frequently represented persons belong to a certain profession (indicated by clothes, helmets/“hats,” or “tools”), such as “campesinxs” (64) and “workers” (30). While both traditionally represent struggles against marginalization, the “campesinx” is commonly associated with “land rights” (29), and the worker often stands for “class struggle, socialism or communism” (109). Apparently, street art helps to make visible another group of marginalized persons. By displaying portraits of “victims (disappeared, imprisoned, or killed persons)” (57) in the public space—sometimes accompanied by phrases like “dónde está?” (where is s/he?)—the producers remind the public of these cases in their everyday space and raise political awareness of the structural problem of threats against and killings of politically active people (e.g., in the case of the Ayotzinapa killings). The most frequent general political themes are “state oppression, state violence, and corruption” (194) and “violent conflict or dictatorship (last fifty years)” (114). This demonstrates that street art indeed makes visible political power abuse and state violence, be it in the (more recent) past or in the present. At the same time, it reveals how “rule and domination” (52) are perceived from the perspective of street art producers. While some images represent powerful institutions (e.g., governing parties) and personalities in a positive way (as heroes, as liberators of the masses, etc.), the images coded with “rule/domination” negatively visualize abusive execution of force, mainly through depictions of “security personnel” (83; including 20 intersections with “rule/domination”), “weapons” (167)—most prominently “rifles” (61)—or portraits of “victims (disappeared, imprisoned, or killed persons)” (57). Less direct and more allegorical symbols for “rule/ domination” are “man in suit” (45), and animals associated with negative characteristics or with specific actors (e.g., the United States), including “pigs” (12), “vultures” (13), or “eagles” (35). This leads us to the question of how resistance is visualized in street art images (see illustration 8.3b). Coding the images in the database, I perceived “resistance” to be visualized by the “hand gesture” raised “fist” (78), waving “flags and banners” (34), “masked, disguised, or hooded persons” (35), the “anarchy” symbol (31), “gas masks” (14), as well as “famous persons” or logos and/or names of political groups associated with resistance, inter alia.3 As mentioned in the summary, further common characteristics of visualized subjects are their body postures, mimics, and gestures. Assuming that resistance is always an action/active behavior (whether verbal, cognitive, symbolical, or physical) opposed to something (see Hollander and Einwohner

Across the Cities

|

231

2004 in introduction), the depiction of human activity is central to protest imagery, as it provides the viewer with a role model and orientation of how to actively change political or social circumstances. Notably, this visualization of physical presence employing “peaceful” means and claiming to be represented as political subjects is much more common than images of radical measures (weapons, violence against property, etc.). For instance, in this context, the “resistance” code repeatedly co-occurs with the “book,” representing education and (self-)empowerment. While most pieces visualize either resistance or rule, some images display both rule and resistance in a scenario of “confrontation” (26) (see, e.g., Red Sudakas’ mural in chapter 4 on Buenos Aires). Leaving no doubt about what they perceive to be “good” and “evil,” most of these images employ a visual rhetoric of hyperboles as well as binary oppositions between the “self ” and the “other.” While they draw on a conflictive imagery that emphasizes confrontation between actors of rule and actors of resistance, some simultaneously visualize “cooperation” (75) among various actors on the side of resistance who have joined forces against the common “enemy.” Since resistance is often visualized by groups of people (not by individual resisters), these images appeal to the viewer by promising them to become part of a strong group, in case they join the resistance. This positive framing by visualizing a desirable situation in the future (the presumed outcome of resistance) is used as well in images of harmonious (utopian) human coexistence. By contrast, other images employ a different mobilization strategy by displaying negative imagery and thus enraging the spectator over the depicted injustice that requires political action. A similar difference between positive and negative framing in mobilization strategies can be seen in images of “nature.” Whereas many images employ a positive frame of idealized “biodiversity/harmony with nature” (74), others utilize means of realism by making visible “exploitation of natural resources and environmental destruction” (67). Unsurprisingly, these most common visual elements reproduce stereotypical ideas of what rule or resistance looks like. In order to mobilize and catch the attention of the public, visual political communication “must condense often quite complex ideas and ideological positions into a few images and words” (Reed 2016: 83). At the same time, this typical iconography may indicate what is commonly perceived as the “aesthetics of resistance.” However, we must keep in mind that the “resistance” code is not judging whether the piece is a sort of resistance but only what it depicts on the iconological level. With regard to this difference, many of the images of resistance (I level) are produced by actors who—according to their social power position—cannot be unambiguously considered resistance actors (P level).

a

b

c

d

Illustration 8.4a–d. (a) Government-commissioned mural; location: Centro Histórico, Mexico City; © Lisa Bogerts, 2017. (b) Government-supported mural for the Peace Referendum “With peace we are all winning”; location: Avenida Caracas, Bogotá; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (c) Coat of arms (left-hand side) and advertisement; location: Las Aguas/Los Andes, Bogotá; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016. (d) Mural honoring the military; location: Palermo, Buenos Aires; producer: Fraternidad de Agrupaciones, Santo Tomás de Aquino; © Lisa Bogerts, 2016.

Across the Cities

|

233

Accordingly, a surprising result from the content analysis is that references to “political parties” (146) and “advertisement” (139)4 are among the most common codes. But how does the iconological content relate to the producers of an image? To what extent do images by oppositional or marginalized groups differ from those by powerful producers? While code intersections of “advertisement” as well as logos of the “state administration” and “city administration” do not show interesting particularities, pieces with references to “political parties” do.5 The intersections clearly indicate that political parties frequently refer to themes of anti-imperialism in their street art and thus claim to resist external powers. At the same time, they visualize their truth claims and aim to persuade the viewer by visually linking various discursive strands. Individual leaders are visually backed up with large groups of people to demonstrate the support of the masses, often with the aesthetics of street demonstrations visualizing the claim to represent a social movement. In Buenos Aires, the Kirchners are commonly combined with the Argentine national colors and paralleled with the Peróns, and in Caracas, Chávez (and Nicolás Maduro) is often accompanied by the Venezuelan national colors and their historical “predecessors.” In this way, their political projects are presented as being in line with the “heroic” deeds of historical figures, and their programs as being the natural continuation of a long historical project. In the most extreme case—Chávez portraits in Caracas—the “hero” is presented in one line with anticolonial (Bolívar and Miranda), socialist (Mao, Marx, etc.), and religious icons (Jesus) to offer a broad spectrum of identification points for potential adherents, ranging from socialists to Catholics. Similarly, his image is frequently linked with motifs of indigenismo, claiming to represent the interests of the native population as well. However, just as Mexican muralism saw socialism (against capitalist US hegemony) as the natural continuation of anticolonial resistance (against the Spanish conquistadors), many genuine resistance groups (such as the EZLN) as well employ the narrative of (more than) “500 years of struggle” to mobilize political action against continuing injustice and inequality. Nevertheless, the symbolic power of personalities is ambiguous. While some represent rule but still employ a narrative of resistance (e.g., Chávez), the resistant symbolism of “heroes” seems to have faded away due to commercialization (e.g., Emiliano Zapata), but still they are ubiquitous in street art messages of resistance (e.g., “Che”). The Mexican artist Frida Kahlo is a case in point: while some consider her a symbol of socialist revolution (due to her membership in a communist party and links with other famous communists such as Leon Trotsky), for many, she is an icon of feminist empowerment, and for others, she merely represents female beauty and creativity and

234 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

is accordingly commercialized and commodified. In a more general view, visual features help the viewer in relating the claims of the depicted historical hero to their contemporary everyday reality, like Kahlo or Zapata in hipster clothes (in Mexico City) or the modern little girl in Bolívar’s military uniform (in Caracas). These cases clearly indicate that, just as resisters appropriate power symbols, powerful actors—such as the Chavista government in Venezuela—maintain narratives of resistance as well, although they have long become rulers in high social or political power positions.

Notes 1. In line with this, the number of codes demonstrates that image-text combinations are more frequently used than only images or only text. 2. In this part of the book I indicate my codes with the help of double quotation marks (“. . .”). The number in brackets indicates the total number of code frequencies in all four cities. In total I coded 1,710 images. 3. While it is tempting to draw conclusions on how resistance is depicted by examining the most frequent subjects in “resistance” images, this is to some extent selfreferential because I coded the images myself according to the subjects I associated with resistance. Therefore the combinations of typical “resistance” subjects are no coincidence but constructed by my own imagination of what resistance looks like. The same caution applies to my other theme codes, including “rule/hegemony (state and economy).” 4. Applying a broad understanding of advertisement, I included ads for products and events by corporations, by media, cultural, and political institutions, and by commercial locations (including façades of shops). 5. I applied this code to images indicating an authorship by a political party or related suborganizations (e.g., party youth organizations), belonging to election campaigns or pieces (both in supporting and critical ways), or referring to parties and their candidates/politicians (when explicitly addressed in their position in the party).

Conclusions “The Media Are Theirs, the Walls Are Ours”

This book aimed to grasp contemporary forms of aesthetic visual resistance while simultaneously paying tribute to its dialectically entangled relation with power structures. I argued that to better understand how visual political communication works, visual literacy in the social sciences must be increased. With the example of street art in Latin American urban hubs, I examined visual strategies of persuasion employed by different social actors to legitimize themselves and to foster social identification and mobilization. In this concluding chapter, I present my key findings on the two central questions of this book: First, which forms of visual resistance are there in street art, and which visual strategies of persuasion do different political actors employ to express resistance, to legitimize themselves, and to foster social identification and mobilization? Second, what can we learn about the intertwined relationship between rule and resistance by examining visual material? Subsequently, I briefly discuss further implications for researching visual data material in the social sciences and the method of visual analysis.

Forms of Visual Resistance Visual resistance may manifest in seven dimensions of the image. In the iconological content, street art images express critical messages and make political claims visible by employing catchy symbols that help the viewer to quickly identify the political orientation of the message. This symbolic content includes colors, logos, personalities, or more general aesthetics of street protest, such as the clenched fist, waving flags and banners, or bandanas and balaclavas. Providing a personalized approach, images frequently visualize human beings in scenarios of protest, underlined by body language, hand gestures, and facial expressions of anger and indignation. These anonymous “heroes” offer visual role models for political activity or points of identification. Marginalized and oppressed groups are visualized by numerous representations of Indigenous persons, peasants, victims of state repression, or images that express solidarity with political activist groups such as the Argentine Madres de Plaza de Mayo or the Mexican EZLN. Aiming to make mes-

236 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

sages more appealing by humorous rhetoric, people use visual metaphors, caricatures, and animal comparisons to ridicule the target of their protest, be it a specific person or institution or repressive regimes in a more general sense. Another common practice is to appropriate and reverse conventionalized symbols and the aesthetics of the criticized actor or phenomenon (e.g., Mickey Mouse, US advertisement aesthetics). References to art history and particular aesthetic styles, such as socialist realism, help the viewer quickly recognize the political or ideological affiliation of the producers. In order to overcome binary oppositions and tired slogans, some artists and activists choose to convey messages that allow for more open interpretations (other than the simple messages of advertisement) and appeal to a wider audience. However, many activists risk that their work is not perceived as something political or critical. This is because under circumstances of (formal or informal) censorship, they consciously choose to negotiate their language instead of being overtly political and thereby prevent their work from being attacked or deleted. The ability of images to occupy space is a strong asset for expressing resistance. Images visualize claims in demonstrations and physically mark locations of power institutions in order to highlight their responsibility for political decisions and power abuse. Similarly, visual means are employed to claim territory and reclaim urban space in the face of dominant media and advertisement, as well as other neoliberal means of government ordering and controlling social relations. Furthermore, street art is available in public space and thus not accessible only for an elite audience. With regard to occupation by visual means, there might indeed be a tendency toward visualizing space instead of face (Mitchell 2012). The material characteristics of an image (e.g., stencils) express resistance using the power of repetition, making a claim visible due to a quantitatively dominant position in the discursive and material space. Similarly, large-sized murals have an impressive effect and catch the attention of the public and the media. Images with a high artistic quality are more likely to get attention and be recognized as containing serious claims. In addition, the case of street art demonstrates that the material features of a medium alone (here: the graffiti-related history of aerosol painting and the physical touchability in public space) come with a certain authenticity claim that can have an appealing and convincing effect. The resistant potential of an image also depends on the specific political conditions at a given time. As successful resistance often becomes rule itself, whether a message is resistant is linked with the power position of its producer, which may change over time. For instance, in times of leftist govern-

Conclusions

|

237

ment, a leftist message does not have the same resistance potential as in times of conservative or right-wing government. Street art has a direct commenting function, addresses current political challenges or scandals, and tends to rise in times of crisis, either highlighting potentials for transformation and social change or defending the existing power structures. When produced or circulated on particular occasions (political events, memorial days, etc.), images have a stronger awareness-raising effect. In times of limited access to other means of political expression, particular visual media provide a channel for expressing discontent. In this view, the legal dimension plays a crucial role as well. Images that are in line with the given legislation are less of a resistant message than images that break the law and question the authority of the legal order. Images produced under conditions of (formal or informal) censorship or certain constraints, such as in government-sponsored street art projects and festivals, are less free to convey critical messages than images that do not ask for permission and ignore spaces of authorization and prohibition. Concerning the image producers, resistant imagery is able to visually represent the claims of marginalized actors in the public realm. However, it is not always the marginalized groups themselves who have the resources to produce powerful images; instead, it is more often solidary artists or activists. Beyond individual artistic fame, cases of collective authorship demonstrate that painting not only serves for communication with external actors but is also a practice to foster group cohesion and the feeling of agency. Having pedagogic endeavors, numerous street artists and collectives find it a crucial task to spread their skills to provide young people with the technical tools to express themselves. Finally, regardless of the producer’s intention, an image may be perceived as resistance by its audience. Critical images that are destroyed or censored by the authorities or powerful political groups, or whose producers face repression or punishment, are apparently a threat to dominant players. By evoking reactions, such as comments or reversion of the image, they may raise awareness, trigger public discussion, and thus provide room for debate in society. In any case, images have the power to draw media and public attention to certain social issues and thus mobilize political action. In particular, practices of appropriation by their audiences indicate a form of “oppositional looking” (Sturken and Cartwright 2001), which offers alternative meaning-making and has the potential to negotiate or turn around the intentions of the image producers. One of the theoretical approaches that inspired this book was Mirzoeff’s (2011) “countervisuality,” a specific way to conceptualize visual resistance.

238 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

Many of the historic figures he considers to visualize resistance throughout (anti-)imperialist history also show in contemporary street art. What he calls “indigenous countervisuality” can be found in the large amount of Indigenous imagery, including both historical (pre-Hispanic symbols and figures, such as gods or animal warriors) and contemporary cultural identifications (e.g., representations of today’s native population). The “Amerindian perspective” is often connected with the “planetary visualization.” In numerous images, “the biosphere” is represented as a valuable common good worth protecting and appreciating beyond mere economic interests. While some employ a positive frame of showing an ideal state of human harmony with nature (by depicting biodiversity, animals, plants, landscapes, the water ecosystem, etc.), others convey an alarming message by negatively visualizing the consequences of ecological destruction, the exploitation of natural resources, and extractivism. These images may be what Mirzoeff calls “realism”: they make visible the consequences of the Anthropocene as something that is anything but inevitable, right, or aesthetic and shed light on the political and corporate interests and profits, mainly by international corporations (e.g., Shell and Monsanto). This resistance against the exploitation by external forces is frequently expressed by visualizations of “the South.” The visual rhetoric of Latin American solidarity and integration, as well as solidarity with other political movements in the Global South, is very common in street art. “The South” is represented as a powerful political actor claiming its cultural, economic, and political autonomy. Most prominently, the narrative of “the people” manifests in the depiction of diverse groups of society, collectively claiming their “right to look” and to be seen. The visualization of both metropolitan and rural power struggles goes hand in hand with proletarian aesthetics. Claiming to be seen as an active political actor in history rather than a simple follower, this rhetoric—be it Indigenous, proletarian, or feminist—frequently uses the image of the revolutionary “popular hero.” Many images use a positive frame of diversity and cooperation, whereas others aim to “reveal” the negative sides of rule. Linking different discursive strands and picking up historical narratives, numerous street art images in Latin American cities show what Mirzoeff calls the discursive (re)organization of history from the perspective of “the people.” However, these figures of countervisuality demonstrate that it does not suffice to consider the visual content (i.e., the iconological dimension) in order to detect the power structures and contradictions behind them. For instance, the mere visualization of the biosphere or of Indigenous people does not make an image visual resistance, but it matters how these figures

Conclusions

|

239

are represented and whose interests these narratives serve. Examining the entangled relation between resistance and rule requires a more differentiated approach.

What Street Art Tells Us about the Entanglements between Resistance and Rule My empirical analysis clearly demonstrated that street art is anything but a genuine medium of the marginalized. Much of the seemingly subversive iconography is not independently produced by genuine civil society actors, critical artists, or even resistance groups. Instead, it is often financed or commissioned (and therefore directly or indirectly controlled) by powerful players and thus aims to serve governmental or corporate interests. Apparently, many powerful players themselves tend to employ a (visual) narrative of resistance, for instance, if directed against external intervention or dominant states in the international system. Both powerful and more marginal producers employ a strategy of persuasion in which they combine visual elements (symbols, persons, or objects) to discursively link different claims and present them as being self-evident. It becomes obvious here how visual narratives of resistance (more or less subtly) convey ideology. For instance, political groups represent themselves as being the one and only way to support the cause of the nation (with the help of appropriating national colors or symbols). Movements or individuals are visualized as part of a trans-historic or transnational struggle, sometimes even by literally visualizing leading figures in line with their “predecessors,” that is former icons of resistance. However, as Mirzoeff problematizes, the “hero” is a very ambiguous figure. If successful resistance becomes rule, it is questionable whether individual leaders still serve to represent the marginalized and social movements they aim to appeal. While personalities ranging from historical figures (e.g., Simón Bolívar, Che Guevara, and Evita Perón) to leaders in more recent times (such as Hugo Chávez and the Kirchners) are still visually presented as “vernacular heroes” from the midst of the population, their popular heroic iconography is often interlinked with nationalist projects—a well-known strategy of political populism. The “national hero,” in turn, is prone to appropriation and may turn from a symbol of (colonial and neocolonial) independence to the legitimization of monopolized authority. In this sense, at least pro-Chávez street art in Caracas seems to be the opposite of what Néstor Canclini considers as the key role of artistic narratives: “The artist [and the writer] must resist all those who want to sub-

240 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

ordinate their many ambiguous [hi]stories to [a single] History” (Canclini 2013: 31; my translation). At the same time, frequent visualizations of both “heroes” and “the people” illustrate that there is always the challenge of how to visually represent democracy. Its endeavor to turn away from individualized, authoritarian leadership and serve the “power of the people” renders democracy an “iconoclastic” enterprise (Quincy Jones, see Bogerts 2018: 233–34) that does not allow for representations of individual “heroes.” But then the question is: what does democracy look like? While democracy relies on the claim to politically represent the will of the citizens, it is hard to represent democracy itself—except for visualizing it with the help of “the people,” offering points of identification through depicting diversity. In political street art, individual leaders are repeatedly backed up with anonymous groups of people and traditional aesthetics of street demonstrations. This way they demonstrate the support of the masses and visualize their claim to represent a social movement. This strategy is also employed by corporations, who aim to attract their target group and sell their products with a certain “street credibility” and creativity, by adopting the narrative of “the street” and of “celebrating originality” (e.g., Adidas in Bogotá or Reebok in Buenos Aires). Many producers utilize street art—a medium “from the streets”—to reinforce their claim to represent and speak on behalf of “the people.” As a wall painting by the Argentine Peronist youth organization La Cámpora in Buenos Aires puts it: “The media are theirs, the walls are ours—Latin America, resist!” At the same time, many artists argue that this medium is still an important tool in the struggle of visual political communication because both the urban public space (advertisement, election campaigns, etc.) and the mainstream media are dominated by the interests of the market and of the political elites. Regarding this aspect of access, a Venezuelan art collective claims: “The capitalists dominate the media, but the streets are ours” (Centro Nacional de Historia 2016: 105). Indeed, state authorities and advertising companies commonly dominate the public urban space. Depending on the particular city, the authorities legally restrict space for street art and thereby control who “merits” active participation in visual public communication. The access to public space is limited with regard to where painting is authorized, who paints, what is painted, and which material and financial resources are available. The strategies of “providing authorized space” include a trade-off between the authorities and the artists: The artists obtain the material, the surfaces, the space, the authorization, and the (public/media/political) attention to express their ideas and to demonstrate their artistic skills. In turn, the authorities have the opportunity to profile themselves as being inclusive and

Conclusions

|

241

open to representing (marginalized) groups and thus self-legitimize their politics of controlling public space and maintaining social order. They use it for the “cool” branding of their cities (Özgün 2015: 57), while the “domesticated subversion” of street art is “absolutely functional for this order” (Sienra Chaves 2015: 68). This way, street art is often used as a label for seemingly subversive and inclusive means of expression. While high-quality murals get public support, authorization, and attention, stencils, slogans, or graffiti are still being criminalized and considered “vandalism.” In this view, Canclini may be right when he considers “participatory” art a mere demonstrative act of democratic integration, and commonly a government’s attempt to control resistance, or a company’s tool to legitimize itself through cultural marketing (Canclini 2013: 21). However, the street-art-friendly politics of the city’s administrations are nothing new. Powerful actors have always invited artists to create artworks that are in line with their worldview, ranging from the Catholic Church to Mexican muralism. No doubt, this way of controlling space is a disadvantage to street art producers who are overtly political or who focus on political activism rather than artistic quality and beautification. There are authorized channels for expression only for those who fulfill the criteria of the authorities. Consequently, the freedom of expression is not as free as it pretends to be. One might argue that Foucault has proved right in that power relations are maintained through the cooperation by citizens who actively participate in self-regulating behavior (see Sturken and Cartwright 2001: 96–97). In this understanding, resistance is never pure but commonly requires compromise. In order to express their emancipatory claims and foster social change, artists and activists often need to cooperate with powerful institutions who have the necessary financial, material, legal, or spatial resources. In this book, these ambivalences could be identified with the help of an analytical framework as a tool for empirically examining visual media with regard to its position within power structures. The framework allowed for locating the function of an image for either resistance or rule in seven different dimensions. It thus provided the vocabulary to describe the occurring ambivalences and the context factors on which a political character depends. For instance, using my analytical vocabulary, the cyclical relation between resistance and rule can be described as follows: Whereas adherents of a ruling political party get funding (P level) for visually supporting the governmental authority (I level), they express resistance against the government as soon as their party is in the opposition (T level). However, regardless of whether their party is in power or not, they may employ a visual narrative of resistance (I level): directed either against the government (when in the opposition) or external powers and the opposition (when in the government).

242 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

With regard to another of the abovementioned ambivalences, the authorities benefit from authorizing or financing street art projects (P level), while they more subtly control which iconological content (I level), which authors (P level), which spaces (S level), and which specific techniques (M level) are visible in the public and which ones they can, in turn, delegitimize by legal means (L level). By labeling images with certain iconology and material qualities as “art” and thus legitimize them, other expressions are still being criminalized and considered “vandalism.” In other cases, images may convey the aesthetics of resistance in their iconological content (I level) or by their material features (M level), although they were produced in the interest of the authorities or commercial enterprises (P level). Therefore they neither reclaim free space for the visibility of activist claims (S level) nor question law and order (L level). However, the empirical application of this framework demonstrated that the intertwined relation of the dimensions makes them sometimes hard to distinguish. One must thus not forget that such a framework is only an analytical tool, and in the empirical world, many phenomena “resist” to being categorized.

Visual Literacy from Activism to Academia This book makes the argument for taking visual political communication seriously. A visual culture perspective can enrich the standard canon of social science theories and methods. Taking images seriously as media that convey ideology and influence how we see the world enables us to approach social and political phenomena from another perspective. In our mediated societies, the “battle for eyes and minds” (Fahlenbrach, Ludes, and Nöth 2014: 206) is crucial for political actors participating in the discursive and material struggles over visibility. For instance, by analyzing the images and visual technologies used in political campaigns, we can learn about strategies of persuasion and meaning-making, which work on a more subtle or subconscious level that can hardly be grasped with the help of text sources. Especially when it comes to our own societies, it is often hard to recognize ideologies. We can only see the world through images, and therefore through systems of representation. Consequently, whoever has the power to produce images also has the power to shape how politics is perceived, legitimized, and potentially contested. Enhancing visual literacy in social science can help explore exactly this location of politics in the gap between representation and the represented (Bleiker 2001: 510).

Conclusions

|

243

Visual literacy requires not only theoretical accounts but also methodological tools to examine visual data. Drawing on an interdisciplinary variety of methods, I developed a mixed-methods approach that employs a broad spectrum of analytical tools. Combining both quantitative and qualitative methods of data interpretation, I proposed a framework to systematically analyze visual discourse. Notably, this combination allows for both including large numbers of images and interpreting particular images in depth. However, this combination of methods entails some challenges and limitations to be considered in further research. Given the subjective nature of interpretative methods, visual data should ideally be coded by more than one researcher to make the coding process more reliable and less individual. For instance, the limitations of interpretative categorization in the coding process manifests in the example of the conceptual “resistance” code. Since the criteria of which images depict “resistance” indicated my own subjective and culturally shaped idea of what resistance looks like, this code bears a certain risk of being self-referential. In research projects putting more emphasis on the quantitative results, the reliability of the content analysis may be increased by producing statistically significant results. Moreover, given my social scientist perspective, I only marginally applied tools from art history and design studies, which should be enriched by deeper knowledge on composition and visual gestalt principles, inter alia. Similarly, studies with a stronger focus on the impact of visual media on the level of audiencing can benefit from more sophisticated methods of audience studies. Still, this study on visual political communication allowed for approaching the entanglement of rule and resistance from a different perspective. For the conceptualization of resistance, the analytical framework might provide vocabulary to describe not only forms of visual resistance but also resistance and its ambivalences—and sometimes inevitable contradictions—in general. The empirical analysis offered various examples of how precisely political authorities or business companies use their power positions and strategies to neutralize or domesticate political resistance while at the same time profiting from integrating seemingly subversive and marginalized actors. These cases demonstrated that powerful actors do not always use the aesthetics of resistance for a politicization of visual communication but sometimes for a depoliticization. As one of the interviewed artists claimed, “The ideology of capitalism is depoliticization.”1 By making their claims visible, political actors must not let their resistance be devaluated. Visual communication will keep being a key tool in the power struggle over public space and political visibility. It must thus be taken seriously as shaping the ways of how we see the world.

244 | The Aesthetics of Rule and Resistance

Note 1. Interview with members of Red Sudakas on 30 November 2016 in Buenos Aires.

Appendix A Shooting Script for Photo Documentation

Photos should meet at least one of the following criteria: Criterion 1: (anti-)imperialism theme codes (as operationalized in chapter 3) • Military interventionism • Land rights • Exploitation of natural resources and environmental destruction • Colonial legacy • Indigenismo • Class struggle, socialism, and communism • Free trade, financial dependency, and external debt • Critique of capitalism and consumerism • US domination • Latin American integration and solidarity • Internationalist solidarity (with other resistance movements) Criterion 2: guiding questions (as introduced in chapter 1) • How is resistance depicted in street art (I level)? • How are rule, authority, or domination depicted (I level)? • Which political actors and claims does street art discourse make visible (I level)? • How are they visually represented (I level)? • Which actors produce and/or commission street art (P level)? • Which pieces got attention/reactions by an audience in political, economic, social, or medial terms (being overpainted or commented, mentioned in media reports, etc.) (A level)? • In which locations does street art occur (S level)? • Which political ambivalences, contradictions, and entanglements between resistance and social power structures does street art show (all levels)?

Appendix B Image Descriptions and Image Sections/ Composition from the Detailed Analyses (I Level)

From Chapter 4: Buenos Aires (Illustration 4.5a) On the very left of the image, in section 1, we see a group of three persons depicted in a profile view with their heads directed toward the right. The largest element in the mural is a person at the bottom left, who wears a yellow shirt and a white kerchief around her head and is stretching out her muscular arm toward the right, making a fist. Above her is a person with a red shirt and long black blowing hair holding a red book in the uplifted right hand and stretching out the left arm toward the right side, pointing with the index finger. To the right of these two persons is a third person with a green shirt (with a white symbol on it) and short black hair holding a brown stick in the right hand and stretching out the other hand toward the right as well, seemingly holding a green circle (like a shield). Regarding their mimics, all three persons have their mouths open and show a facial expression of anger. Above the group of persons, there is a yellowish (or golden) face of a humanoid creature with a big eye, also with an open mouth, but with blowing hair in different colors (red, orange, yellow, white, green, and blue). To the right of this group, above the large arm and the green circle, we see a yellow sun with sharp, pointed sunrays. It has a humanoid face, and its mouth is wide open, showing its big teeth. Just as the other characters in section 1, its mimic expresses anger. Next to the sun’s mouth is a small yellow circle with a pattern inside. The background, reaching from the upper left side to the bottom right, is made of stripes in the colors of light blue and white. Right above the sun is a text in two lines, saying, “América Latina—Ahora o nunca” (Latin America—now or never). The text is written in black, capital letters. The background of the scenery is bright blue. On the right-hand side of the mural (section 2), which is a little narrower than section 1, one can see three giant birds. On the upper right side, there is an eagle with his gray wing wide open toward the left side. Below the eagle are two vultures, one in the foreground and one on the left margin of the mural. While all of the birds have open beaks, the one in the

Appendix B

|

247

a

b

Illustration B.1. Sections and composition of illustrations 6.5a (Caracas) and 4.5a (Buenos Aires).

248 | Appendix B

a

b

Illustration B.2. Sections and composition of illustrations 5.5a (Mexico City) and 7.3a (Bogotá).

Appendix B

|

249

foreground has a particular evil mimic due to its eyes. On its body, there are white, batch-like circles attached, each showing a symbol and a word, namely “Clarín,” “Shell,” “Barrick,” “JP Morgan,” and “Monsanto.” The vulture lifts its right leg and holds in its talon a construction of wood-like sticks with threads attached. Connected to these threads is a humanoid character with male features and gray hair wearing a blue suit, a tie, and a sash in the colors of bright blue and white. He is wearing a small crown on his head. While his body is painted in a wood-like aesthetic, kept together by screws, he is stretching his arms with his open hands toward the left. The threads are twisted around his body, arms, and neck. That character links section 2 with section 3, the narrower part in the center right of the mural. To the left of the character are two forms containing letters, and another textual element, listing six names in small dark green letters and the number “2016,” appears at the bottom. Whereas one of the forms contains red capital letters saying “Red Sudakas,” with a small “V” underneath the “K,” the other form is a circle around the white capital letters “ATE” with the words “Capital Federal” underneath. Above these text elements and the male character is a big, yellow “40” in an elegant writing style with a little flower on the “0.” There is a bright blue and white ribbon tied around the number, reading in red capital handwriting-style letters, “Años, ni olvido ni perdón” (Years—neither forgiveness nor forgetting). Right above the big number, connected by the ribbon, there is a black-and-white stenciled part depicting a boy’s head, which is supported by his right hand, his view directed toward the front. The image does not have an official title (indicator I4), but the prominent text element “40 años” (40 years) is repeated in the headline of the respective post on the artists’ blog (“A 40 años del golpe cívico-militar” [40 years after the military-civilian coup]). Regarding style (indicator I7), section 1 is painted in the aesthetics of socialist realism, while section 2 is painted in a rather comic-like style. The textual part “40 años, ni olvido, ni perdón” in section 3 is in the drawing style of so-called Fileteado Porteño, an artistic handwriting typical for the city of Buenos Aires.

From Chapter 5: Mexico City (Illustration 5.5a) On the ground floor (section 1), on the left, is a coffee plant with coffee beans and a big blue bug with the word “EZLN” written on it. On the right side, we see two big yellow and green corncobs. In the center are some yellow flowers. Above the door on the left is written “Comisión Sexta EZLN”

250 | Appendix B

(Sixth Division of the EZLN) in red capital letters. Above the main door on the right side are the words “Café Comandanta Ramona,” also in red letters in handwriting style, accompanied by three red stars. Between the doors, in the upper center of the ground floor, there is a pair of dark brown eyes looking at the spectator, surrounded by a black ski mask. This pair of eyes is repeated in smaller versions both between the corncobs (two pairs) and between the yellow flowers (two more pairs). Below the eyes in the middle are two human-like characters wearing black ski masks, leaving only their eyes visible. Their arms are spread, and they are wearing clothes with colorful applications. The one on the left wears a blue shirt and white pants, and the one on the right a pink shirt and an orange skirt. Surrounding the two characters, on black background, are thin white handwritten lines running from the bottom to the top. The written phrases include, inter alia, “nuestra lucha es por la humanidad y contra el neoliberalismo” (our struggle is for humanity and against neoliberalism), “¡Aquí estamos! Somos la dignidad rebelde, el corazón [olvidado de la patria]” (Here we are! We are the rebel dignity, the forgotten heart [of the motherland]), and “Y vamos, con respeto mutuo, a intercambiar experiencias, historias, ideas, sueños” (And with mutual respect, we are going to exchange experiences, histories, ideas, dreams). On the very bottom of the wall, bordering the sidewalk, is an orange stripe with red wave-like forms. On the white door of the main entrance (section 2) is a life-sized black stencil of a male human character. He is wearing a (stereo)typical Mexican sombrero, a watch, sneakers, pants, and a long-sleeve shirt with a print depicting the face of a man wearing a beret with a star on it. The standing man is holding a cigarette in his right hand and a book in his left. The upper left side (section 3) depicts a dark blue night sky with moon and stars above a landscape with green hills and two birds running on it, and blue water with a fish. Between the birds is a tree with red and green “leaves” in the form of snail shells. The upper right side (section 4) depicts a similar landscape with green hills and blue water. In this part, we see a light blue daytime sky and a sun with colorful sunrays in spiral forms, a dark blue circle containing little stars and moons, and two white doves (a big one and a small one). The prominent section in the upper center of the façade (section 5) is painted in orange and contains only one figurative element. It consists of a black circle with a red star and a white snail-shell-like form inside. Above this circle, on the very top of the wall, it is written “otro mundo es possible” (another world is possible) in red bold capital letters. Below the circle, between the two balconies, one reads “democrácia, libertad, justicia” (democracy, freedom, justice). These three words are separated by red circles with white stars inside.

Appendix B

|

251

Regarding style (indicator I7), the vast part of the mural is painted in simple forms in a childlike way, without consideration of perspective, shade, or spatial depth. In art history, this style would be called “naïve art” or “folk art.” A stylistic exception is the stencil in section 2. There is no information about a title of the work (indicator I4).

From Chapter 6: Caracas (Illustration 6.5a) The center of the mural (section 1) is almost completely filled with a photorealistic portrait in black and white, which is more colorful at a closer look. The portrait shows the head of a man in a close-up view. He has short black hair, and his face is round and has small eyes surrounded by wrinkles. The facial expression is neutral, tending toward a slight smile. Toward the edges of the face, the portrait is composed of small squares in many different colors. Above the head is blue sky with white clouds. Below the portrait, there is the signature of the artist, and below that is another signature in red. To the right, in section 2, the blue sky continues. At the bottom is a green field with corncobs (predominantly in the foreground) and white flowers (in the background). In the center of this section is a black shape, ranging from the very bottom of the wall to the top. On the upper right side, a reddish face emerges out of the black shape in the direction of the top right. The facial features resemble the portrait in section 2, but the man’s eyes are closed. Behind the face, one can see a big orange sun. From the face downward are colorful stripes running diagonally toward the bottom left. A yellow grain reaches from one side of the black shape to the other. On the left side are black threads coming out of the shape, connecting this section with the other part of the mural. On that side, in section 3, the threads lead to the hair of a portrayed woman, who ranges from the bottom to the very top of the wall. The woman is depicted in profile view, facing slightly downward and to the left. Although there are no clothes visible, she is wearing big yellow-and-red earrings, a redand-white necklace, and a yellow-and-green garland of plants on her head. Her black hair is waving behind her, toward the right. She has a light skin tone. On her cheek and nose, she has a red-and-black (makeup) stripe. Her eyebrows are black and thin, her lashes and lips voluminous. The woman’s gaze is directed downward, looking at her hand, in which she is holding a corncob with corn silk waiving toward the left. Below the woman are maize plants with several corncobs, including one cob with reddish corn silk that is connected with the red necklace, which looks like the woman’s earring. The

252 | Appendix B

background is divided into a green field at the bottom (up to the woman’s naked shoulders) and a blue sky with white clouds above. The mural does not have an official title (indicator I4). Regarding style (indicator I7), section 1 is painted in rough strokes; section 2 is photorealistic; and section 3 is partly stenciled (the black shape), partly photorealistic (the portrait).

From Chapter 7: Bogotá (Illustration 7.3a) For the image description of the mural in Bogotá, see chapter 7, page 198.

Appendix C Code Frequencies

Table C.1. Code frequencies (all cities). Code

Subcode

Number of codings

Subjects: persons I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

Indigenous person

132

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\(single) body part

hand (gestures)

105

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\professions

security personnel

83

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\(single) body part\hand (gestures)

fist

78

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person miscellaneous

77

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

72

group of (anonymous) persons

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person unclear I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\professions

campesinx

67 64

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person Hugo Chávez

63

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

victims (disappeared, imprisoned, or killed persons)

57

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\(single) body part

eyes

46

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

man in suit

45

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

Black person

35

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

masked, disguised or hooded person

35

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person Simón Bolívar

32 (continued)

254 | Appendix C

Table C.1. Continued Code

Subcode

Number of codings

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person Ernesto “Che” Guevara

30

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\professions

workers

30

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\(single) body part

heart

29

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person figure from popular culture, literature, or art history

28

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

mother with baby/ toddler/ pregnant woman

26

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\(anonymous) child (ungendered)

boy

23

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\(single) body part\hand (gestures)

victory sign

23

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\masked, disguised, or hooded person

paliacate

21

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

Madre de Plaza de Mayo

20

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

group of (anonymous) children

18

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\(anonymous) child (ungendered)

girl

17

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person artists

17

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

religious person (Christian)

16

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

old person 15

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

dead/dying/hurt person

14

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person Néstor Kirchner

14

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

13

historical figure from colonial times

Appendix C

|

255

Number of codings

Code

Subcode

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

(anonymous) child (ungendered)

13

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\(single) body part

blood

12

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person Eva “Evita” Perón

12

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person\ Frida Kahlo artists

12

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person\ Mickey Mouse figure from popular culture, literature, or art history

12

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\religious person Jesus (Christian)

12

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\Indigenous person

Aztec military animal warriors

11

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\(single) body part\hand (gestures)

handshake

10

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person José de San Martín

8

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\religious person Mary (Christian)

8

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person Barack Obama

7

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person Mauricio Macri

7

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\professions\ campesinx

charro

7

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\(single) body part

mouth

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\(single) body part\hand (gestures)

praying/begging

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person Nicolas Maduro

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person Juan Manuel Santos

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\masked, disguised, or hooded person

6

kefya

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person Emiliano Zapata

5

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person Francisco Miranda

5

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person sport celebrities

5 (continued)

256 | Appendix C

Table C.1. Continued Number of codings

Code

Subcode

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

gangster/mafia

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person Donald Trump

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person Cristina Fernández de Kirchner

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person Juan Domingo Perón

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person Norma Patricia Galeano

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person Raúl Reyes (FARC-EP)

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person Camilo Torres

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

person in protection gear

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

enslaved person

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\(single) body part\hand (gestures)

middle finger

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\(single) body part\hand (gestures)

military salute

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\(single) body part\hand (gestures)

shhhh!

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person Enrique Peña Nieto

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person Karl Marx

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person Fidel Castro

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person Tupac Amaru

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person Benito Mussolini

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person Jaime Garzón

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person\ Guy Fawkes/ figure from popular culture, literature, or art history Anonymous mask

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\group of (anonymous) children

group of (anonymous) boys

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\(single) body part

DNA

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person Cacique

2

Appendix C

Code

Subcode

|

257

Number of codings

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person Manuel Quintín Lame Chantre

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person Angela Davis

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person Albert Einstein

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person Jorge Eliécer Gaitán

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person\ Diego Rivera artists

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person\ Lila Downs artists

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person\ Jean-Michel artists Basquiat

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person\ Ali Primera artists

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\group of (anonymous) children

group of (anonymous) girls

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\(single) body part

brain

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\(single) body part\hand (gestures)

index finger

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person Subcomandante Marcos

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person Mumia Abu-Jamal

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person Salvador Allende

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person José Mujica

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person Milagro Sala

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person Adolf Hitler

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person George W. Bush

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person Vladimir Lenin

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person Mao Zedong

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person Salvador Allende

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person Pancho Villa

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person José Martí

1 (continued)

258 | Appendix C

Table C.1. Continued Code

Subcode

Number of codings

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person Rosa Luxemburg

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person Álvaro Uribe

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person Diego Felipe Becerra

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person Michael Bakunin

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person\ José Clemente artists Orozco

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\famous person\ David Alfaro artists Siqueiros

1

Objects I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

skulls and skeletons

78

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\animals

miscellaneous

68

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\nature

landscape/ countryside

61

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\weaponry

rifle

61

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\nature

sun

57

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\nature

trees/plants

47

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\animals

birds

39

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\nature

fire/flames

39

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

creatures (of all kinds)

38

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\nature

flowers

37

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

art material

35

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\animals\birds

eagle

35

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

flags and banners

34

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\buildings/ architecture

city skyline/ skyscrapers

33

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

book

32

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

musical instrument

31

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\nature\fruits and vegetables

corncob

31

Appendix C

|

259

Number of codings

Code

Subcode

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

tools

30

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\nature

water

30

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\animals

horses

29

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\buildings/ architecture

houses

24

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

oil pump/oil

23

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\animals

snake

23

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

mask

21

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

suitcase/bag

21

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\animals\birds

dove

21

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\nature

stars/universe/ planets

21

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\clothes\ headgear

beret

19

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\nature

fruits and vegetables

19

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\weaponry

miscellaneous

19

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\animals

jaguar

18

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\nature\ trees/plants

cactus

18

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

pen

17

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\barriers

(broken) chains

17

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\buildings/ architecture

factory

17

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\animals

dogs

16

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

Indigenous god/ goddess

15

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\animals\birds

parrot

15

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\weaponry

grenade

15

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

gas mask

14

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\animals

polar bear

14

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\animals

insect

14 (continued)

260 | Appendix C

Table C.1. Continued Number of codings

Code

Subcode

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\animals\birds

colibri

14

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\media equipment

megaphone

14

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\vehicles

car

14

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\weaponry

bomb/bombshell

14

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\animals\birds

vulture

13

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\buildings/ architecture

(Indigenous) temples

13

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

money bill/coin

12

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\animals

pig

12

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\media equipment

TV

12

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

technical/ electronic device/ machinery

11

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\creatures (of all kinds)

creatures with wings

11

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\creatures (of all kinds)

monsters

11

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\media equipment

cameras

11

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\media equipment

microphone

11

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\vehicles

boat/ship

11

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\weaponry

sword

11

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\weaponry

spear

11

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\vehicles

train/tram

10

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\weaponry

bow and arrow

10

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

toys, (windup) dolls, and marionets

9

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\barriers

prison bars

9

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\nature

moon

9

Appendix C

|

261

Number of codings

Code

Subcode

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\weaponry

gun

9

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\media equipment

satellite

8

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\nature\flowers

rose

8

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

eye or mouth bandage

7

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

candle

7

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

petrol station equipment

7

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

Indigenous statues

7

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\animals

turtle

7

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\animals\insect

butterfly

7

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\clothes\ headgear

top hat

7

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\nature\trees/ plants

wheatears

7

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\vehicles

airplanes

7

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\weaponry

knife

7

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

balance

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

media equipment

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\animals

fish

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\barriers

barbwire

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\clothes

headgear

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\clothes\ headgear

crown

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\creatures (of all kinds)

devil (horns)

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

buildings/ architecture

5

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\animals\birds

chicken

5

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\Indigenous god/goddess

pachamama

5

(continued)

262 | Appendix C

Table C.1. Continued Number of codings

Code

Subcode

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\media equipment

radio

5

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\nature\fruits and vegetables

cocoa bean

5

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\vehicles

helicopter

5

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

key/keyhole

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

pots and pans

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

shopping trolley

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\animals

rabbit

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\barriers

shackle

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\clothes\ headgear

mining helmet

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\nature

seeds

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\vehicles

construction vehicle

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

garbage

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\animals

bull/cow

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\media equipment

antenna

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\weaponry

military tanks

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

vehicles

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\animals

monkey

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\mask

lucha libre mask

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\media equipment

computer

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\weaponry

slingshot

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\weaponry

molotov cocktail

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\weaponry

bullet (hole)

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\nature\fruits and vegetables

coffee beans

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\weaponry

UAV/drone

1

Appendix C

Code

Subcode

|

263

Number of codings

Subjects: symbols I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

stars

73

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\flags/national colors\national colors/flags

Argentina

52

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\flags/national colors\national colors/flags

Venezuela

43

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\logos

city administration

36

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\decorative patterns/styles/ornaments

Indigenous ornaments

35

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

$ (dollar)

34

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

anarchy

31

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

heart

28

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\maps/ geographic shape

Latin America

25

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

eye of Providence

24

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\maps/ geographic shape

planet Earth/world map

23

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\logos

miscellaneous

21

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\flags/national colors\national colors/flags

Colombia

19

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\flags/national colors\national colors/flags

Mexico

16

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\logos\ companies

Shell

16

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

religious cross

15

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\logos

Kirchnerismo/ Peronismo/ La Cámpora

15

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

hammer and sickle

14

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\flags/national colors

Wiphala

14

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\logos

state administration (emblems)

11 (continued)

264 | Appendix C

Table C.1. Continued Number of codings

Code

Subcode

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\maps/ geographic shape

Malvinas

9

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

poison (skull and crossed bones)

8

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\maps/ geographic shape

miscellaneous

8

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

stop sign

7

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\flags/national colors

anarchist (black/red)

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\flags/national colors

unclear

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\flags/national colors\national colors/flags

United States

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\logos\ companies\sports and shoe firm

Reebok

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

reticle

5

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

flags/national colors

5

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\flags/national colors\national colors/flags

Cuba

5

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\logos\ companies\sports and shoe firm

Converse

5

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\maps/ geographic shape

Mexico

5

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

Venus Power

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

(music) notes

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\flags/national colors\national colors/flags

miscellaneous

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\logos\ companies

Clarín

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\logos\ companies\sports and shoe firm

Nike

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\maps/ geographic shape

Colombia

4

Appendix C

|

265

Number of codings

Code

Subcode

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

Fasces

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\decorative patterns/styles/ornaments

camouflage

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\flags/national colors

miscellaneous

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\flags/national colors\national colors/flags

Brazil

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\flags/national colors\national colors/flags

Paraguay

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\flags/national colors\national colors/flags

Chile

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\logos\ companies

Coca-Cola

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\maps/ geographic shape

Argentina

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\maps/ geographic shape

Venezuela

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

peace

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

ouroboros (infinity)

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

maps/geographic shape

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

swastika

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\flags/national colors

Mexican-American flag

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\flags/national colors

La Boca (district of Buenos Aires)

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\flags/national colors

Templar Cross (Templar Knights)

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\flags/national colors\national colors/flags

Israel

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\flags/national colors\national colors/flags

Palestine

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\logos

coat of arms (military)

2 (continued)

266 | Appendix C

Table C.1. Continued Number of codings

Code

Subcode

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\logos\ companies

Monsanto

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\logos\ companies

Lenovo

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\logos\ companies

Champion’s League

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\logos\ companies\sports and shoe firm

Adidas

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\flags/national colors\national colors/flags

United Kingdom

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\logos\ companies

Chevron

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\logos\ companies

Chevrolet

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\logos\ companies

Warner Bros.

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\logos\ companies

Fernet

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\logos\ companies

Barrick Gold

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\logos\ companies

JP Morgan

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\logos\ companies

McDonald’s

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\logos\ companies

Budweiser

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\logos\ companies\sports and shoe firm

Vans

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\logos\ companies\sports and shoe firm

PANAM

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\maps/ geographic shape

Tenochtitlán

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\maps/ geographic shape

reverse America

1

Appendix C

Code

Subcode

|

267

Number of codings

Themes: (anti-)imperialism themes I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-)imperialism

indigenismo

127

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-)imperialism

Latin American integration and solidarity

121

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-)imperialism

class struggle, socialism, and communism

109

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-)imperialism

colonial legacy

73

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-)imperialism

exploitation of natural resources and environmental destruction

67

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-)imperialism

US domination

45

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-)imperialism

land rights

29

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-)imperialism

internationalist solidarity (with resistance movements)

26

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-)imperialism

capitalism and consumerism

25

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-)imperialism

free trade, financial dependency, and external debt

25

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-)imperialism

military interventionism

15

Conceptual themes I - Iconology\I2 - themes\conceptual themes

resistance

353

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\conceptual themes

the people/ assembled multitude

81

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\conceptual themes

cooperation/ diversity

75

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\conceptual themes

rule/domination (state and economy)

52

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\conceptual themes

confrontation

26 (continued)

268 | Appendix C

Table C.1. Continued Code

Subcode

Number of codings

General political themes I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

state oppression, state violence, and corruption

194

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

political parties

146

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

violent conflict or dictatorship (last 50 years)

114

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

biodiversity/ harmony with nature

74

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

cultural heritage

71

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

peace

60

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

freedom of media/ expression

58

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

patriotism/ nationalism

48

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

education

41

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

patriarchy

39

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

social inequality/ poverty and richness

33

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

autonomy/ self-determination

22

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

migration

17

Additional codes I - Iconology

advertisement

139

I - Iconology

unclear

340

Appendix C

|

269

Table C.2. Code frequencies (Buenos Aires).

Code

Subcode

Number of codings

Number of codings (all cities)

Subjects: persons I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ (single) body part

hand (gestures)

40

105

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

Indigenous person

38

132

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

victims (disappeared, imprisoned, or killed persons)

33

57

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

group of (anonymous) persons

32

72

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ (single) body part\hand (gestures)

fist

30

78

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ professions

security personnel

27

83

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

miscellaneous

20

69

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

Madre de Plaza de Mayo

19

20

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

unclear

19

67

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ (single) body part\hand (gestures)

victory sign

16

23

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

Néstor Kirchner

14

14

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ professions

workers

14

30

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

Eva “Evita” Perón

12

12

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

figure from popular culture, literature, or art history

11

28

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

man in suit

10

45

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

masked, disguised, or hooded person

10

35 (continued)

270 | Appendix C

Table C.2. Continued

Code

Subcode

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ (single) body part

eyes

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

Number of codings

Number of codings (all cities)

10

46

Ernesto “Che” Guevara

8

30

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ masked, disguised, or hooded person

paliacate

8

21

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ professions

campesinx

8

64

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

mother with baby/ toddler/pregnant woman

7

26

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

Mauricio Macri

7

7

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

José de San Martín

7

8

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

artists

7

17

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

Black person

6

35

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ (single) body part

heart

6

29

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

Hugo Chávez

6

63

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

group of (anonymous) children

5

18

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

religious person (Christian)

5

16

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ (anonymous) child (ungendered)

boy

5

23

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ (single) body part\hand (gestures)

handshake

5

10

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

Barack Obama

5

7

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

historical figure from colonial times

4

13

Appendix C

Number of codings

|

271

Number of codings (all cities)

Code

Subcode

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

Cristina Fernández de Kirchner

4

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

Juan Domingo Perón

4

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

sport celebrities

4

5

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

old person

3

15

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

dead/dying/hurt person

3

14

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

(anonymous) child (ungendered)

2

13

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ (anonymous) child (ungendered)

girl

2

17

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ (single) body part

blood

2

12

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ (single) body part\hand (gestures)

praying/begging

2

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

Karl Marx

2

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

Tupac Amaru

2

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

Simón Bolívar

2

32

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person\artists

Jean-Michel Basquiat

2

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person\artists

Frida Kahlo

2

12

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ masked, disguised or hooded person

kefya

2

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ religious person (Christian)

Mary

2

8

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

person in protection gear

1

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ (single) body part\hand (gestures)

military salute

1

3 (continued)

272 | Appendix C

Table C.2. Continued Number of codings

Number of codings (all cities)

Code

Subcode

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

Salvador Allende

1

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

José Mujica

1

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

Donald Trump

1

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

Milagro Sala

1

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

Adolf Hitler

1

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

George W. Bush

1

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

Cacique

1

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

Fidel Castro

1

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person\figure from popular culture, literature, or art history

Mickey Mouse

1

12

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ religious person (Christian)

Jesus

1

12

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ nature

sun

26

57

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

flags and banners

17

34

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ animals

miscellaneous

16

68

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

oil pump/oil

15

23

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ animals

polar bear

14

14

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

skulls and skeletons

13

78

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ buildings/architecture

city skyline/ skyscrapers

13

33

Subjects: objects

Appendix C

Number of codings

|

273

Number of codings (all cities)

Code

Subcode

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ nature

fire/flames

13

39

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ nature

landscape/ countryside

12

61

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ animals\birds

eagle

11

35

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

creatures (of all kinds)

10

38

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ barriers

(broken) chains

10

17

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ media equipment

megaphone

10

14

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ buildings/architecture

houses

9

24

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ buildings/architecture

factory

9

17

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ media equipment

microphone

9

11

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ weaponry

rifle

9

61

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

musical instrument

8

31

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ animals

horses

8

29

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ animals\birds

vulture

8

13

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

book

7

32

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

tools

7

30

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ animals

birds

7

39

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ nature

trees/plants

7

47

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ nature

water

7

30

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

pen

6

17 (continued)

274 | Appendix C

Table C.2. Continued Number of codings

Number of codings (all cities)

Code

Subcode

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

art material

5

35

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ animals\birds

dove

5

21

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ barriers

prison bars

5

9

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ nature

flowers

5

37

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ weaponry

gun

5

9

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

pots and pans

4

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

gas mask

4

14

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ animals

fish

4

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ media equipment

satellite

4

8

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ nature\trees/plants

wheatears

4

7

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ vehicles

boat/ship

4

11

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ weaponry

spear

4

11

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ weaponry

miscellaneous

4

19

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

mask

3

21

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

money bill/coin

3

12

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ clothes

headgear

3

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ media equipment

antenna

3

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ media equipment

TV

3

12

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ media equipment

radio

3

5

Appendix C

Number of codings

|

275

Number of codings (all cities)

Code

Subcode

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ media equipment

cameras

3

11

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ nature

stars/universe/planets

3

21

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ nature\trees/plants

cactus

3

18

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ vehicles

airplanes

3

7

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ weaponry

bomb/bombshell

3

14

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

toys, (windup) dolls, and marionets

2

9

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

eye or mouth bandage

2

7

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

shopping trolley

2

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

petrol station equipment

2

7

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ animals

bull/cow

2

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ animals

jaguar

2

18

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ clothes\headgear

top hat

2

7

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ creatures (of all kinds)

monsters

2

11

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ media equipment

computer

2

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ nature\fruits and vegetables

corncob

2

31

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ vehicles

train/tram

2

10

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ vehicles

car

2

14

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

candle

1

7

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

garbage

1

3 (continued)

276 | Appendix C

Table C.2. Continued Number of codings

Number of codings (all cities)

Code

Subcode

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

suitcase/bag

1

21

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

Indigenous god/ goddess

1

15

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

vehicles

1

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

media equipment

1

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ animals

turtle

1

7

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ animals

snake

1

23

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ animals\insect

butterfly

1

7

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ barriers

barbwire

1

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ buildings/architecture

(Indigenous) temples

1

13

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ clothes\headgear

beret

1

19

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ clothes\headgear

crown

1

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ nature

moon

1

9

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ nature

fruits and vegetables

1

19

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ nature\flowers

rose

1

8

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ vehicles

helicopter

1

5

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ weaponry

slingshot

1

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ weaponry

molotov cocktail

1

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ weaponry

sword

1

11

Appendix C

Code

Subcode

Number of codings

|

277

Number of codings (all cities)

Subjects: symbols I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Argentina flags/national colors\national colors/flags

49

52

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

29

73

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Kirchnerismo/ logos Peronismo/ La Cámpora

15

15

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Shell logos\companies

14

16

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Latin America maps/geographic shape

14

25

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ miscellaneous logos

12

21

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

hammer and sickle

10

14

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

eye of Providence

9

24

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Malvinas maps/geographic shape

9

9

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

anarchy

8

31

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Wiphala flags/national colors

8

14

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

heart

7

28

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

religious cross

6

15

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ city administration logos

6

36

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Reebok logos\companies\sports and shoe firm

6

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ miscellaneous maps/geographic shape

6

8

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

$ (dollar)

5

34

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

miscellaneous

5

25

4

35

stars

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Indigenous ornaments decorative patterns/styles/ornaments

(continued)

278 | Appendix C

Table C.2. Continued

Code

Subcode

Number of codings

Number of codings (all cities)

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Venezuela flags/national colors\national colors/flags

4

43

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Clarín logos\companies

4

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Converse logos\companies\sports and shoe firm

4

5

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ miscellaneous flags/national colors\national colors/flags

3

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Argentina maps/geographic shape

3

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

Venus Power

2

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

poison (skull and crossed bones)

2

8

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ La Boca (district of flags/national colors Buenos Aires)

2

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Mexico flags/national colors\national colors/flags

2

16

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Brazil flags/national colors\national colors/flags

2

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Paraguay flags/national colors\national colors/flags

2

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Chile flags/national colors\national colors/flags

2

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ United States flags/national colors\national colors/flags

2

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ coat of arms (military) logos

2

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ state administration logos (emblems)

2

11

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Lenovo logos\companies

2

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Nike logos\companies\sports and shoe firm

2

4

Appendix C

Code

Subcode

Number of codings

|

279

Number of codings (all cities)

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ planet Earth/world maps/geographic shape map

2

23

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

peace

1

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

stop sign

1

7

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

ouroboros (infinity)

1

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

maps/geographic shape

1

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

flags/national colors

1

5

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ camouflage decorative patterns/styles/ornaments

1

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ miscellaneous flags/national colors

1

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Colombia flags/national colors\national colors/flags

1

19

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Cuba flags/national colors\national colors/flags

1

5

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ United Kingdom flags/national colors\national colors/flags

1

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Monsanto logos\companies

1

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Chevrolet logos\companies

1

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Warner Bros. logos\companies

1

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Fernet logos\companies

1

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Barrick Gold logos\companies

1

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ JP Morgan logos\companies

1

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ McDonald’s logos\companies

1

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Adidas logos\companies\sports and shoe firm

1

2 (continued)

280 | Appendix C

Table C.2. Continued

Code

Subcode

Number of codings

Number of codings (all cities)

Themes: (anti-)imperialism themes I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-) imperialism

indigenismo

38

127

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-) imperialism

Latin American integration and solidarity

33

121

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-) imperialism

exploitation of natural resources and environmental destruction

32

67

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-) imperialism

class struggle, socialism, and communism

30

109

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-) imperialism

US domination

18

45

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-) imperialism

free trade, financial dependency, and external debt

17

25

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-) imperialism

capitalism and consumerism

10

25

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-) imperialism

military interventionism

10

15

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-) imperialism

colonial legacy

10

73

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-) imperialism

internationalist solidarity (with resistance movements)

3

26

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-) imperialism

land rights

1

29

107

353

32

81

Conceptual themes I - Iconology\I2 - themes\conceptual themes

resistance

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\conceptual themes

the people/assembled multitude

Appendix C

Number of codings

|

281

Number of codings (all cities)

Code

Subcode

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\conceptual themes

cooperation/diversity

18

75

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\conceptual themes

confrontation

10

26

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\conceptual themes

rule/domination (state and economy)

8

52

102

146

General political themes I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

political parties

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

state oppression, state violence, and corruption

87

194

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

violent conflict or dictatorship (last fifty years)

33

114

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

cultural heritage

28

71

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

patriotism/ nationalism

24

48

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

freedom of media/ expression

24

58

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

patriarchy

23

39

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

social inequality/ poverty and richness

22

33

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

biodiversity/harmony with nature

10

74

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

education

10

41

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

autonomy/ self-determination

9

22

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

migration

5

17

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

peace

1

60 (continued)

282 | Appendix C

Table C.2. Continued

Code

Subcode

Number of codings

Number of codings (all cities)

Additional codes I - Iconology\I2 - themes

advertisement

I - Iconology\I2 - themes

unclear

64

139

103

340

Table C.3. Code frequencies (Mexico City).

Code

Subcode

Number of codings

Number of codings (all cities)

Subjects: persons I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a – persons

Indigenous person

32

132

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ (single) body part

hand (gestures)

30

105

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ (single) body part\hand (gestures)

fist

24

78

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ professions

security personnel

21

83

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

miscellaneous

17

69

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ (single) body part

heart

15

29

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ professions

campesinx

14

64

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a – persons

man in suit

12

45

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

unclear

11

67

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ masked, disguised, or hooded person

paliacate

11

21

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ (single) body part

eyes

10

46

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ (single) body part

blood

10

12

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a – persons

masked, disguised, or hooded person

9

35

Appendix C

Number of codings

|

283

Number of codings (all cities)

Code

Subcode

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ (anonymous) child (ungendered)

boy

9

23

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a – persons

group of (anonymous) persons

8

72

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a – persons

victims (disappeared, imprisoned, or killed persons)

8

57

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a – persons

old person

8

15

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

figure from popular culture, literature, or art history

8

28

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

artists

8

17

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ Indigenous person

Aztec animal warriors

8

11

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person\artists

Frida Kahlo

7

12

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person\figure from popular culture, literature, or art history

Mickey Mouse

7

12

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ professions\campesinx

charro

7

7

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a – persons

Black person

5

35

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a – persons

historical figure from colonial times

5

13

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ professions

workers

5

30

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ religious person (Christian)

Jesus

5

12

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ (single) body part\hand (gestures)

victory sign

4

23

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ (single) body part\hand (gestures)

handshake

4

10

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ (single) body part\hand (gestures)

praying/begging

4

6 (continued)

284 | Appendix C

Table C.3. Continued Number of codings

Number of codings (all cities)

Code

Subcode

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ religious person (Christian)

Mary

4

8

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a – persons

mother with baby/ toddler/ pregnant woman

3

26

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a – persons

religious person (Christian)

3

16

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a – persons

dead/dying/hurt person

3

14

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ (anonymous) child (ungendered)

girl

3

17

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ (single) body part

mouth

3

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

Donald Trump

3

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

Enrique Peña Nieto

3

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person\figure from popular culture, literature, or art history

Guy Fawkes/ Anonymous mask

3

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

group of (anonymous) children

2

18

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

gangster/mafia

2

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ (single) body part

DNA

2

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ (single) body part\hand (gestures)

middle finger

2

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

Emiliano Zapata

2

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person\artists

Diego Rivera

2

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person\artists

Lila Downs

2

2

Appendix C

Number of codings

|

285

Number of codings (all cities)

Code

Subcode

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

(anonymous) child (ungendered)

1

13

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

Hugo Chávez

1

63

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

Simón Bolívar

1

32

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

Ernesto “Che” Guevara

1

30

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

José de San Martín

1

8

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

Barack Obama

1

7

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

sport celebrities

1

5

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

Emiliano Zapata

1

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

Angela Davis

1

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

Subcomandante Marcos

1

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

Mumia Abu-Jamal

1

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person\artists

José Clemente Orozco

1

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person\artists

David Alfaro Siqueiros

1

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ group of (anonymous) children

group of (anonymous) girls

1

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ masked, disguised, or hooded person

kefya

1

6

41

78

Subjects: objects I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

skulls and skeletons

(continued)

286 | Appendix C

Table C.3. Continued Number of codings (all cities)

68

Code

Subcode

Number of codings

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ animals

miscellaneous

20

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ animals\birds

eagle

17

35

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

mask

16

21

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ animals

snake

15

23

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ nature\fruits and vegetables

corncob

14

31

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ nature

landscape/ countryside

13

61

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ nature

trees/plants

12

47

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ nature

fire/flames

12

39

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ nature

flowers

12

37

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ nature\trees/plants

cactus

12

18

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ nature

sun

9

57

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ nature

water

8

30

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ nature

stars/universe/ planets

7

21

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ nature\flowers

rose

7

8

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ weaponry

miscellaneous

7

19

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ weaponry

rifle

6

61

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ nature

moon

5

9

Appendix C

Number of codings

|

287

Number of codings (all cities)

Code

Subcode

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ vehicles

train/tram

5

10

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ weaponry

grenade

5

15

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ weaponry

knife

4

7

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ nature\fruits and vegetables

cocoa bean

3

5

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ nature\trees/plants

wheatears

3

7

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ vehicles

boat/ship

3

11

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ nature

seeds

2

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ vehicles

airplanes

2

7

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ weaponry

bomb/bombshell

2

14

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ weaponry

spear

2

11

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ weaponry

gun

2

9

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ media equipment

radio

1

5

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ nature

fruits and vegetables

1

19

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ vehicles

car

1

14

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ vehicles

helicopter

1

5

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ weaponry

sword

1

11

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ weaponry

military tanks

1

3 (continued)

288 | Appendix C

Table C.3. Continued

Code

Subcode

Number of codings

Number of codings (all cities)

Subjects: symbols I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ city administration logos

21

36

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Mexico flags/national colors\national colors/flags

13

16

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

12

31

10

35

anarchy

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Indigenous decorative patterns/styles/ornaments ornaments I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

eye of Providence

9

24

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

miscellaneous

8

25

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

stars

7

73

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ planet Earth/world maps/geographic shape map

6

23

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

5

34

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Mexico maps/geographic shape

5

5

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

heart

3

28

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

religious cross

3

15

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Wiphala flags/national colors

3

14

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ miscellaneous logos

3

21

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Coca-Cola logos\companies

3

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

flags/national colors

2

5

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

swastika

2

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ unclear flags/national colors

2

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ miscellaneous flags/national colors

2

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Mexican-American flags/national colors flag

2

2

$ (dollar)

Appendix C

Code

Subcode

Number of codings

|

289

Number of codings (all cities)

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ United States flags/national colors\national colors/ flags

2

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ state administration logos (emblems)

2

11

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Champion’s League logos\companies

2

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ miscellaneous maps/geographic shape

2

8

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

hammer and sickle

1

14

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

poison (skull and crossed bones)

1

8

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

reticle

1

5

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

Venus Power

1

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

(music) notes

1

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ anarchist (black/red) flags/national colors

1

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Templar Cross flags/national colors (Templar Knights)

1

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Argentina flags/national colors\national colors/ flags

1

52

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Colombia flags/national colors\national colors/flags

1

19

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Budweiser logos\companies

1

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Converse logos\companies\sports and shoe firm

1

5

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Nike logos\companies\sports and shoe firm

1

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Adidas logos\companies\sports and shoe firm

1

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Vans logos\companies\sports and shoe firm

1

1 (continued)

290 | Appendix C

Table C.3. Continued

Code

Subcode

Number of codings

Number of codings (all cities)

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ PANAM logos\companies\sports and shoe firm

1

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Latin America maps/geographic shape

1

25

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Tenochtitlán maps/geographic shape

1

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ reverse America maps/geographic shape

1

1

26

127

Themes: (anti-)imperialism themes I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-) imperialism

indigenismo

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-) imperialism

class struggle, socialism, and communism

9

109

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-) imperialism

colonial legacy

8

73

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-) imperialism

exploitation of natural resources and environmental destruction

6

67

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-) imperialism

US domination

5

45

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-) imperialism

land rights

5

29

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-) imperialism

capitalism and consumerism

4

25

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-) imperialism

Latin American integration and solidarity

3

121

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-) imperialism

internationalist solidarity (with resistance movements)

3

26

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-) imperialism

free trade, financial dependency, and external debt

1

25

Appendix C

Code

Subcode

Number of codings

|

291

Number of codings (all cities)

Conceptual themes I - Iconology\I2 - themes\conceptual themes

resistance

62

353

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\conceptual themes

cooperation/diversity

12

75

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\conceptual themes

rule/domination (state and economy)

8

52

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\conceptual themes

confrontation

8

26

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\conceptual themes

the people/ assembled multitude

6

81

General political themes I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

state oppression, state violence, and corruption

67

194

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

cultural heritage

34

71

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

biodiversity/harmony with nature

23

74

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

freedom of media/ expression

11

58

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

political parties

10

146

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

patriotism/ nationalism

9

48

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

education

8

41

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

patriarchy

8

39

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

peace

3

60

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

social inequality/ poverty and richness

2

33 (continued)

292 | Appendix C

Table C.3. Continued Number of codings

Number of codings (all cities)

Code

Subcode

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

autonomy/ self-determination

2

22

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

migration

2

17

46

139

141

340

Additional codes I - Iconology\I2 - themes

advertisement

I - Iconology\I2 - themes

unclear

Table C.4. Code frequencies (Caracas).

Code

Subcode

Number of codings

Number of codings (all cities)

Subjects: persons I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

Hugo Chávez

55

63

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

Simón Bolívar

28

32

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

miscellaneous

27

69

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

unclear

23

67

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

Indigenous person

22

132

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ (single) body part

eyes

17

46

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ (single) body part

hand (gestures)

17

105

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ professions

campesinx

15

64

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

group of (anonymous) persons

14

72

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ (single) body part\hand (gestures)

fist

14

78

Appendix C

Number of codings

|

293

Number of codings (all cities)

Code

Subcode

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

Black person

12

35

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ professions

security personnel

11

83

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

victims (disappeared, imprisoned, or killed persons)

9

57

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

Ernesto “Che” Guevara

9

30

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

mother with baby/ toddler/pregnant woman

6

26

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

Nicolas Maduro

6

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

man in suit

5

45

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

group of (anonymous) children

5

18

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

Francisco Miranda

5

5

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

masked, disguised, or hooded person

4

35

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person\figure from popular culture, literature, or art history

Mickey Mouse

4

12

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

historical figure from colonial times

3

13

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

(anonymous) child (ungendered)

3

13

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

religious person (Christian)

3

16

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ professions

workers

3

30

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ religious person (Christian)

Jesus

3

12

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

enslaved person

2

3 (continued)

294 | Appendix C

Table C.4. Continued Number of codings

Number of codings (all cities)

Code

Subcode

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ (single) body part

heart

2

29

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ (single) body part\hand (gestures)

military salute

2

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

Fidel Castro

2

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

Emiliano Zapata

2

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

Raúl Reyes (FARC-EP)

2

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person\artists

Ali Primera

2

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ religious person (Christian)

Mary

2

8

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

gangster/mafia

1

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

person in protection gear

1

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

famous person

1

8

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ (single) body part

mouth

1

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ (single) body part\hand (gestures)

middle finger

1

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

Barack Obama

1

7

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

Cacique

1

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

Karl Marx

1

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

Vladimir Lenin

1

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

Mao Zedong

1

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

Salvador Allende

1

1

Appendix C

Number of codings

|

295

Number of codings (all cities)

Code

Subcode

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

Pancho Villa

1

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

José Martí

1

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

artists

1

17

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person

figure from popular culture, literature, or art history

1

28

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ famous person\artists

Frida Kahlo

1

12

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ Indigenous person

Aztec animal warrior

1

11

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ masked, disguised, or hooded person

kefya

1

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ animals

horses

16

29

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ clothes\headgear

beret

14

19

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ nature

landscape/ countryside

14

61

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

musical instrument

13

31

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ nature

sun

12

57

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ nature

trees/plants

11

47

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

flags and banners

9

34

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ weaponry

bow and arrow

8

10

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ weaponry

rifle

7

61

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ buildings/architecture

city skyline/ skyscrapers

6

33

Subjects: objects

(continued)

296 | Appendix C

Table C.4. Continued Number of codings

Number of codings (all cities)

Code

Subcode

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ buildings/architecture

houses

6

24

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ nature

fruits and vegetables

6

19

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ weaponry

sword

6

11

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

book

5

32

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

art material

5

35

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

tools

5

30

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

skulls and skeletons

5

78

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ animals\birds

parrot

5

15

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ nature

fire/flames

5

39

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ nature

flowers

5

37

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ nature\fruits and vegetables

corncob

5

31

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ weaponry

miscellaneous

5

19

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

creatures (of all kinds)

4

38

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ animals\birds

dove

4

21

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

petrol station equipment

3

7

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

buildings/architecture

3

5

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ animals

birds

3

39

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ barriers

(broken) chains

3

17

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ media equipment

satellite

3

8

Appendix C

Number of codings

|

297

Number of codings (all cities)

Code

Subcode

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ media equipment

megaphone

3

14

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ nature

stars/universe/planets

3

21

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ weaponry

spear

3

11

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

eye or mouth bandage

2

7

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

money bill/coin

2

12

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ animals\birds

chicken

2

5

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ barriers

prison bars

2

9

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ buildings/architecture

factory

2

17

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ clothes

headgear

2

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ clothes\headgear

top hat

2

7

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ creatures (of all kinds)

monsters

2

11

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ media equipment

TV

2

12

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ nature

water

2

30

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ nature\fruits and vegetables

cocoa bean

2

5

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ vehicles

train/tram

2

10

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ vehicles

boat/ship

2

11

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ weaponry

bomb/bombshell

2

14

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

toys, (windup) dolls, and marionets

1

9 (continued)

298 | Appendix C

Table C.4. Continued Number of codings

Number of codings (all cities)

Code

Subcode

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

oil pump/oil

1

23

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

pen

1

17

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

balance

1

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

vehicles

1

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ animals

bull/cow

1

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ animals

snake

1

23

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ animals

jaguar

1

18

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ animals

pig

1

12

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ animals

dogs

1

16

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ animals

miscellaneous

1

68

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ animals\birds

eagle

1

35

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ barriers

barbwire

1

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ creatures (of all kinds)

devil (horns)

1

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ creatures (of all kinds)

creatures with wings

1

11

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ media equipment

radio

1

5

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ media equipment

microphone

1

11

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ nature

moon

1

9

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ nature\fruits and vegetables

coffee beans

1

1

Appendix C

Number of codings

|

299

Number of codings (all cities)

Code

Subcode

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ nature\trees/plants

cactus

1

18

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ weaponry

slingshot

1

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ weaponry

molotov cocktail

1

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ weaponry

bullet (hole)

1

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ weaponry

military tanks

1

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Venezuela flags/national colors\national colors/flags

38

43

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

24

73

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ city administration logos

8

36

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

6

7

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Latin America maps/geographic shape

6

25

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ state administration logos (emblems)

5

11

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Indigenous ornaments decorative patterns/styles/ornaments

4

35

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Cuba flags/national colors\national colors/flags

4

5

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

eye of Providence

3

24

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

heart

3

28

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ unclear flags/national colors

3

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Venezuela maps/geographic shape

3

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Colombia flags/national colors\national colors/flags

2

19

Subjects: symbols

stars

stop sign

(continued)

300 | Appendix C

Table C.4. Continued

Code

Subcode

Number of codings

Number of codings (all cities)

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Argentina flags/national colors\national colors/flags

2

52

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ United States flags/national colors\national colors/flags

2

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ miscellaneous logos

2

21

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

peace

1

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

(music) notes

1

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

hammer and sickle

1

14

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

poison (skull and crossed bones)

1

8

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

$ (dollar)

1

34

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

flags/national colors

1

5

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols

miscellaneous

1

25

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Wiphala flags/national colors

1

14

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Templar Cross flags/national colors (Templar Knights)

1

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ anarchist (black/red) flags/national colors

1

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Brazil flags/national colors\national colors/flags

1

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Paraguay flags/national colors\national colors/flags

1

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Chile flags/national colors\national colors/flags

1

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Palestine flags/national colors\national colors/flags

1

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ miscellaneous flags/national colors\national colors/flags

1

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Nike logos\companies\sports and shoe firm

1

4

Appendix C

Code

Subcode

Number of codings

|

301

Number of codings (all cities)

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Colombia maps/geographic shape

1

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ planet Earth/world maps/geographic shape map

1

23

Themes: (anti-)imperialism themes I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-) imperialism

colonial legacy

38

73

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-) imperialism

Latin American integration and solidarity

17

121

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-) imperialism

indigenismo

16

127

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-) imperialism

US domination

12

45

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-) imperialism

class struggle, socialism, and communism

8

109

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-) imperialism

internationalist solidarity (with resistance movements)

7

26

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-) imperialism

land rights

6

29

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-) imperialism

military interventionism

2

15

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-) imperialism

exploitation of natural resources and environmental destruction

2

67

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-) imperialism

capitalism and consumerism

1

25

26

353

Conceptual themes I - Iconology\I2 - themes\conceptual themes

resistance

(continued)

302 | Appendix C

Table C.4. Continued Number of codings

Number of codings (all cities)

Code

Subcode

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\conceptual themes

the people/assembled multitude

19

81

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\conceptual themes

cooperation/diversity

17

75

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\conceptual themes

rule/domination (state and economy)

7

52

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\conceptual themes

confrontation

2

26

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

political parties

31

146

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

peace

10

60

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

biodiversity/harmony with nature

10

74

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

patriotism/ nationalism

9

48

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

freedom of media/ expression

9

58

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

state oppression, state violence, and corruption

5

194

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

cultural heritage

3

71

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

autonomy/ self-determination

2

22

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

education

2

41

I - Iconology\I2 - themes

advertisement

1

139

I - Iconology\I2 - themes

unclear

3

340

General political themes

Additional codes

Appendix C

|

303

Table C.5. Code frequencies (Bogotá).

Code

Subcode

Number of Number of codings (all codings cities)

Subjects: persons I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

Indigenous person

40

132

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ campesinx professions

27

64

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ security personnel professions

24

83

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

man in suit

18

45

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

group of (anonymous) persons

18

72

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ hand (gestures) (single) body part

18

105

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ unclear famous person

14

67

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

Black person

12

35

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

masked, disguised, or hooded person

12

35

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ girl (anonymous) child (ungendered)

12

17

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ Ernesto “Che” famous person Guevara

12

30

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

10

26

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ fist (single) body part\hand (gestures)

10

78

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ boy (anonymous) child (ungendered)

9

23

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ eyes (single) body part

9

46

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

8

14

mother with baby/ toddler/pregnant woman

dead/dying/hurt person

(continued)

304 | Appendix C

Table C.5. Continued

Code

Subcode

Number of Number of codings (all codings cities)

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ figure from popular famous person culture, literature, or art history

8

28

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ workers professions

8

30

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

victims (disappeared, imprisoned, or killed persons)

7

57

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

(anonymous) child (ungendered)

7

13

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

famous person

7

8

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

group of (anonymous) children

6

18

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ heart (single) body part

6

29

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ President Juan famous person Manuel Santos

6

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

5

16

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ miscellaneous famous person

5

69

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

4

15

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ Norma Patricia famous person Galeano

4

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ Camilo Torres famous person

4

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ shhhh! (single) body part\hand (gestures)

3

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ victory sign (single) body part\hand (gestures)

3

23

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ Benito Mussolini famous person

3

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ Jaime Garzón famous person

3

3

religious person (Christian)

old person

Appendix C

Code

Subcode

|

305

Number of Number of codings (all codings cities)

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ group of group of (anonymous) children (anonymous) boys

3

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ Jesus religious person (Christian)

3

12

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ mouth (single) body part

2

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ Manuel Quintín famous person Lame Chantre

2

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ Raúl Reyes famous person (FARC-EP)

2

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ Albert Einstein famous person

2

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ Jorge Eliécer Gaitán famous person

2

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ Frida Kahlo famous person\artists

2

12

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ Aztec animal warrior Indigenous person

2

11

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ paliacate masked, disguised, or hooded person

2

21

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ kefya masked, disguised, or hooded person

2

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

Madre de Plaza de Mayo

1

20

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

gangster/mafia

1

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

person in protection gear

1

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

enslaved person

1

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons

historical figure from colonial times

1

13

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ brain (single) body part

1

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ index finger (single) body part\hand (gestures)

1

1 (continued)

306 | Appendix C

Table C.5. Continued

Code

Subcode

Number of Number of codings (all codings cities)

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ handshake (single) body part\hand (gestures)

1

10

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ Tupac Amaru famous person

1

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ Rosa Luxemburg famous person

1

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ Angela Davis famous person

1

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ Álvaro Uribe famous person

1

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ Hugo Chávez famous person

1

63

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ Simón Bolívar famous person

1

32

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ Diego Felipe Becerra famous person

1

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ Michael Bakunin famous person

1

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ artists famous person

1

17

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1a - persons\ group of group of (anonymous) children (anonymous) girls

1

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ rifle weaponry

39

61

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ miscellaneous animals

31

68

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ birds animals

23

39

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ landscape/ nature countryside

22

61

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

19

78

Subjects: objects

skulls and skeletons

Appendix C

Code

Subcode

|

Number of Number of codings (all codings cities)

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ trees/plants nature

17

47

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

15

21

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ flowers nature

15

37

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ water nature

13

30

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

art material

12

35

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

tools

12

30

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

creatures (of all kinds)

12

38

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ city skyline/ buildings/architecture skyscrapers

12

33

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ insect animals

11

14

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ fruits and vegetables nature

11

19

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ car vehicles

11

14

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ sun nature

10

57

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ corncob nature\fruits and vegetables

10

31

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ grenade weaponry

10

15

suitcase/bag

307

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

book

9

32

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

technical/electronic device/machinery

9

11

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ jaguar animals

9

18

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ pig animals

9

12

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ dogs animals

9

16 (continued)

308 | Appendix C

Table C.5. Continued

Code

Subcode

Number of Number of codings (all codings cities)

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ houses buildings/architecture

9

24

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ fire/flames nature

9

39

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

8

14

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ parrot animals\birds

8

15

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ stars/universe/planets nature

8

21

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

oil pump/oil

7

23

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

pen

7

17

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

musical instrument

7

31

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ bomb/bombshell weaponry

7

14

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ snake animals

6

23

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ eagle animals\birds

6

35

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ (Indigenous) temples buildings/architecture

6

13

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

5

15

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ dove animals\birds

5

21

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ vulture animals\birds

5

13

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ factory buildings/architecture

5

17

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ cameras media equipment

5

11

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

balance

4

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

money bill/coin

4

12

gas mask

Indigenous god/ goddess

Appendix C

Code

Subcode

|

309

Number of Number of codings (all codings cities)

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ horses animals

4

29

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ colibri animals\birds

4

14

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ beret clothes\headgear

4

19

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ mining helmet clothes\headgear

4

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ pachamama Indigenous god/goddess

4

5

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ TV media equipment

4

12

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ construction vehicle vehicles

4

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ chicken animals\birds

3

5

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ helicopter vehicles

3

5

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ sword weaponry

3

11

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ knife weaponry

3

7

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ miscellaneous weaponry

3

19

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

mask

2

21

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

garbage

2

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

shopping cart

2

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

petrol station equipment

2

7

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

media equipment

2

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ barbwire barriers

2

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ crown clothes\headgear

2

6 (continued)

310 | Appendix C

Table C.5. Continued

Code

Subcode

Number of Number of codings (all codings cities)

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ top hat clothes\headgear

2

7

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ devil (horns) creatures (of all kinds)

2

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ creatures with wings creatures (of all kinds)

2

11

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ monsters creatures (of all kinds)

2

11

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ moon nature

2

9

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ seeds nature

2

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ cactus nature\trees/plants

2

18

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ airplanes vehicles

2

7

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ boat/ship vehicles

2

11

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ gun weaponry

2

9

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ spear weaponry

2

11

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ bow and arrow weaponry

2

10

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

toys, (windup) dolls, and marionets

1

9

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

flags and banners

1

34

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects

buildings/architecture

1

5

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ monkey animals

1

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ fish animals

1

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ turtle animals

1

7

Appendix C

Code

Subcode

|

311

Number of Number of codings (all codings cities)

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ butterfly animals\insect

1

7

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ shackle barriers

1

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ megaphone media equipment

1

14

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ microphone media equipment

1

11

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ train/tram vehicles

1

10

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ bullet (hole) weaponry

1

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ UAV/drone weaponry

1

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1b - objects\ military tanks weaponry

1

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols $ (dollar)

23

34

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Indigenous ornaments decorative patterns/styles/ornaments

17

35

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols heart

15

28

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Colombia flags/national colors\national colors/flags

15

19

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ planet Earth/world maps/geographic shape map

14

23

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols stars

13

73

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols anarchy

11

31

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols miscellaneous

11

25

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols religious cross

6

15

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols reticle

4

5

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols poison (skull and crossed bones)

4

8

Subjects: symbols

(continued)

312 | Appendix C

Table C.5. Continued

Code

Subcode

Number of Number of codings (all codings cities)

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ anarchist (black/red) flags/national colors

4

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ miscellaneous logos

4

21

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Latin America maps/geographic shape

4

25

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols eye of Providence

3

24

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols fasces

3

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Colombia maps/geographic shape

3

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols (music) notes

2

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols hammer and sickle

2

14

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ camouflage decorative patterns/styles/ornaments

2

3

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Wiphala flags/national colors

2

14

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Israel flags/national colors\national colors/flags

2

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ state administration logos (emblems)

2

11

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Shell logos\companies

2

16

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols ouroboros (infinity)

1

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols Venus Power

1

4

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols maps/geographic shape

1

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols flags/national colors

1

5

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ unclear flags/national colors

1

6

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Venezuela flags/national colors\national colors/flags

1

43

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Mexico flags/national colors\national colors/flags

1

16

Appendix C

Code

Subcode

|

313

Number of Number of codings (all codings cities)

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Palestine flags/national colors\national colors/flags

1

2

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ city administration logos

1

36

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Chevron logos\companies

1

1

I - Iconology\I1 - subjects\I1c - symbols\ Monsanto logos\companies

1

2

Themes: (anti-)imperialism themes I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-) imperialism

Latin American integration and solidarity

68

121

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-) imperialism

class struggle, socialism, and communism

62

109

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-) imperialism

indigenismo

47

127

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-) imperialism

exploitation of natural resources and environmental destruction

27

67

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-) imperialism

land rights

17

29

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-) imperialism

colonial legacy

17

73

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-) imperialism

internationalist solidarity (with resistance movements)

13

26

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-) imperialism

capitalism and consumerism

10

25

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-) imperialism

US domination

10

45

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-) imperialism

free trade, financial dependency, and external debt

7

25

(continued)

314 | Appendix C

Table C.5. Continued

Code

Subcode

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\(anti-) imperialism

military interventionism

Number of Number of codings (all codings cities)

3

15

158

353

Conceptual themes I - Iconology\I2 - themes\conceptual themes

resistance

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\conceptual themes

rule/domination (state and economy)

29

52

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\conceptual themes

cooperation/diversity

28

75

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\conceptual themes

the people/assembled multitude

24

81

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\conceptual themes

confrontation

6

26

General political themes I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

violent conflict or dictatorship (last fifty years)

81

114

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

peace

46

60

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

state oppression, state violence, and corruption

35

194

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

biodiversity/harmony with nature

31

74

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

education

21

41

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

freedom of media/ expression

14

58

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

migration

10

17

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

autonomy/ self-determination

9

22

Appendix C

|

315

Number of Number of codings (all codings cities)

Code

Subcode

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

social inequality/ poverty and richness

9

33

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

patriarchy

8

39

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

cultural heritage

6

71

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

patriotism/ nationalism

6

48

I - Iconology\I2 - themes\general political themes

political parties

3

146

I - Iconology\I2 - themes

advertisement

28

139

I - Iconology\I2 - themes

unclear

93

340

Additional codes

References Abarca, Javier. 2011. “Teaching Urban Intervention, Learning to See the City Anew.” Retrieved 25 June 2018 from http://2014.eksperimenta.net/wp-content/uploads/ 2011/05/1101-Teaching-urban-intervention-IDEAlab-Javier-Abarca.pdf. Abaza, Mona. 2012. “Walls, Segregating Downtown Cairo and the Mohammed Mahmud Street Graffiti.” Theory, Culture & Society 30(1): 122–39. Adami, Elisa. 2016. “How Do You Watch a Revolution? Notes from the 21st Century.” Journal of Visual Culture 15(1): 69–84. Aikins, Joshua Kwesi 2009. “Queen Nanny and Maroon Resistance.” In The International Encyclopedia of Revolution and Protest, edited by Immanuel Ness, 2788–90. Oxford: Malden. Aksel, Bahar, and Inci Olgun. 2015. “Writing on Istanbul: Graffiti of the City.” In Cool Istanbul: Urban Enclosures and Resistances, edited by D. Ö. Koçak and O. K. Koçak, 159–85. Bielefeld: transcript. Althusser, Louis. 1970. “Ideology and Ideological State Apparatuses (Notes towards an Investigation).” In Lenin and Philosophy and Other Essays, edited by L. Althusser, 127–86. New York: Monthly Review Press. Amoore, Louise. 2005. “Introduction: Global Resistance—Global Politics.” In The Global Resistance Reader, edited by L. Amoore, 1–11. London: Routledge. Andersson, Linus. 2012. “There Is No Alternative: The Critical Potential of Alternative Media for Challenging Neoliberal Discourse.” In TripleC—Communication, Capitalism & Critique 10(2): 752–64. Araya López, Alexander. 2014. “Public Spaces, Stigmatization and Media Discourses of Graffiti Practices in the Latin American Press: Dynamics of Symbolic Exclusion and Inclusion of Urban Youth.” PhD thesis, Freie Universität Berlin. Awad, Sarah H., Brady Wagoner, and Vlad Petre Glăveanu. 2017. “The Street Art of Resistance.” In Resistance in Everyday Life: Constructing Cultural Experiences, edited by N. Chaudhary, P. Hviid, G. Marsico, and J. W. Villadsen, 161–80. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Baldini, Andrea. 2015. “An Urban Carnival on the City Walls: The Visual Representation of Financial Power in European Street Art.” Journal of Visual Culture 14(2): 246–52. Retrieved 26 June 2018 from http://vcu.sagepub.com/cgi/ doi/10.1177/1470412915592883. Banksy. 2005. Wall and Piece. London: Random House UK Ltd. Barbour, Rosalind S., and John Schostak. 2011. “Interviewing and Focus Groups.” In Theory and Methods in Social Research, edited by B. Somekh and C. Lewin, 61–68. London: Sage. Bastardilla. 2009. Memoria Canalla (short film). Colombia: Hogar Team. Retrieved 25 June 2018 from http://blog.nomono.co/2010/01/21/memoria-canalla-cuandolas-paredes-hablan/.

References

|

317

Baudrillard, Jean. 1974. Kool Killer Ou L’insurrection Par Les Signes. Retrieved 25 June 2018 from https://ddd.uab.cat/pub/papers/02102862n3/02102862n3p27.pdf. Baudry, Sandrine, and Emeline Eudes. 2016. “Urban Gardening: Between Green Resistance and Ideological Instrument.” In The SAGE Handbook of Resistance, edited by D. Courpasson and S. Vallas, 476–94. London: Sage. Beardsell, Peter. 2000. Returning the Gaze. Europe and Latin America. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Bell, Philip. 2004. “Content Analysis of Visual Images.” In The Handbook of Visual Analysis, edited by T. Van Leeuwen and C. Jewitt, 10–34. London: Sage. Bengtsen, Peter. 2014. “Stealing from the Public: The Value of Street Art Taken from the Street.” In Routledge Handbook of Graffiti and Street Art, edited by J. I. Ross, 416–28. London: Routledge. Benjamin, Walter. [1936] 2002. “The Work of Art in the Age of Its Technological Reproduction.” In Selected Writings. Vol. 3: 1935–38, edited by H. Eiland and M. Jennings 101–34. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Berger, John. [1972] 1976. Ways of Seeing. London: Penguin Books. Bhabha, Homi K. 1983. “The Other Question.” Screen 24(6): 18–36. ———. 1994. The Location of Culture. London: Routledge. Biedermann, Hans. 1992. Dictionary of Symbolism. New York: Facts on File. Blanché, Ulrich. 2015. “Street Art and Related Terms—Discussion and Working Definition.” SAUC—Street Art & Urban Creativity Scientific Journal 1(1): 32–39. Bleiker, Roland. 2001. “The Aesthetic Turn in International Political Theory.” Millennium: Journal of International Studies 30(3): 509–33. ———. 2015. “Pluralist Methods for Visual Global Politics.” Millennium: Journal of International Studies 43(3): 872–90. Bogerts, Lisa. 2015. “Die Kraft des Visuellen. Emotionen und Bilder in der Protest- und Bewegungsforschung.” In Emotionen und Politik, edited by K.-R. Korte, 225–46. Baden-Baden: Nomos. ———. 2016. “Die Responsibility to Protest: Street Art als Waffe des Widerstands?” Zeitschrift für Außen- und Sicherheitspolitik 9(4): 503–30. ———. 2018. “‘Deutschland sprüht vor Ideen’—Street Art als ikonographische Herrschaftspraxis.” In Politische Ikonographie und Differenzrepräsentation (Leviathan Special Issue), edited by S. Huhnholz and E. M. Hausteiner, 231–58. Baden-Baden: Nomos. Bogerts, Lisa, and Maik Fielitz. 2019. “‘Do You Want Meme War?’ Understanding the Visual Memes of the German Far Right.” In Post-Digital Cultures of the Far Right: Online Actions and Offline Consequences in Europe and the US, edited by M. Fielitz and N. Thurston, 137–54. Bielefeld: Transcript. ———. 2022 (forthcoming). “Fashwave: The Alt-Right’s Aestheticisation of Politics and Violence.” In Dada Data: Contemporary Art Practice in the Era of Post-truth Politics, edited by S. Hegenbarth and M. Kölmel. New York: Bloomsbury. Bogerts, Lisa, and David Shim. 2023 (forthcoming). “Visuality.” Thinking World Politics Otherwise: A Textbook for IR Students, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Bogotart. 2016. Más que Muros: Arte Urbano en Bogotá. Edited by A. Montes Arango. Bogotá: IM Editores.

318

|

References

Boltanski, Luc, and Ève Chiapello. 1999. Le Nouvel Ésprit du Capitalisme. Paris: Gallimard. Brassaï. 1960. Graffiti. Stuttgart: Belser Verlag. Brassat, Wolfgang. 2011. “Heroismus.” In Handbuch der politischen Ikonographie. Bd. 1, edited by M. Warnke, U. Fleckner, and H. Ziegler. 473–80. Munich: C. H. Beck. Brückle, Wolfgang. 2011. “Tiervergleich.” In Handbuch der politischen Ikonographie. Bd. 2, edited by M. Warnke, U. Fleckner, and H. Ziegler, 430–39. Munich: C. H. Beck. Camnitzer, Luis. 2009. “Art and Politics: The Aesthetics of Resistance.” In On Art, Artists, Latin America, and Other Utopias, edited by L. Camnitzer and R. Weiss, 63–92. Austin: University of Texas Press. Canclini, Néstor García. 2013. “¿De Qué Hablamos Cuando Hablamos de Resistencia?” REVISTARQUIS 2(1): 16–36. Castellanos, Leopoldo Hernández. 2015. “El Muralismo Mexicano Actual y los Imaginarios Sociales en la Construcción de la Identidad Nacional.” PhD thesis, Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México. Retrieved 22 November 2020 from https:// ru.dgb.unam.mx/handle/DGB_UNAM/TES01000736750. ———. 2017. “Muralismo y Resistencia en el Espacio Urbano.” URBS: Revista de Estudios Urbanos y Ciencias Sociales 7(1): 145–53. CDH. 2013. “Notes on the Commodification of Street Art.” Art Monthly Australia 263 (April 2011): 42–44. Centro Nacional de Historia. 2016. Rostros y Rastros de un Lider: Hugo Chávez; Memorias de un Pueblo. Caracas: Ministerio del Poder Popular para la Cultura. Retrieved 25 June 2018 from https://issuu.com/centronacionaldehistoria/docs/libro_web. Chaffee, Lyman. 1993. Political Protest and Street Art. Popular Tools for Democratization in Hispanic Countries. Santa Barbara, CA: Greenwood Publishing Group. Chin, Christine B. N., and James H. Mittelman. [2000] 2005. “Conceptualizing Resistance to Globalization.” In The Global Resistance Reader, edited by L. Amoore, 17–27. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Cockcroft, James D. 2007. “Imperialism, State and Social Movements in Latin America.” In Imperialism, Neoliberalism and Social Struggles in Latin America, edited by R. Dello Buono and J. Bell Lara, 261–75. Amsterdam: Brill. Consolo, Marco. 2015. “Latin America: The Counter-offensive against US Imperialism.” Global Research. Retrieved 25 June 2018 https://www.globalresearch.ca/ latin-america-the-counter-offensive-against-us-imperialism/5474278. Cooperativa Gráfica Del Pueblo. 2014. Jallalla Revolución. Buenos Aires: Gráfica Del Pueblo. Cresswell, T. 1992. “The Crucial ‘Where’ of Graffiti: A Geographical Analysis of Reactions to Graffiti in New York.” Environment and Planning D: Society and Space 10(3): 329–44. Daase, Christopher, and Nicole Deitelhoff. 2014. Reconstructing Global Rule by Analyzing Resistance. Dissidenz Working Paper. Frankfurt am Main. Retrieved 25 June 2018 from https://dissidenz.net/wp-content/uploads/2013/03/wp1-2014-daase-deitelho ff-en.pdf. de Certeau, Michel. 1984. The Practice of Everyday Life. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press.

References

|

319

de la Fuente, Beatriz. 1995. “La Pintura Mural Prehispánica en México.” Arqueología Mexicana 3(16): 6–15. de la Iglesia, Martin. 2015. “Towards a Scholarly Documentation of Street Art.” SAUC— Street Art & Urban Creativity Scientific Journal 1(1): 40–49. Debord, Guy. [1957] 2002. “Report on the Construction of Situations and on the International Situationist Tendency’s Conditions of Organization and Action.” In Guy Debord and the Situationist International: Texts and Documents, edited by T. McDonough, 29–50. Berkeley, CA: October Books. Retrieved 25 June 2018 from http://www.bopsecrets.org/SI/report.htm. ———. [1967] 1983. Society of the Spectacle. Detroit, MI: Black & Red. Delgado, Gabriel, and Juan Manuel Struck. 2006. “La Cultura y la Comunicación en la Otra Campaña.” Rebeldía 5(51): 46–53. Dello Buono, Richard A., and José Bell Lara. 2007. “Neoliberalism and Resistance in Latin America.” In Imperialism, Neoliberalism and Social Struggles in Latin America, edited by R. Dello Buono and J. Bell Lara, 1–14. Amsterdam: Brill. Demos, T. J. 2016. “Between Rebel Creativity and Reification: For and Against Visual Activism.” Journal of Visual Culture 15(1): 85–102. Derrida, Jacques. 1993. “Le Toucher: Touch/to Touch Him.” Paragraph: A Journal of Modern Critical Theory 16(2): 122–57. Doerr, Nicole. 2017. “How Right-Wing Versus Cosmopolitan Political Actors Mobilize and Translate Images of Immigrants in Transnational Contexts.” Visual Communication 16(3): 315–36. Doerr, Nicole, Alice Mattoni, and Simon Teune. 2013. Advances in the Visual Analysis of Social Movements. Bingley: Emerald Insight. DOMA. 2011. “Explosion as a Reaction.” In Hasta la Victoria Stencil! edited by G. Indij, 210–11. Buenos Aires: La Marca Editora. Dorfman, Ariel, and Armand Mattelart. 1991. How to Read Donald Duck: Imperialist Ideology in the Disney Comic. New York: IG Editions. Douglass, Frederick. 1885. The Color Line. Retrieved 13 August 2018 from https://amer icanliterature.com/author/frederick-douglass/essay/the-color-line. Du Bois, W. E. B. 1903. The Souls of Black Folk. Mineola, NY: Dover Publications. Duncombe, Stephen. 2015. “Cultural Hegemony.” Retrieved 16 May 2018 from http:// beautifultrouble.org/theory/cultural-hegemony/. ECL (Ejército Comunicacional de Liberación). 2011. Mural y Luces. Caracas. Retrieved 25 June 2018 from https://issuu.com/ejercito.comunicacional/docs/mylfinalwev. ———. 2015. Alerta que Salpica. Caracas. Retrieved 25 June 2018 from https://issuu .com/ejercito.comunicacional/docs/aqs_beta. Eder, Jens, and Charlotte Klonk. 2016. Image Operations: Visual Media and Political Conflict. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Evans, Jessica, and Stuart Hall. 1999. Visual Culture: The Reader. London: Sage. Fahlenbrach, Kathrin. 2016a. “Images and Protest Imagery.” In Protest Culture: A Companion, edited by K. Fahlenbrach, M. Klimke, and J. Scharloth, 243–58. New York: Berghahn Books. ———. 2016b. “Protest as a Media Phenomenon.” In Protest Culture: A Companion, edited by K. Fahlenbrach, M. Klimke, and J. Scharloth, 94–113. New York: Berghahn Books.

320

|

References

Fahlenbrach, Kathrin, Peter Ludes, and Winfried Nöth. 2014. “Critical Visual Theory— Introduction.” TripleC—Communication, Capitalism & Critique 12(1): 202–13. Fairclough, Norman. 2001. “Critical Discourse Analysis as a Method in Social Scientific Research.” In Methods of Critical Discourse Analysis, edited by R. Wodak and M. Meyer, 121–38. London: Sage. Fernandes, Sujatha. 2010. Who Can Stop the Drums? Urban Social Movements in Chávez´s Venezuela. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Ferrada Stoehrel, Rodrigo, and Simon Lindgren. 2014. “For the Lulz: Anonymous, Aesthetics, and Affect.” TripleC—Communication, Capitalism & Critique 12(1): 238–64. Fiske, John. 1992. “Audiencing: A Cultural Studies Approach to Watching Television.” Poetics 21(4): 345–59. Foucault, Michel. 1963. Naissance de La Clinique: Une Archéologie Du Regard Médical. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France. ———. 1972. The Archeology of Knowledge. London: Tavistock Publications. ———. 1975. Surveiller et Punir. Paris: Gallimard. ———. 1978. The History of Sexuality. Vol. 1. New York: Random House. Fuery, Kelli, and Patrick Fuery. 2003. Visual Culture and Critical Theory. London: Arnold. Gabbay, Cynthia. 2013. “El Fenómeno Posgrafiti en Buenos Aires.” Aisthesis 54: 123–46. Galeano, Eduardo. 1971. Las Venas Abiertas de América Latina. Montevideo: Monthly Review Press. Gama-Castro, Martha, and Freddy León-Reyes. 2016. “Bogotá Arte Urbano o Graffiti: Entre la Ilegalidad y la Forma Artística de Expresión.” Arte, Individuo y Sociedad 28(2): 355–69. Giunta, Andrea. 2005. “‘Argentina in the World’: Internationalist Nationalism in the Art of the 1960s.” In Images of Power: Iconography, Culture and the State in Latin America, edited by J. Andermann and W. Rowe, 145–61. New York: Berghahn Books. González Navarrete, Eurídice, and Katiuska García Alonso. 2015. “La Revolución Cubana y el Imaginario Antiimperialista en los Libros de Texto y el Humor Gráfico.” In El Imaginario Antiimperialista en América Latina, edited by A. Kozel, F. Grossi, and D. Moroni, 207–49. Buenos Aires: CLASCO. Gramsci, Antonio. [1971] 2014. Selections from the Prison Notebooks. Edited by Q. Hoare and G. Nowell Smith. New York: International Publishers. Gründer, Ralf. 2007. Verboten—Berliner Mauerkunst. Köln: Böhlau. Haiven, Max. 2007. “Privatized Resistance: AdBusters and the Culture of Neoliberalism.” Review of Education, Pedagogy, and Cultural Studies 29(1): 85–110. Hall, Stuart. 1993. “Encoding and Decoding in the Television Discourse.” In The Cultural Studies Reader, edited by S. During, 90–103. New York: Routledge. Hamati-Ataya, Inanna. 2011. “The ‘Problem of Values’ and International Relations Scholarship: From Applied Reflexivity to Reflexivism.” International Studies Review 13(2): 259–87. Hannerz, Ulf. 1969. Soulside: Inquiries into Ghetto Culture and Community. New York: Columbia University Press. Hansen, Lene. 2006. Security as Practice: Discourse Analysis and the Bosnian War. New York: Routledge.

References

|

321

———. 2011. “Theorizing the Image for Security Studies: Visual Securitization and the Muhammad Cartoon Crisis.” European Journal of International Relations 17(1): 51–74. ———. 2015. “How Images Make World Politics: International Icons and the Case of Abu Ghraib.” Review of International Studies 41(2): 263–88. Hansen, Susan, and Danny Flynn. 2016. “‘Darling Look! It’s a Banksy!’ Viewers’ Material Engagement with Street Art and Graffiti.” In Aesthetic Energy of the City: Experiencing Urban Art and Space, edited by A. Gralinska-Toborek and W. KazimierskyJerzyk, 103–18. Łódź: Łódź University Press. Haraway, Donna J. 1991. Simians, Cyborgs, and Women: The Reinvention of Nature. London: Free Association Books. Hardt, Michael, and Antonio Negri. 2000. Empire. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Hardy, Cynthia, and Nelson Philips. 2002. Discourse Analysis: Investigating Processes of Social Construction. London: Sage. Haring, Keith. 1988. “Remembering Basquiat.” Vogue, November 1988: 230–34. Harvey, David. 2003. The New Imperialism. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Heck, Axel. 2014. “Visuelle Narrative in der Politik. Repräsentationen der Herrschaft Barack Obamas.” In Politische Narrative, edited by F. Gadinger, 311–36. Wiesbaden: Springer. ———. 2017. “Analyzing Docudramas in International Relations: Narratives in the Film a Murderous Decision.” International Studies Perspectives 18(4): 365–90. Heck, Axel, and Gabi Schlag. 2013. “Securitizing Images: The Female Body and the War in Afghanistan.” European Journal of International Relations 19(4): 891–913. ———. 2020. “Visualität und Weltpolitik: Praktiken des Zeigens und Sehens in den Internationalen Beziehungen.” Wiesbaden: VS-Verlag. Hensell, Stephan. 2015. “Rebellion und Regierung: Legitimationsstrategien der Eliten im Kosovo.” Zeitschrift für Internationale Beziehungen 22(1): 129–42. Hernández Sánchez, Pablo. 2008. La História del Graffiti en México. Mexico City: imjuve—Instituto Mexicano de Juventud. Herrera, Martha Cecilia, and Vladimir Olaya. 2011. “Ciudades Tatuadas: Arte Callejero, Política y Memorias Visuales.” Nómadas 35(Oct. 2011): 98–116. Heusinger, Lutz. 2011. “Faust.” In Handbuch der politischen Ikonographie. Bd. 1, edited by H. Warnke, Martin Fleckner, Uwe Ziegler, 293–300. Munich: C. H. Beck. Hollander, Jocelyn A., and Rachel L. Einwohner. 2004. “Conceptualizing Resistance.” Sociological Forum 19(4): 533–54. Hommers, Jeanett. 2011. “Gesten.” In Handbuch der politischen Ikonographie. Bd. 1, edited by H. Warnke, Martin Fleckner, Uwe Ziegler, 418–25. Munich: C. H. Beck. hooks, bell. 1992. “The Oppositional Gaze: Black Female Spectators.” In Black Looks, Race, and Representation, edited by b. hooks, 115–31. New York: South End Press. Hoppe, Ilaria. 2014. “Urban Art as Countervisuality?” In Lisbon Street Art & Urban Creativity. 2014 International Conference, edited by P. Soares Neves and D. V. de Freitas Simões, 260–65. Lisbon: urbancreativity.org. Indij, Guido. 2011. Hasta La Victoria, Stencil! 2nd ed. Buenos Aires: La Marca Editora. Jaimes, Héctor. 2012. Filosofía del Muralismo Mexicano—Orozco, Rivera y Siqueiros. Madrid: Plaza y Valdés.

322

|

References

Jasper, James M. 1999. The Art of Moral Protest. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. ———. 2011. “Emotions and Social Movements: Twenty Years of Theory and Research.” Annual Review of Sociology 37(1): 285–303. Jay, Martin. 1988. “Scopic Regimes of Modernity.” In Vision and Visuality, edited by H. Foster, 3–23. Seattle: Bay Press. Kalman, Matthew. 2014. “Papal Propaganda Poker: I’ll See Your Grave and Raise You a Wall.” Haaretz online, 26 May. Retrieved 26 June 2018 from http://www.haaretz .com/blogs/outside-edge/.premium-1.592823. Kamecke, Gernot. 2009. “Spiele mit den Worten, aber wisse, was richtig ist! Zum Problem der Evidenz in der Sprachphilosophie.” In Sehnsucht nach Evidenz: Zeitschrift für Kulturwissenschaften, Heft 1, edited by K. Harrasser, H. Lethe, and E. Timm, 11–26. Leipzig: transcript. Kastner, Jens. 2011. “Insurrection and Symbolic Work: Graffiti in Oaxaca (Mexico) 2007/2007 as Subversion and Artistic Politics.” In Selling EthniCity: Urban Cultural Politics in the Americas, edited by O. Kaltmeier, 55–70. Farnham: Ashgate. Kerner, Ina. 2013. “Differences of Inequality: Tracing the Socioeconomic, the Cultural and the Political in Latin American Postcolonial Theory.” DesiguALdades.net Working Paper Series (60). Retrieved 25 June 2018 from https://www.iai.spk-berlin.de/ fileadmin/dokumentenbibliothek/desigualdades/workingpapers/60_WP-Kern er-Online.pdf. Khatib, Lina. 2013. Image Politics in the Middle East: The Role of the Visual in Political Struggle. London: I. B. Tauris. King, David. 2015. Russian Revolutionary Posters: From Civil War to Socialist Realism, from Bolshevism to the End of Stalinism. London: Tate Modern. Kozel, Andrés, Florencia Grossi, and Delfina Moroni. 2015. El Imaginario Antiimperialista en América Latina. Buenos Aires: CLASCO. Kühn, Thomas, and Kay-Volker Koschel. 2011. Gruppendiskussionen. Ein Praxis-Handbuch. Wiesbaden: VS Verlag für Sozialwissenschaften. Laclau, Ernesto, and Chantal Mouffe. 1985. Hegemony & Socialist Strategy: Towards a Radical Democratic Politics. London: Verso. Leetoy, Salvador. 2009. “Esto sí Es Una Pipa: Sinergias Interpretativas Entre Fotografías Periodísticas De ‘La Jornada’ y Comunicados Neozapatistas.” Global Media Journal México 5(10): 4. Lenin, Vladimir Ilyich. [1917] 2010. Imperialism: The Highest Stage of Capitalism. London: Penguin Books. Longoni, Ana. 2014. Vanguardia y Revolución: Arte e Izquierdas en la Argentina de los Sesenta-Setentas. Buenos Aires: Ariel. Lutz, Catherine, and Jane Collins. 1993. Reading National Geographic. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Luxemburg, Rosa. [1925] 1999. The Mass Strike, the Political Party and the Trade Unions. Marxist Educational Society of Detroit. Retrieved 25 June 2018 from https://www .marxists.org/archive/luxemburg/download/mass-str.pdf. Maasri, Zeina. 2009. Off the Wall: Political Posters of the Lebanese Civil War. New York: I. B. Tauris. Mahmood, Mamdani. 1996. Citizen and Subject: Contemporary Africa and the Legacy of Late Colonialism. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.

References

|

323

Malmvig, Helle. 2016. “Eyes Wide Shut: Power and Creative Visual Counter-conducts in the Battle for Syria, 2011–2014.” Global Society 30(2): 258–78. Marcus, Greil. 2006. “The Long Walk of the Situationist International.” In Guy Debord and the Situationist International: Texts and Documents, edited by T. McDonough, 1–20. Berkeley: October Books. Marcus, Joyce. 1992. Mesoamerican Writing Systems. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Marquez, Gabriel García. 2016. “El Enigma de Los Dos Chávez.” In Venezuela—Un País en Pugna, edited by P. Stancanelli, 31–35. Buenos Aires: Le Monde Diplomatique. Matar, Dina. 2014. “A Critical Aesthetics and Politics in the Digital Age.” In Uncommon Grounds: New Media and Critical Practices in North Africa and the Middle East, edited by A. Downey, 163–168. London: IB Tauris. Mathieson, Eleanor, and Xavier A. Tápies. 2012. Street Artists: The Complete Guide. London: Graffito Book. Mbembe, Achille. 2001. On the Postcolony. Berkeley: University of California Press. Mendoza, Rubén G., and C. Torres Cruz. 1994. “Hispanic Traditional Technology and Material Culture in the United States.” In Handbook of Hispanic Cultures in the United States: Anthropology, 59–84. Houston, TX: Arte Público Press. Metz, Christian. 1975. “Le Signifiant Imaginaire.” Communications 23: 3–55. Mignolo, Walter. 2002. “The Geopolitics of Knowledge and the Colonial Difference.” South Atlantic Quarterly (101)1: 57–96. Mirzoeff, Nicholas. 1999. Introduction to Visual Culture. New York: Routledge. ———. 2005. Watching Babylon. The War in Iraq and Global Visual Culture. Abingdon: Taylor & Francis Ltd. ———. 2011. The Right to Look. A Counterhistory of Visuality. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. ———. 2015. How to See the World. London: Penguin Books. ———. 2016. “The Visual Commons: Counter-power in Photography from Slavery to Occupy Wall Street.” In Image Operations, edited by J. Eder and C. Klonk, 208–26. Manchester: Manchester University Press. ———. 2017. The Appearance of Black Lives Matter. Miami, FL: NAME Publications. Retrieved 25 June 2018 from https://namepublications.org/item/2017/ the-appearance-of-black-lives-matter/. Mitchell, W. J. T. 1994. Picture Theory: Essays on Verbal and Visual Representation. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. ———. 2012. “Occupy: Image, Space, Revolution; The Arts of Occupation.” Critical Inquiry 39(1): 8–32. Mondragón, Agnes, and Steven Schwartz. 2017. “Of Populists and Mutants: Creative, Continuing Relations between ‘the People’ and Chávez.” Anthropology News 58(3): 18–21. Monsiváis, Carlos. 1991. “No Me Mueve mi Dios Para Pintarte.” In El Corazón Sangrante/the Bleeding Heart, edited by O. Debroise, E. Sussman, and M. Teitelbaum; Boston: Institute of Contemporary Art. Montaldo, Graciela. 2005. “Mass and Multitude: Bastardised Iconographies of the Modern Order.” In Images of Power. Iconography, Culture and the State in Latin America. New York: Berghahn Books.

324

|

References

Moraña, Mabel, Enrique Dussel, and Carlos A. Jáuregui. 2008. “Colonialism and its Replicants.” In Coloniality at Large: Latin America and the Postcolonial Debate, edited by M. Moraña, E. Dussel, and C. A. Jáuregui, 1–20. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Mouffe, Chantal. [1979] 2013. “Hegemony and Ideology in Gramsci.” In Hegemony, Radical Democracy, and the Political, edited by J. Martin, 15–44. New York: Routledge. Mulvey, Laura. 1975. “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema.” In Film Theory and Criticism: Introductory Readings, edited by L. Braudy and M. Cohen, 833–44. New York: Oxford University Press. Naguib, Saphinaz-Amal. 2016. “Engaged Ephemeral Art: Street Art and the Egyptian Arab Spring.” Transcultural Studies (2): 53–88. Narayan, John. 2017. “The Wages of Whiteness in the Absence of Wages: Racial Capitalism, Reactionary Intercommunalism and the Rise of Trumpism.” Third World Quarterly 38(11): 2482–500. Neidhardt, Friedhelm, and Dieter Rucht. 2001. “Soziale Bewegungen und kollektive Aktionen.” In Lehrbuch der Soziologie, edited by H. Joas, 533–56. Frankfurt am Main: Campus. Nochlin, Linda. 1971. “Why Have There Been No Great Woman Artists?” In Woman in Sexist Society: Studies in Power and Powerlessness, edited by V. Gornick and B. K. Moran, 344–66. New York: Basic Books. Nonhoff, Martin. 2007. “Politische Diskursanalyse als Hegemonieanalyse.” In Diskurs— radikale Demokratie—Hegemonie. Zum politischen Denken von Ernesto Laclau und Chantal Mouffe, edited by M. Nonhoff, 173–93. Bielefeld: transcript. Nowak, David. 2015. “Photography and Classification of Information: Proposed Framework for Graffiti Art.” SAUC—Street Art & Urban Creativity Scientific Journal 1(1): 13–25. Núñes Rodríguez, Omar, and Fernando Sinhué Díaz. 2015. “Desacartonar el Antiimperialismo: Discurso e Imaginario Geopolítico en Hugo Chávez Frías.” In El Imaginario Antiimperialista en América Latina, edited by A. Kozel, F. Grossi, and D. Moroni, 375–98. Buenos Aires: CLASCO. Nye, Joseph. 2011. “The Future of Power.” Chronicle of Higher Education. Retrieved 25 June 2018 from http://www.chronicle.com/article/The-Future-of-Power/127753. Olesen, Thomas. 2005. International Zapatismo: The Construction of Solidarity in the Age of Globalization. New York: ZED Books. ———. 2008. “The Funny Side of Globalization: Humour and Humanity in Zapatista Framing.” International Review of Social History 52(15): 21–34. ———. 2013. “‘We Are All Khaled Said’: Visual Injustice Symbols in the Egyptian Revolution, 2010–2011.” In Advances in the Visual Analysis of Social Movements, edited by N. Doerr, A. Mattoni, and S. Teune, 3–26. Bingley: Emerald Insight. Özgün, Aras. 2015. “The Value of Art and the Political Economy of Cool.” In Cool Istanbul: Urban Enclosures and Resistances, edited by D. Özkan, 35–59. Bielefeld: transcript. Pater, Ruben. 2016. The Politics of Design: A (Not So) Global Manual for Visual Communication. Amsterdam: BIS Publishers.

References

|

325

Perry, William. 2007. “The Art of Resistance.” In Arabic Graffiti, edited by D. Karl and P. Zoghbi, 73–79. Berlin: From here to fame. Pita González, Alexandra, and Carlos Marichal Salinas. 2012. Pensar El Antiimperialismo: Ensayos de Historia Intelectual Latinoamericana, 1900–1930. Mexico City: Universidad de Colima. Quijano, Aníbal. 1974. “Imperialism and International Relations in Latin America.” In Latin America and the United States: The Changing Political Realities, edited by J. Cotler and R. R. Fagen, 67–91. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. ———. 2000. “Coloniality of Power, Eurocentrism, and Social Classification.” Nepantla: Views from South 1(3): 533–81. ———. 2014. “El Nuevo Terreno de la Lucha de Clases y los Problemas de la Revolución en América Latina.” In Cuestiones y Horizontes de la Dependencia Histórico-Estructural a la Colonialidad/Descolonialidad del Poder, edited by A. Quijano, 507–28. Buenos Aires: CLASCO. Quintero, Pablo. 2013. “Macht und Kolonialität der Macht in Lateinamerika.” In Macht und Kolonialität der Macht: De/koloniale Konflikte: zwischen Theorie und Praxis, edited by P. Quintero and S. Garbe, 53–70. Münster: Unrast Verlag. Ramonet, Ignacio. 2007. El Mundo en la Nueva Era Imperial. Conversaciones con Jorge Halperín. Buenos Aires: Capital Intelectual. Rancière, Jacques. 1998. Aux Bords de la Politique. Paris: Gallimard. ———. 2001. “Ten Theses of Politics.” Theory & Event 5(3). Retrieved 25 June 2018 from http://muse.jhu.edu/article/32639. ———. 2004. The Politics of Aesthetics: The Distribution of the Sensible. New York: Continuum. ———. 2011. The Emancipated Spectator. New York: Verso. Reed, T. V. 2005. The Art of Protest. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. ———. 2016. “Protest as Artistic Expression.” In Protest Culture: A Companion, edited by K. Fahlenbrach, M. Klimke, and J. Scharloth, 77–93. New York: Berghahn Books. Reinecke, Julia. 2007. Street-Art. Eine Subkultur zwischen Kunst und Kommerz. Bielefeld: transcript. Rice, Roberta. 2012. The Politics of Protest: Indigenous Mobilization in Latin America´s Neoliberal Era. Tucson: University of Arizona Press. Rolston, B. 2010. “‘Trying to Reach the Future through the Past’: Murals and Memory in Northern Ireland.” Crime, Media, Culture 6(3): 285–307. Rolston, Bill. 2017. “Women on the Walls: Representations of Women in Political Murals in Northern Ireland.” Crime, Media, Culture 14(3): 365–89. Rose, Gillian. 2016. Visual Methodologies: An Introduction to Researching with Visual Materials. 4th ed. London: Sage. Rucht, Dieter. 2015. “Zum Wandel von Protestkulturen.” In Empirische Kultursoziologie, edited by J. Rössel and J. Rosse, 256–92. Wiesbaden: VS Verlag für Sozialwissenschaften. Ryan, Holly Eva. 2015. “Affect’s Effects: Considering Art-Activism and the 2001 Crisis in Argentina.” Social Movement Studies 14(1): 42–57. ———. 2017. Political Street Art: Communication, Culture and Resistance in Latin America. New York: Routledge.

326

|

References

Said, Edward. 1993. Culture and Imperialism. New York: Vintage Books (Random House). Sandoval, Alejandra. 2002. “Para una Lectura de Graffitis en las Ciudades de América Latina.” Retrieved 26 June 2018 from http://www.sitiosur.cl/descargadocumentos .php?PID=69. Sanjuan, Ana María. 2016. “Rumbo al ‘Socialismo del Siglo XXI’: Claroscuros Bolivarianos.” In Venezuela: Un País en Pugna, edited by P. Stancanelli, 45–47. Buenos Aires: Le Monde Diplomatique. Schade, Sigried, and Silke Wenk. 2011. Studien zur Visuellen Kultur: Einführung in ein transdisziplinäres Forschungsfeld. Bielefeld: transcript. Schmidt, Werner. 2016. Peter Weiss: Leben eines kritischen Intellektuellen. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Schnettler, Bernt, and Jürgen Raab. 2008. “Interpretative Visual Analysis Developments: State of the Art and Pending Problems.” Forum Qualitative Social Research 9(3). https://doi.org/10.17169/fqs-9.3.1149. Scott, James. 1989. “Everyday Forms of Resistance.” Copenhagen Journal of Asian Studies 4: 33–62. ———. 1990. Domination and the Arts of Resistance: Hidden Transcripts. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Sienra Chaves, Sofía Elena. 2015. “Complicidades e Inconsistencias entre el Arte a la Política: Hacia una Estética de lo Invisible.” Materia Artística: Revista de la Escuela de Bellas Artes 1: 60–85. Silva Lodoño, Diana Alejandra. 2016. “Street Art at the Border: Representations of Violence and Death in Ciudad Juárez.” Frontera Norte 28(55): 33–52. Sitrin, Marina. 2011. “Fueling the Flames of Dignity: From Rupture to Revolution in Argentina.” In Social Movements in the Global South: Dispossession, Development and Resistance, edited by S. C. Motta and A. G. Nilsen, 250–74. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Siyumbwa, Natasha. 2017. “Zapatista: Imagery of the Peasant Revolutionary; Guide to Recurring Symbols.” Retrieved 25 June 2018 from http://www.thegundgallery .org/2017/03/zapatista-imagery-of-the-peasant-revolutionary/. Skokan, Isabel. 2011. “Partisan.” In Handbuch der politischen Ikonographie. Bd. 2, edited by M. Warnke, U. Fleckner, and H. Ziegler, 219–26. Munich: C. H. Beck. Soneira, Ignacio. 2016. “La Identidad Latinoamericana del Muralismo en Tiempos de Redes Sociales.” Revista Lindes: Estudios Sociales del Arte y la Cultura 12: 1–15. Stanisavljevic, Marija. 2016. “Widerständige Kommunikation: Protest im Spannungsfeld von Massenmedien und Ästhetik.” Österreichische Zeitschrift für Soziologie 41(2): 123–48. Steinkamp, Maike. 2011. “Sozialismus.” In Handbuch der politischen Ikonographie. Bd. 2, edited by M. Warnke, U. Fleckner, and H. Ziegler, 44–50. Munich: C. H. Beck. Steyerl, Hito. 2010. “Aesthetics of Resistance? Artistic Research as Discipline and Conflict.” maHKUzine—Journal f Artistic Research Winter 2010: 31–37. Sturken, Marita, and Lisa Cartwright. 2001. Practices of Looking: An Introduction to Visual Culture. First edition. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Suchar, Charles S. 1997. “Grounding Visual Sociology Research in Shooting Scripts.” Qualitative Sociology 20(1): 33–55.

References

|

327

Svampa, Maristella. 2010. “Hacia una Gramática de las Luchas en America Latina: Movilización Plebeya, Demandas de Autonomía s Giro Eco-Territorial.” Revista Internacional de Filosofía Política 35: 1–28. Swadener, Beth Blue, and Mutua Kagendo. 2008. “Decolonizing Performances: Deconstructing the Global Postcolonial.” In Handbook of Critical and Indigenous Methodologies, edited by N. K. Denzin, Y. S. Lincoln, and L. T. Smith, 31–43. London: Sage. Tarrow, Sidney. 1993. “Cycles of Collective Action: Between Moments of Madness and the Repertoire of Contention.” Social Science History 17(2): 281–307. Taylor, V., and Nella van Dyke. 2004. “‘Get Up, Stand Up’: Tactical Repertoires of Social Movements.” In The Blackwell Companion to Social Movements, edited by D. A. Snow, S. A. Soule, and H. Kriesi, 262–93. Hoboken, NJ: Blackwell Publishing Ltd. Thorp, Rosemary. 1985. “Introduction to Section V: The New Order.” In Latin America, Economical Imperialism and the State, edited by C. Abel and C. Lewis, 397–404. London: Bloomsbury. Tilly, Charles, and Sidney Tarrow. 2006. Contentious Politics. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Torres Arroyo, Ana María. 2013. Guerra Cultural en América Latina: Debates Teóricos y Políticos. Santiago de Chile: Cátedra de Artes—Pontificia Universidad Católica de Chile. Troconi, Giovanni. 2008. México: Stencil: Propa. Mexico City: Editorial RM. Tulke, Julia. 2014. “Aesthetics of Crisis: Political Street Art in Athens in the Context of the Crisis.” MA thesis, Humboldt Universität zu Berlin. ———. 2016. “Tales of Crisis from the Walls of Athens: An Exploration of Urban Austerity through the Cultural Practice of Street Art.” In Urban Austerity: Impacts of the Global Financial Crisis on Cities in Europe, edited by B. Schönig and S. Schipper, 257–70. Berlin: Theater der Zeit. Tuttolomondo, Luísa. 2017. “Between Formal and Informal Practices to Manage the City: The Role of Street Art in the Old Town of Palermo.” In Urban Intervention: Street Art and Public Space, 75–87. Lisbon: urbancreativity.org. Vara, Ana María. 2015. “Las Venas Abiertas.” In El Imaginario Antiimperialista en América Latina, edited by D. Kozel, Andrés Grossi, Florencia Moroni, 89–106. Buenos Aires: CLASCO. Vaughan, Connell. 2011. “Institutional Change, the Concept of the Avant-Garde and the Example of Graffiti.” Proceedings of the European Society for Aesthetics 3: 281–93. Vela, Enrique. 2012. “Diego Rivera y la Archeología Mexicana.” Arqueología Mexicana Special edition 47. Mexico City. Vinthagen, Stellan, and Anna Johansson. 2013. “‘Everyday Resistance’: Exploration of a Concept and Its Theories.” Resistance Studies Magazine (1): 1–46. Wainer, Luis. 2015. “Posneoliberalismo y Antimperialismo en la Primera Etapa del Proceso Chavista.” In El Imaginario Antiimperialista en América Latina, edited by D. Kozel, Andrés Grossi, Florencia Moroni, 343–59. Buenos Aires: CLASCO. Weiss, Peter. [1981] 2005. The Aesthetics of Resistance. Vol. 1: A Novel. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Werner, Elke Anna. 2011. “Feindbild.” In Handbuch der politischen Ikonographie. Bd. 1, edited by M. Warnke, U. Fleckner, and H. Ziegler, 301–5. Munich: C. H. Beck.

328

|

References

Williamson, Judith. 1978. Decoding Advertisements: Ideology and Meaning in Advertising. London: Marion Boyers. Woods, Oona. 2016. Murals of Derry. Derry: Guildhall Press. Worth, Owen. 2013. Resistance in the Age of Austerity. London: ZED Books. Young, Alison. 2014. Street Art, Public City: Law, Crime and the Urban Imagination. London: Routledge Chapman Hall. Young, Robert J. C. 2001. Postcolonialism: An Historical Introduction. Malden, MA: Blackwell.

Index

adbusting, 32, 50–1, 51n3 aesthetic turn, 17 aesthetics, 1, 2, 19, 22, 28, 32 The Aesthetics of Resistance, 6, 6n2 anarchy, 63, 72, 147, 193, 232, 230 animal comparison, 109–110, 202, 219, 236 Arab uprising, 74, 70. See also Egypt art activism, 4, 68 art history, 16, 19, 24, 45, 50, 57, 105, 150, 184, 219, 236, 243, 251 Athens (street art in), 62 Ayotzinapa, 128, 132, 136–7, 143, 225, 230 Aztecs, 126 iconography, 127, 129, 143–7, 218 Banksy, 1, 59, 60n18, 62, 67–8, 72, 74, 151, 191, 225, 227 Bastardilla, 137, 185, 205 Bolívar, Simón, 83, 86, 113, 149, 155–9, 164–7, 172–5, 187, 219, 227, 233, 234, 239 Bolivarianism, 86, 158–9, 164, 168, 170, 173–8, 186, 225, 227 Cairo (street art in), 56, 58, 59n15, 61, 68, 73. See also Egypt caricature, 109–110, 209, 219, 236 Chávez, Hugo, 91, 93, 105, 149, 155–178 Chicano, 61n19, 62, 69, 158 class, 5, 13, 24, 30n13, 61, 117, 184, 206, 222 struggle, 84, 93, 230 working class, 6n2, 70, 84, 91, 96, 115, 204 (see also countervisuality)

working class hero, 174 (see also “the hero”: proletarian) coding, 41–43, 230, 243 encoding/decoding, 31, 46, 227. See also Hall, Stuart Comando Creativo, 159, 164–170, 175, 177, 222, 224 composition, 19, 21, 34–35, 44, 55, 103, 106, 117, 175, 204, 218, 246–248 confrontation scenario of, 89, 103, 106, 109, 231 Condori, Sergio, 99–100, 104, 109, 114, 116 content analysis, 16, 34, 36–37, 40–43, 79, 88n2, 228, 233, 343 contentious politics, 12. See also social movement studies cooperation scenario of, 42, 126, 142, 144, 155, 183, 231, 238 countervisuality, 4, 8, 16, 22–24, 63 figures of, 8, 22–3, 105–6, 238 Indigenous, 22, 238 proletarian countervisuality, 23, 106, 204, 204n71 cultural studies, 9n5, 15, 19, 31, 50 depoliticization, 2, 8, 8, 71, 76, 195, 243 Dexpierte Colectivo, 189, 193, 195, 222, 224, 227 dictator, 66, 193. See also dictatorship dictatorship, 183, 230 in Argentina, 88, 90, 93, 111 in Brazil, 69 in Chile, 26 in Portugal, 66 Du Bois, W.E.B., 22n3, 84n6

330 | Index

Egypt (street art in), 24, 50, 53n8, 56, 58–60, 64–5, 69–74. See also Cairo ELN, 183, 194 eurocentrism, 175, 205 everyday resistance. See under resistance EZLN, 61n19, 83, 86, 132, 136, 139, 141–151, 186, 219, 220, 222, 224, 233, 236, 249–50 Fairey, Shepard, 2, 158 FARC-EP, 83, 164, 183, 194 far-right, 193, 183, 221, 131. See also right-wing; fascists fascists, 22n3, 68, 70, 99, 143, 156, 161, 167, 178, 193–4, 193n35, 221, 227. See also far-right; right-wing female resistance, 91, 129, 144, 184, 233 stereotypes, 177, 30n13 (see also stereotypes) See also feminism feminism, 1, 129, 143, 184n4, 233, 238 feminist theory, 19, 23, 29n11, 30, 30n13 Fernández de Kirchner, Cristina, 101, 102, 219, 222, 227. See also Kirchnerism field diary, 45 focus group discussion, 16, 34–35, 38, 45–6, 46n25, 108, 116, 204 Foucault, Michel, 5, 10–11, 13, 40, 241, 171 gaze (concept of the), 9n4, 11, 29–30, 29n11–12 Gezi Park, 28n7, 33. See also Istanbul Gramsci, Antonio, 10, 13–14 on hegemony, 22n3, 31, 40, 115 (see also hegemony) Guevara, Ernesto “Che,” 1, 87, 91, 94–5, 102, 142, 145, 147–9, 158, 172–3, 183, 184–8, 194, 219, 222, 233, 239 Hall, Stuart, 9n5, 20, 23, 31 encoding-decoding, 32, 227 (see also coding)

hegemony, 10, 13–14 concept of, 166, 142 cultural hegemony, 10, 13–14, 31 discursive, 38, 40, 79, 194, 222 US, 86, 111, 233 (see also Operation Condor) See also Gramsci, Antonio “the hero” African, 23n5 (see also Louverture, Toussaint) feminine, 23n5 (see also Truth, Sojourner) national, 174, 239 popular, 8, 23, 174, 238, 239 proletarian, 114 (see also class) vernacular, 23, 24, 114, 174, 175, 239 See also countervisuality iconological interpretation. See Panofsky, Erwin identities, 5, 28, 56, 61, 115, 117, 128 collective, 28, 52, 57, 75, 174 Indigenous, 84, 177 Latin American, 82, 86, 175, 219 ideology (concept of ), 9–10, 13–14, 23–24, 30–32. See also Gramsci, Anontio Istanbul, 28n7, 33, 62, 70. See also Gezi Park Jesus, 164, 173, 191, 204, 233. See also religion Kahlo, Frida, 126, 129, 233–4 Kirchner, Néstor, 85, 88, 90–96, 101, 176, 219, 222, 224, 227. See also Kirchnerism Kirchnerism, 90–91, 105, 109–10, 117, 218. See also Fernández de Kircher, Cristina; Kirchner, Néstor La Candelaria (Bogotá), 160, 170, 185–7, 191, 193, 195–6, 200, 203, 208, 222

Index

Lesivo, 139, 192, 197–211, 220, 222, 224 Louverture, Toussaint, 23n4, 155. See also “the hero” Macri, Maurico, 90, 94–96, 102, 109–113, 116–7, 219, 223 Madres de Plaza de Mayo, 88, 91–93, 96, 99, 105–106, 110, 112, 186, 218, 224, 235 Maduro, Nicholas, 155–6, 163, 233 male (dominance), 6, 29, 30, 30n13, 53, 164, 177, 183 Malvinas, 82, 90, 99 Mapuche, 84, 107–8, 224 Marx, Karl, 164, 221, 233. See also Marxism Marxism, 10, 10n6, 13, 40, 68, 70, 81, 83–85, 91, 117, 184, 193n35, 201 MAXQDA, 39–41, 90n3. See also coding Maya, 84, 129 iconography, 145, 146n57 military dictatorship. See dictatorship Mirzoeff, Nicholas, 4–5, 8, 16, 19, 22, 25, 114, 146, 155, 168, 174–5, 204, 237–9 Mouffe, Chantal, 14, 56 MUD, 159, 163, 166, 224 muralism, 53, 60, 99, 100, 150, 147n59, 149–51, 184, 201, 219, 227 concept of, 54, 68 Latin American, 7, 24, 54, 93, 107, 114–7, 158 Mexican, 24, 94, 116, 128–9, 146, 158, 233, 241 negotiation of meaning, 5, 31–32, 70, 167, 236–7. See also Hall, Stuart neoliberalism, 60, 83, 86, 110, 113, 164, 236 neoliberal adjustments, 84, 108, 173, 223 neoliberal depoliticization, 71, 76 neoliberal governments, 80n3, 110, 116

|

331

neoliberal urban development, 63, 96, 160 protests against, 116n148, 145, 148, 173–5, 250 New York (graffiti in), 53, 55n11, 63, 67, 69, 158 Nicaragua, 24, 62, 63, 117n152, 164n14, 206 Northern Ireland (street art and muralism in), 50, 56, 57n13, 59, 61, 65, 67, 73, 143 Oaxaca, 137, 139, 140, 227 Obama, Barack, 2, 95, 110–111, 158, 219, 223 Open Veins of Latin America, 83, 113, 176 Operation Condor, 82, 109, 110 oppositional looking/audiencing, 31–32, 227, 237 oppositional decoding, 31. See also Hall, Stuart oppositional gaze, 29 Orfino, Valeria, 92–3, 99–100, 116 Palestine, 61, 68, 72, 74, 87, 143, 151, 158 Panofsky, Erwin, 34, 34n15 panopticism, 11 Perón, Eva “Evita,” 88, 90, 239. See also Peronism Perón, Juan Domingo, 108. See also Peronism Peronism, 90, 91, 100, 108, 116–7, 218, 240 photo documentation, 17, 34–37, 38–40, 99, 155, 245 photographs as method of documentation, 10, 38–39, 45, 60, 74, 112, 228 police, 1, 59, 67, 88, 97, 132, 135, 139, 142–3, 163, 168, 183, 190, 195, 210, 219, 221 control, 25, 27, 40 killings, 57, 73, 189, 195, 225, 227 pig, 206, 219 Unidad Graffiti, 133–40, 223

332 | Index

political science, 3–5, 8, 17, 36, 135 popular culture, 1, 3, 9n5, 14, 21–22, 38–39, 57, 67, 86, 147, 149, 167, 186, 171, 219 populism, 12, 70, 82, 100, 110, 116–7, 219, 239 positionality of the researcher, 46 poststructuralism, 8, 9n4, 36. See also Foucault, Michel protest concept of, 11–12 “pleasures of,” 27, 28n9 PSUV, 147, 160, 163, 166–7, 171–2, 174, 177–8, 224–5. See also Chávez, Hugo; Maduro, Nicholas Quinto, Lucas, 89, 100, 104, 109, 114, 117 racism, 57, 61, 69, 131, 205 racialized identities/differences, 5, 23, 29, 30n13, 69, 86, 84n6 Red Sudakas, 101, 104, 109, 113–7, 220, 224, 231 religion, 55, 61, 64, 139, 174, 191, 204–5, 233 resistance chic, 6 concept of, 11–12 everyday, 12–13, 17, 24, 29 “joy of,” 28n9 right-wing, 103, 190, 193, 237 Rivera, Diego, 128, 147. See also muralism Rose, Gillian, 5, 16, 19–20, 30, 36, 38–39, 41 Sala, Milagro, 99, 102, 109, 224, 227 Sandinismo, 62, 63, 117n152, 164n14, 206. See also Nicaragua Santos, Juan Manuel, 186, 190, 203, 205 scopic regime, 23, 63, 168 semiotics, 9, 9n4, 10, 23, 36, 42n21, 55n11, 171

sexism, 5, 29, 30, 30n13, 57, 139, 184, 221. See also feminism Shell, 100, 112, 112n122, 238, 249 shooting script, 39, 39n18, 245. See also photographs Situationist International, 27, 32, 50n1, 158 social change, 2, 12, 28, 71, 71n23, 146–7, 237, 241 social differences, 4, 39, 40, 30n13. See also racism social media, 1, 3, 60, 71, 74, 112, 140, 177 Facebook, 60, 135 Flickr, 37, 144, 199, 200, 210–11 Twitter, 134 YouTube, 3, 20, 169, 192, 211 social movement studies, 11–12, 15, 21n2, 69, 71n23 socialist realism, 114, 116, 116n144, 184, 201, 236, 249 “the South,” 8, 22, 22n3, 87, 139, 170, 175–6, 205, 238 stereotypes, 23, 28, 57, 67, 149, 177, 231, 250 of Indigenous people, 88n2, 166, 177, 228 See also feminism; racism street survey, 16, 34, 45–46, 46n27, 106, 108, 113n126, 194, 210 Subcomandante Marcos, 136, 143, 143n46, 148, 150–1, 221. See also EZLN Syria, 26, 27 Tahrir Square, 24, 61. See also Cairo; Egypt Truth, Sojourner, 23n5. See also “the hero” urban art, 52n5, 54, 100, 134, 135, 158, 164, 176, 192 visual culture, 2–5, 8–10, 12–17, 19–20, 30, 33–35, 50, 52, 61, 145, 242

Index

visual discourse analysis, 3, 17, 34–37, 40–45, 82, 88 visual literacy, 2, 17, 4n4, 235, 242–3 vulture, 230, 246, 249, 95, 105, 108–12, 198–204 funds, 86, 109, 202, 230, 219 War on Drugs, 82, 206, 128 War on Terror, 128

|

333

Weiss, Peter, 6, 6n2 West Bank Barrier. See Palestine Wiphala, 102, 108, 176, 218 Zapata, Emiliano, 83, 139, 142, 145, 148–50, 158, 219, 233, 234. See also EZLN Zapatistas, 16, 83, 85, 141–51, 158. See also EZLN