Life and Fate

One truth remains constant in this vertiginous epoch - one which certain journalists and artists still approach, even if with a grim, reticent horror: There is such a thing as raw power.

By leaning heavily upon both story and data to develop convincing narratives, politicians have acted utterly predictably and recognisably for many familiar with working in the public realm: they juggle fictions with facts. Yet the difference between politicians and others, for example artists and journalists, is in their relationship to power.

It has always been the task of artists to craft and form metaphors through images, sound, objects, and narratives with the aim of ‘shedding light’ on our existence as human beings. It has never been the aim of an artist to stipulate the location of borders between countries, settle curricula design for primary schools or to determine the use of technology in a public health system. Rather, the power of the artistic metaphor is to generate emotional or cognitive impact, sometimes acting as ‘a novel as weapon in hand’, other times acting with the precision of a seditious heart. An effective metaphor does not forgive us our forgetfulness or the domineering insolence of the powerful. And sometimes such artistic work has a shattering impact on political or public discourse.

Journalists use metaphors somewhat differently to artists, almost, but not always, at a secondary level. The journalist’s principal aim is to describe the world and events, write the first draft of history, bring facts to light though investigation, and scrutinise the actions and decisions of the powerful. But like artists, journalists have never held legislative or state power as journalists. When they have held such power, and some have, they instantly cease being journalists and become politicians. While journalists have power to influence, entertain, humiliate even, the real and only power able to enact political change, to impose its will, remains elsewhere - in the hands of politicians ‘holding office’. This is done either by elected politicians using democratic tools or by those taking hold of power by brute force. And of course, there are those who get elected democratically but go on to show their authoritarian credentials.

Perhaps one truth remains constant in this intensely vertiginous epoch, a truth which certain journalists and artists still approach, even if with a grim, reticent horror: There is such a thing as raw political power presented as violence or through the implicit celebration of violence. It is loose in this world, smashing into lives and leaving the vulnerable both stunned and grief-ridden. We see brute power performed on our screens as a continuous live feed: the violence of the Israeli destruction of Gaza; the performative violence of Trump inviting Irish fighter Conor McGregor into the Whitehouse while only recently found civilly liable for raping a Dublin woman.¹ It is clear that politics has become saturated with the aesthetics of violence.

Upcoming publications will focus less on politicians and more on artists who combine their aesthetics with forms of journalism. They file reports, gather or assemble facts, act as witnesses. But then they go further, into the aesthetics of solidarity. I hope you decide to accompany me.

I start today by focusing on the Soviet Ukrainian Vasily Grossman (1905 to 1964), who was both artist and journalist, whose moral voice grew throughout his life even as his world was strangulated and restricted in later years. He took the material of his vivid experience, his epoch and treated it to penetrating, searing honesty and eloquence. Much of his material explores state perpetrated violence and savagery, both Nazi and Soviet. A considerable amount of his writing was only brought to public attention in the 1990’s as a result of the fall of communism. Even now, his achievements are not fully recognised in Russia or eastern ex-communist Europe in the way Tolstoy’s and Bulgakov’s have been.²