I was invited to speak at the 2007 Diwan, the arts forum at the National Arab American Museum in Dearborn, Michigan; which included a variety of artists and cultural workers. I started my talk with a remembrance of the ransacking of the Iraq National Museum in Baghdad and the burning of many libraries four springs ago; after which I presented my artist’s book Cultures of War: An Essay. The book is meant as a reflection on the cultural background that made such a devastating war possible. It is made out of copies of texts combined with collage and drawings; all texts are by American poets, thinkers, political
leaders, and translators.
The premise of the book is that propaganda is only effective when it evokes the values of a given culture. For instance, the business of “liberating” the Iraqi people implies, resonates, and confirms an indiscriminate sense of superiority prevalent among Americans. The fact that Americans do not really know these people — are almost completely ignorant of their language, their history, indeed their values — is a trivial matter to many. It is worth noting that Americans who oppose the war are not necessarily less imbued with this unthinking sense of superiority.
In the talk I noted some disappointing experiences I’d had with some artists and dissident groups, and I also described a troubling and traumatic experience at one prestigious American art institution that, in retrospect, motivated me to do the book. I’ll say more about this later.
The reception of my talk overall was warm and supportive. One Iraqi artist, who now lives and works in Chicago, asked me a question about our peculiar situation as Arab artists in this country: how can we address some of the pressures, expectations, and images of ourselves that are imposed on us? I responded with confidence that we have to ignore them. I remember that there was something of a cheer in the audience, but he would not let go. I attempted to elaborate and said that in my case, for instance, much of what is expected from me is that I talk about the oppression of women in Arab Muslim culture, the requirement to wear the veil, and so on. In my judgment such expectations do not come from an informed position, since I have never had to wear the veil, nor did I ever see my mother wear it, and that American society is no less a patriarchy than the one I grew up in, in Tunisia.
But this response did not seem to be any more satisfying to him than “ignore them.” The discussion moved on, but I tried one more time to answer the question by suggesting that one has to concentrate on one’s own concerns, not succumb to such pressures from the outside.
A day later I was still thinking about his question and his insistence that I address it, and realized that his question was very much to the point. Part of the reason that my summer residency at the prestigious art school I mentioned earlier was so traumatic is that I could not accommodate, or even address, what was expected from me. I felt that there was no room for me in the postmodern and diverse vision proclaimed by the institution’s leaders — and most of my fellow residents. For many, the abstraction that characterizes my work had no content, and
woodcuts, my chosen medium, was just not “in.”
Moreover I did not fit the profile of the emerging artist who wanted to “make it” and do something hip; not to mention that my images did not elicit pity, guilt, or exoticism, as seemed to be expected of me as an “ethnic” artist. I would not have had trouble “ignoring them” in a normal situation, outside the hemmed-in world of an artists’ colony, but the setting was such that I was surrounded by so many luminaries who spoke with the authority of their rank in the power hierarchy of the art world, and the younger artists there aspired to be just like that. I was living with them for weeks with no reprieve. I felt entirely alienated, and indeed it defeated me. As much as this residency is considered a rite of passage in the art world, it felt too much like a death sentence to me.
So my response to the Iraqi artist – “ignore them” – meant that I had forgotten — or at least gotten over — these luminaries and their death sentence. That was refreshing to discover, since it took a while for me to recover my sense of myself.
Yet a larger point needs to be made. If we “native artists” have to confine our subject matter to responding to these expectations, even to rage about them, all we are doing is confirming these prejudices and reinforcing the powers that be. What are we to them, beyond what they impose on us, economically, politically, and culturally? Is it not the fact that our culture is invisible to them that makes it so disposable in their eyes?
I am reminded of James Baldwin who wrote about Malcom X: “…He would have sounded familiar and even comforting, his familiar rage confirming the reality of white power and sensuously inflaming a bizarre species of guilty eroticism without which, I am beginning to believe, most white Americans of the more or less liberal persuasion cannot draw a single breath. What made him unfamiliar and dangerous was not his hatred for white people but his love for blacks.”
The book I made stems from a sincere attempt to come to grips with the culture that surrounds me, using the insights of its own citizens. I have no interest in eliciting pity, guilt, or exoticism; I would like to provoke thought, and wonder. That perhaps is further removed from what is expected of me than my more abstract work, but I do believe that one has to yell a little louder every time one is not heard.
