Aeffect: The Affect and Effect of Artistic Activism

Praise for Æffect

"In a historical moment plagued by political, economic, and social polarization, Stephen Duncombe provides a useful and engaging manual for understanding and enacting the power of culture to make change. From an analysis of theories of change and their histories, to highly practical questions, examples, and worksheets, Æffect delivers a set of important guidelines to consider the impact of artistic activism. Duncombe argues for the need to reach beyond the world of symbols into that of action, while utilizing the pull of emotion to motivate change, detailing an activism that shifts the ways we imagine the world by melding the mystery of art with the clarity of impact, all in an accessible book for anyone seeking social transformation." —Laura Raicovich, author of Culture Strike: Art and Museums in an Age of Protest

"I’ve lost count of the number of times people working in foundations and nonprofits have asked me and other champions of artistic activism and culture change work, ‘but how can we know if it’s working?’ As Stephen Duncombe shows, the answer to this question is by no means a mystery, but it does require a willingness to answer it. The beauty of Duncombe’s approach is that it can be tailored to fit the needs and resources of even the most time- and cash-strapped organizations and activists. Æffect: The Affect and Effect of Artistic Activism is one of the most useful attempts to answer the question of impact that I have yet come across, and the next time someone asks about how to measure progress in creative activism, I plan to just hand them a copy of this book." —Brett Davidson, Founder and Principal, Wingseed, and former Director of Media and Narratives at the Open Society Public Health Program

The word ‘assessment’ makes my skin crawl, but we need to know if what we are doing works and there’s no one I trust more to help us figure this out than Stephen Duncombe. —Andy Bichlbaum, The Yes Men

Artists invested in social change often shirk or retreat from the notion of evaluation. Assessment feels daunting, if not entirely out of our skill set. But what happens when we more carefully look at artistic affect when it contributes to a tangible shift and transformation of power in whatever form, duration, or container? Stephen Duncombe’s groundbreaking catalog and study offers us not only critical examples of practices in the realm of artistic activism but also illuminate how, when recalibrated toward metrics of social aesthetics, we may better ascertain what is, was, or might be gained in our intentions. —Shaun Leonardo, artist

"Grounded in artist-activists’ own intentions and observations, Duncombe leads an open-spirited and engaging inquiry into the relationship between affect and effect in looking at the hybrid practice of artistic activism. Practitioners will find it especially compelling in its wide range of practitioner voices and projects as they reflect upon the aeffect of their intertwined aesthetic choices and social intents." —Pam Korza, former co-director, Animating Democracy, Americans for the Arts

æffect

THE AFFECT AND EFFECT OF ARTISTIC ACTIVISM

STEPHEN DUNCOMBE

FORDHAM UNIVERSITY PRESS

New York 2024

Copyright © 2024 Fordham University Press

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CONTENTS

Introduction: What Is Æffect?

1. How Artistic Activism Works

2. What Artistic Activism Does

3. Does Artistic Activism Work?

4. Assessing Æffect

Conclusion: Formulas and Rainbows

Acknowledgments

Appendix A: Æffect Assessment Script

Appendix B: Æffect Measurement Tools

Appendix Æ: Affect and Effect

Notes

Index

If we can somehow observe the process that happens between a work of art and an idea reaching a community and then that community taking a defiant form of action, that’s the black box. That’s where the great mystery is happening in these beautiful, unbelievable processes of moving from meaning to building relationships, to building power, to taking action. That’s where I would love to be able to peer in more clearly.

— GAN GOLAN, ARTISTIC ACTIVIST

INTRODUCTION

What Is Æffect?

SEVERAL YEARS AGO, I HAD the good fortune to ask the world-renowned artist activist Hans Haacke a question:

How can you know when what you’ve done works?

It was a seemingly simple and straightforward question and one that Haacke, with more than half a century of experience in the field, is eminently qualified to answer. He pondered my question for a moment, and then replied,

I’ve been asked that question many times, and that question requires one to go around it before one really avoids it.

Haacke’s response was meant to be funny—and it is funny—but beneath his wry humor lies a serious problem: the evasion of, and aversion to, questions concerning the social impact of art and activism and how to assess it.¹ If this reaction was limited to Haacke, it might be excusable as the eccentricity of a singularly brilliant artist, but it’s not. It is endemic to the hybrid practice of mixing arts and activism—that is: artistic activism.

I should know. For more than thirty years, I have been a practicing artistic activist, for twenty years I’ve taught and written about it, and for the past ten, I’ve traveled the world training artists to strategize more like activists, and activists to create more like artists. I’ve done this because I have a deep and abiding faith that art can activate people and that there is an art to good activism. I have faith that mixing arts and activism can elevate both and have a powerful impact. And yet it is just that: a faith. For decades, and lately with increasing regularity, a heretical thought haunts my faith. Yes, artistic activism is fun, creative, cutting-edge, and increasingly popular, but a little voice within insists on asking a simple question: Does it work?

Like Haacke, I usually go around this question before avoiding it all together. But when I do give it a little thought, it becomes clear that this simple question is not simple at all. To answer does it work?, one also needs to ask, how does artistic activism work? How do we know whether it works? And, what does working even mean when dealing with both the affect and effect of a hybrid practice of arts and activism? After more than thirty years of avoidance and circumvention, this book is my effort to honestly and unflinchingly address these questions that lie, or should lie, at the heart of the field of artistic activism. In addressing these questions, I also hope to develop methods and tools that can help artistic activists create projects that work better.

What is Artistic Activism?

Before moving ahead on these questions, we need to back up and address a couple of others: What exactly is artistic activism? Why does it matter whether it works or not? Artistic activism is a term first popularized in scholarship by Chantal Mouffe and in the field by the Center for Artistic Activism, but the practice has existed for decades and goes by many names: political art, agit-prop, creative activism, activist art, critical art, artivism, socially engaged arts, social practice arts, aesthetic protest, aesthetic activism, arte útil, and so on, with a new term being invented every couple years.² For this book, however, I am going to refer to these diverse sets of practices as artistic activism and their practitioners as artistic activists.³

Probably the best way to describe the practice and practitioners is not through more terms, but through examples.⁴ What follows is certainly not comprehensive, nor is it meant to signify best practices. It is merely a handful of examples that I find inspiring (and many of whose creators you will hear from in later chapters) that give a flavor of the field.

Undocubus

In 2012 a group of undocumented immigrant activists living in the United States bought an old bus, painted No Fear across its side, and decorated it with images of brightly colored butterflies. They then took the Undocubus on a road trip across the country to protest local anti-immigration laws that had created a climate of fear amongst undocumented immigrants and stoked xenophobia in the native-born.

Riding the Undocubus with No Papers, No Fear, photo: Jobs with Justice.

In addition to adopting and adapting the symbols of previous social movements—their bus was of the same vintage as those used by civil rights freedom riders half a century before—they made a symbol of their own: the monarch butterfly, a beautiful creature who annually migrates across North America, from the United States to Mexico and back again. With the help of artistic activist Favianna Rodriguez, this symbol was polished up and reproduced on posters and T-shirts, recreated through do-it-yourself butterfly-making workshops, and joined by the slogan Migration is Beautiful. The Undocubus activists forged an association of human immigration with a natural and majestic migration, reframing the image of a population unjustly feared and routinely degraded. Who, after all, can be fearful of a butterfly?

Keyti raps the news on Journal Rappe, courtesy of the artist.

Journal Rappé

Inspired by the Y’en a Marre, or We’re Fed Up rap-infused youth movement that started in Senegal in 2011, rappers Cheikh Keyti Sène and Makhtar Xuman Fall wanted to create a news program to provide information from around their country and across the world that young people needed in order to be effective and aware political citizens.

But the language of politics in Senegal, like in many places, is associated with corruption and the abuse of power and ignored or rejected by many, particularly by youth, who make up 60 percent of the population. So Keyti and Xuman decided that they needed to use a different approach than a conventional news broadcast. Drawing on their talent as rappers, they created Journal Rappé, a regular video show where the two artists create a long-form investigative report in the form of a hip-hop mixtape, rapping the current news in French and Wolof (Senegal’s dominant local language). The show was so successful that it has been replicated in countries across Africa, and as far away as Jamaica and Vietnam. Through rap, Journal Rappé provides political information for young people in a language and through a culture they feel is their own.

I Wish This Was

In 2005 Hurricane Katrina devastated the city of New Orleans, leaving in its wake thousands of damaged residences and stores and the massive job of rebuilding the city. It soon became clear that plans for the redevelopment of New Orleans favored tourist hotels and convention centers while the needs and desires of residents were ignored. In response, Candy Chang made a small and simple intervention.

In the style of greeting tags, she printed thousands of red and white fill-in-the-blank stickers that read: I wish this was_____. She then posted these stickers on vacant buildings and left them in boxes at local businesses all over the city. And like a participatory poem of the community’s dreams, people filled them out and posted them up: "I wish this was: A Community Garden. I wish this was: A Grocery! Locally Owned! I wish this was: Fixed. I wish this was: Heaven." By asking people to write their own responses, Chang prompts everyday citizens to imagine what they would like for their community and raises the critical question of whose interests are catered to when urban areas are redeveloped.

I Wish This Was by Candy Chang, photo: Candy Chang.

Shaun Leonardo resolving conflict through Primitive Games, video still: Giacomo Francia. Courtesy of the artist and Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum.

Primitive Games

Dressed all in white, four teams of competitors representing four different, and opposing, stakeholders in the debates around gun possession and control assembled in the airy circular lobby of the Guggenheim Museum in New York City in the autumn of 2018. They were here to wage warfare through an ancient Roman battle game, and for weeks had been training in separate camps, working with the artistic activist Shaun Leonardo, learning moves and translating their experiences into bodily motions.

The culminating public performance was the first time these separate groups of combatants had come into contact with one another. Instead of expressing their views and differences in words, they performed them, and in turn had these gestures mirrored or blocked by their opponent. As this fight/dance was performed, an audience of family, friends, art lovers, the media, and curious tourists, watched intently. No words were spoken, yet stories were told and positions articulated, and communication happened. And through this silent mock battle, the divisive ideological identities that divide us were, ideally, undermined, moving us toward more connection and less combat.

War on Smog

Chinese cities are notorious for their pollution. Chinese authorities, wary of a repeat of the Tiananmen Square protests, are equally notorious for being hostile toward street demonstrations. Cleverly responding to this challenging political terrain, artistic activists in the city of Chongqing in southwest China staged a public performance piece in 2014 called War on Smog. (The name of the action was inspired by the words of Chinese Premier Li Keqiang, who publicly called for a War on Smog—then did little). The war was waged by a couple in a bridal dress and formal suit being wed in gas masks, a parade of tutu-clad girls, likewise in gas masks, and other artistic performers who brought attention to air quality in the city.

A protest that doesn’t look like protest: War on Smog, photo: Imaginechina Limited/Alamy Stock Photo.

Mixing a street protest with an art piece was a stroke of brilliance. Since it didn’t look like a political protest to the authorities, no activists were arrested. But the style and creativity of the War on Smog provided arresting images for both local and world media. By riding the line between politics, which is repressed, and art, which is tolerated and even celebrated in China, these artistic activists found the space to safely protest within an authoritarian regime.

Seriously funny Traffic Mimes, photo: Gerardo Chaves/El Tiempo.

Traffic Mimes

Antanas Mockus faced many serious challenges when he became mayor of Bogotá, Colombia, in 1995. The city, one of the most violent in the Western Hemisphere, also had a seemingly intractable problem with traffic congestion. Cars and people alike ignored signs and laws, and the result was chaos: gridlock and fatal accidents. Rather than imposing heavier fines, which he knew would be resented, or displaying more traffic signs, which he knew would be ignored, Mockus did something artistic: he hired 420 mimes (yes, mimes) to direct traffic.

These traffic mimes roamed the streets of the capital in brightly colored clothes and painted faces, mocking and shaming pedestrians and drivers using the centuries-old art of pantomime. The shock value of the mimes’ presence, along with their appeal to citizens’ sense of humor (and their fear of ridicule), was impressively effective. Because of the mimes and other creative tactics used by the municipal authorities, traffic fatalities dropped in Bogotá by over 50 percent.

Intention

These practices of artistic activism cover a wide range. Primitive Games and I Wish This Was have their roots in the art world; the creators of Journal Rappé are pop-culture musicians. Undocubus and the War on Smog are the productions of groups of activists, and the Traffic Mimes are a project of a municipal government. All these interventions, however, have a couple of things in common.

The first is that all the interventions are intentionally change-oriented. People create art for all sorts of reasons, but when a person engages in artistic activism, no matter what name they call it, they are making a claim, whether explicit or implicit, that the intention of their work is to help bring about some sort of social change. This change can be material: lowering traffic deaths, as in the case of the traffic mimes. It can be perceptual: changing attitudes about migration through butterflies and a bus tour. Or even communicative: developing visceral connections between ideological combatants through an ancient game. What change looks like differs according to specific objectives and overall context, but an intention of change is a constant in artistic activism.

Intending change through one’s artistic activism, however, does not necessarily mean that change happens. Many projects—maybe most projects—don’t result in the impact the artistic activist intends. Either little or no social change occurs, or it happens in surprising and unintended ways. Conversely, there are instances in which an artist has no desire to bring about social change through their work yet it happens anyway.⁵ And then there are those artists who use social change, or the need for it, as subject matter for their art with little real intention of creating actual social change, the result being art about politics, but not art that necessarily works politically.⁶ Defining artistic activism by its subject matter or even its results is not productive. Change is something often outside the control of the artistic activist; the intention of change, however, is not. As a defining feature of artistic activism, intent allows us to distinguish artistic activism from other forms of artistic expression; it also provides, as we’ll see later, an Archimedean point from which to leverage a useful method of assessment.

The second thing these interventions all have in common is that they combine the aesthetic, expressive, and affective concerns of the arts with the more instrumental, and effect-oriented, goals of activism. The aesthetic, expressive, and affective distinguish artistic activism from other forms of activism; instrumental and effect-oriented goals distinguish artistic activism from other forms of art. The examples above occupy different places on the spectrum between art and activism, with Leonardo’s aestheticized approach (as well as the museum setting) pushing his project closer to the art side, and Rodriguez’s work with immigration activists as part of a larger campaign moving closer to the activism end. There is a lot of space, however, between these poles, and a lot of slippage even within one project or the work of one artistic activist. Take, for example, the work of the North Macedonian artistic activist group the Contemporary Arts Center (Центар за современа уметност), or CAC for short. The innocuous name of the group (necessary cover when they formed under a repressive political regime) belies their deep commitment to social change, and their approaches to artistic activism range across the art–activism axis.

Throwing a birthday party for a pothole with the Contemporary Arts Center, courtesy of CAC and Nikola Pisarev.

What the CAC call creative activism are interventions meant to have a focused, demonstrable, and often immediate impact. What sort of an impact? Potholes! That’s how the co-founder of the group, Nikola Pisarev, responded when asked that question, and then went on to tell me the story about the genesis of his group. A decade or so previously, as part of a group of idealistic artists from the capital city of Skopje, Pisarev traveled to the countryside with the noble objective of bringing art to the people. But when they got to these towns, the people didn’t want to talk about art. They wanted to talk about potholes. Big, gaping, potholes in the main streets of town that were deep enough to break a car’s axle and create a small lake when it rained. Potholes that hadn’t been fixed by municipal authorities for years and were symbols of the ineptitude and corruption of the current governing regime. Meetings had been held, politicians confronted, and petitions delivered, but still the potholes remained. So instead of bringing art to the people, they decided to bring their artistry to the people’s problems.

Sharks in Skopje, courtesy of CAC and Nikola Pisarev.

Upon hearing that it was coming up on two years that one particularly large hole had not been fixed, the CAC decided to throw the pothole a birthday party.⁷ Pisarev describes the preparation: We buy one cake, it costs ten dollars. At the supermarket we buy flags, candles, and everything and we call the media. But we don’t call it a protest, we call it a celebration of the birthday of the hole in the road. And people, many of whom would have been too apprehensive or apathetic to show up at a protest, came to the party. The news media, promised a new and entertaining angle on an old and dull concern, also came. The trick, as Pisarev puts it, worked.

We were the main topic on the news. For two days, it was the only important news in Macedonia. And all of the media started asking the ministry what would happen.… Will you fix the road? and they have to do something. And in three days … they found the money, and they started fixing the problem immediately.

The pothole birthday party lies on the activist side of the art–activism spectrum. While it mobilized feelings of surprise and humor, the intervention was designed to deliver material results and was executed with the activist aim of tangible effect. However, as interested as CAC are in using their artistic talents to solve the most immediate of problems, they also understand and appreciate the capacity of art to have a longer, larger, if less discernible impact. This is the aim of their urban art actions, the best known of which is The Sharks.

In order to appreciate The Sharks, it is necessary to understand a bit about the country and its recent political history. The Republic of North Macedonia, as it is now formally named, is a small nation on the southern edge of the Western Balkans, situated right above Greece. Created as an independent political entity with the breakup of Yugoslavia, the country was run by a nationalist, conservative, and notoriously corrupt regime from 2006 until 2016. While in power, the regime expended massive amounts of public resources (those they didn’t pocket) on immense monuments to mythologized heroes of the Macedonian people. A thirty-meter-high, gold-plated statue of Alexander the Great astride a horse still dominates the capital city’s main square, and hundreds more statues were erected around the city as part of the ruling party’s controversial Skopje 2014 development plan. As part of this plan, three sailing ships were constructed on the banks of the Vardar River, which runs through the center of the capital. They were monstrous, ugly things, created to house gambling casinos and restaurants. They were also ridiculous. Land-locked Macedonia has no seafaring tradition, and just like the resurrection of Alexander the Great and the adoption of Greco, Roman, and Baroque style for all newly built public buildings, the ships were an absurd nationalist fantasy.

And so the CAC decided to amplify the absurdity. They crafted several very large shark fins and, when no one was looking, anchored them in the middle of the river surrounding the ships. It was simple, and silly, and having pulled their stunt, the members of CAC put up a Facebook page about it and left town for a holiday, assuming that the sharks would elicit a chuckle or two and then get quickly removed. Instead, the sharks created an uproar. Security officials were sent to the Vardar river to terminate the sharks with sniper rifles. Pictures of the sharks were on the front page of national newspapers and even picked up by the BBC. Within days, the sharks’ Facebook page garnered two hundred thousand hits. The Sharks struck an affective chord, perfectly capturing the absurdity of all the faux history and the faux reality of the nation-building plans of the government.

What was the point? What did it change? As Pisarev explains, the purpose of The Sharks, like the other urban art actions the CAC does, is not to change particular things, but to use more creative actions to change people’s minds. Asked to elaborate, he says: It is just liberating, … making fun of Skopje 2014. Because fun liberates people, humor liberates people, to start to speak, to start to publish. There is an effective element to the CAC’S urban art actions—changing minds and prompting others to speak and publish—but these effects are not at the concrete and immediate level of fixing potholes. The primary purpose of these projects is affective: to create an emotional charge and stimulate feelings of fun and liberation. This is not to say that artistic affect has no activist effect. In 2016, what was called the colorful revolution broke out in North Macedonia. Citizens protested in the streets and, joined by the members of the CAC, splashed the monuments and buildings built by the corrupt government with bright daubs of paint. In this public explosion of fun and liberation the