The Seen and the Unseen: The Changing Nature of War Art

Tim Stevens, King’s College (unpublished essay, 2012)

Abstract

This article argues that the relationships between war and art are constantly evolving and that our perceptions of ‘war art’ should similarly take account of changes in the global conflict environment, particularly with respect to contemporary communications and the postulated existence of total war, in particular the War on Terror. Through an examination of the work of painter Peter Howson in Bosnia and photographer Paul Seawright in

Afghanistan, the article shows how two artists have successfully and powerfully challenged conventional notions of war art for the public good. The article concludes that war art should be viewed as a cultural response to war that transcends both its purely documentary function and the attitudes of cultural elites.

Introduction

The visual art of war probably has a history as long as that of war itself. It has always reflected societies engaged in acts and processes of communal and collective violence, for which commemoration through art has served important political and cultural functions. In the modern era, the diversifying nature of war necessitates a re-evaluation of what constitutes ‘war art’. This is most obvious in contemporary debates over whether war art should primarily be a form of ‘record’ or has validity as an artistic ‘response’ to conflict.

This article proposes that although the essential characteristics of war and art remain relatively unaltered, the relationship between the two has changed and continues to evolve.

War art originating from this nexus of creation and destruction has therefore also changed

1 and continues to alter in form and function. The first section of this article examines the changing nature of war art with reference to the evolution of global communications and the advent of ‘total war’, with its contemporary apotheosis of the ‘War on Terror’. The subsequent sections look at the work of painter Peter Howson in Bosnia and photographer

Paul Seawright in . Both artists challenge conventional perspectives on war art and illustrate themes relating to the evolution of war and art in general. The article concludes by arguing that war art as a cultural response to war is more important than its documentary function alone. As a mirror to changing societies it will therefore continue to alter: our perceptions of ‘war art’ should keep pace with reality rather than atrophy through tradition or institutional inertia.

Evolution of ‘war art’

To the best of our historical knowledge, all civilisations have experienced war. If history is

‘almost always written by the victors’ (Nehru 1989: 289) then they have often also sponsored the artistic texts that memorialise and record the experiences and outcomes of war. Burke

(1989: 106) reminds us that often ‘history is forgotten by the victors’ too, which speaks to the selective nature of institutional war art. Brandon’s (2007: 26) comment that there was no anti-war art until the 1630s is difficult to prove to the contrary but illustrates that war art has tended historically to serve the political purposes of incumbent elites, whether in defeat or victory. Whilst acknowledging the savage anti-war critiques of early-modern artists like

Francisco Goya and Jacques Callot, war art remained largely at the behest and control of those privileged few who commissioned it well into the nineteenth century. During this period, two intertwined developments began to change irrevocably the war/art relationship: the increased speed and reach of international communications, and the advent of ‘total war’.

Their continued evolution further challenges traditional notions of war art.

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The long-distance transmission of information by electromagnetic means was first achieved with the electric telegraph in the nineteenth century, an invention that would change military command and control, communications and logistics (Bousquet 2009: 94-96). Its importance to the civilian sphere too is illustrated by the persistence of ‘telegraph’ in the names of newspapers worldwide, which increasingly relied on news from abroad, transmitted rapidly across wired, and later wireless, networks. Telephony and radio would further collapse the spatial distance between receiver and communicator, a process that would effectively be completed by the near light-speed communications of cyberspace. For

French urbanist and social theorist Paul Virilio, information technologies have led to the annihilation of space, so that politics―and by Clausewitzian extension, war (von Clausewitz

1984)―can only function within time itself, such that we are all subject to what he calls the

‘tyranny of real time’ (Virilio 2005: 3). Foreshadowing the global War on Terror and its

Manichean battle for ‘hearts and minds’, Virilio maintains that the ‘logistics of perception’ have become more important than its physical counterpart (Virilio 1989). Whilst contemporary debates on the supply of men and materiel to the war in Afghanistan, for example, remind us that war is very much still physical, his point stands: in a world of globalised media, the image has become as political and important as the deed (Bolt 2012).

The reach and ubiquity of media, whether ‘traditional’ like newspapers and television, or the newer technologies of cyberspace, have brought images of war into the lives and homes of those members of the public who choose to access them. At the beginning of the twentieth century, the advent of ‘total war’ meant that there were few people who could avoid being touched by war, such was the globalised nature of World War I. This conflict reignited in the middle of the century, another global war in which conscription took artists to foreign

3 theatres, stories of which they and the press communicated to domestic audiences. The

‘enemy within’ characterised the subsequent Cold War as distinctively as did the far enemies of a nuclear USSR or USA (e.g. Zieger 2004). As the last century began, so did the present one, with a global ‘war’, but one in which the ‘enemy’ is both at home and abroad, an observation validated by analyses of both Islamist and Western democratic discourses of the

‘war on terror’ (Gerges 2005; Jackson 2005). Virilio theorises this form of war as the creation of civil insecurity within national frontiers, which serves to excuse and effect the militarisation of peacetime societies through the mediation of technologies of control and surveillance (Virilio and Lotringer 2008). A demonstrable rise in different forms of domestic surveillance is but one of many products of the current preoccupation with global terrorism that serves to bolster this depressing thesis (e.g. Amoore 2006, 2007).

These technological developments should not necessarily be interpreted as deterministic of what constitutes war art but they are drivers of important changes in perceptions of war art.

For example, to accompany wire stories by foreign correspondents from 1870 onwards there developed a parallel economy of imagery created both by ‘Special Artists’ experiencing war firsthand and by London artists as far from the ‘action’ as their readers (Stearn 1992: 145).

Such was the enthusiasm for this journalistic format that the illustrated papers received thousands of submissions every year from across the world, concerning not only warfare itself but also of related activities of soldiers and colonial administrations (Barnett 1883:

164). Official British war art programmes of the two World Wars further exemplify this democratic shift away from the twin grip of the academy and the formal ‘battle scene’.

Although the soldier-artist was the preferred recipient of British War Memorials Committee commissions in World War I (Gough 2008: 343), the Committee did broaden the concept of war art to include depictions of the ‘Home Front’ and ‘subjects not exclusively military’

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(Harries and Harries 1983: 87). A similar relaxation of the bounds of ‘academic’ war art characterised the patronage programmes of World War II also (Foss 2007). In the later twentieth century, increased attention has also been given to other expressive genres that can certainly be considered ‘war art’, such as camouflage (Goodden 2007), art by Holocaust victims (Blatter and Milton 1982), and the ‘trench art’ of serving soldiers (Saunders 2003).

Kenneth Clark, the indefatigable chairman of the World War II War Artists Advisory

Committee (WAAC), was critical to the repurposing of art during the war and its aftermath

(Foss 2007: 171ff.). Since 1972, the Imperial War ’s Artistic Records Committee

(later, Art Commissions Committee) has been similarly crucial. One of the museum’s most influential curators of art, Angela Weight, remarked that war art’s responsibility was ‘to interpret the phenomenon of war on a more general level, and to express contemporary attitudes to war―works which will in themselves have some historical importance as evidence of the impact of war on a country’s culture’ (Harries and Harries 1983: 286). This has allowed the reassessment of existing museum collections―such as the relationships between ‘Women and War’ (Goldsworthy 2003)―a campaigning effort to commemorate war dead through the issuance of Royal Mail postage stamps (Crompton 2008), and the introduction of artists’ residencies (Moriarty and Weight 2008).

These innovative and reflexive commissioning approaches have been balanced by the more traditional modus operandi of sending artists to the field. In theatre and in the museum the

‘artist’ has not been restricted to the painter or the soldier, with photographers, sculptors, video and installation artists all engaging with the subject of war. The following sections examine the work of two of these artists with differing experiences of war, working in different media, and with different perspectives. Despite their links to a long heritage of war

5 art neither can be considered traditional within the domain of institutionally-commissioned war art but they do reflect how institutions have themselves changed their perceptions of what constitutes war art, even as this has been challenged by some.

Peter Howson

Peter Howson’s two visits to Bosnia in 1993 and the work he derived from them demonstrate how even official war art could break with the traditions of the past and find new ways to communicate the experience of war. Howson was an established figurative painter by the time of his commission by the Art Commissions Committee, his work not without controversy, but Bosnia was to prove a turning point in his career, not least in his attitude to what purposes art could serve.

Howson’s path to Bosnia and his subsequent experiences were shaped as much by media as they were by his subjects. He was as deeply affected by the ‘terrible plight of those faces on the news’ (Jackson 1997: 8) as were all of us whose primary experience of the collapse of the former Yugoslavia was via the press and television. Unintentionally echoing the theories of Jean Baudrillard (1995) and Virilio (2005) regarding screens as mediators between war and audience in the first Gulf War, Howson joked before departing to Bosnia that he might as well ‘order up room service, and watch the war unfold on CNN’ (Jackson 1997: 31). These essentially postmodern relationships are further illustrated by the media demands Howson faced in Bosnia, including the presence of a BBC film crew and a Times (UK) journalist charged with documenting his time and activities there (Jackson 1997: 33, 41-45, 61).

Howson was also subject to hostile media scrutiny and ad hominem press attacks before he had even returned from his first trip: the ‘division and hatred among ordinary people’ he saw

6 in Bosnia was, for Howson, reflected by the treatment of him and his family back home

(Jackson 1997: 45, 48).

Although surprised by the level of media interest in his own work, Howson’s experience reflected a broader uncomfortable truth about the wars in this region: that the perpetrators and victims were European, the difference between ‘them’ and ‘us’ so slight as to engender a general European unease that such savagery could be unfolding merely hours from our own homes. Modern communications ensured that the whole world were not-too-distant spectators also. Sarajevo, for example, whilst under siege between 1992 and 1996, and apparently neglected by states with the political power to improve its situation, was described as a type of ‘global city’ and a media spectacle. Material assistance may not always have found its way into the city but information certainly found its way out. As a result, journalist David Rieff described Sarajevo as ‘the most famous place in the world’ during this period (Andreas 2008: 3-4).

Howson said that ‘in a war zone, with death all around, you find yourself much more aware of the ways in which individuals depend on each other’ (Jackson 1997: 111). Although he was referring specifically to Bosnians, this observation is equally true for societies connected by global media, and for the emotions that shaped Croatians’ lives and Howson’s own work, particularly the fear he saw in their faces and felt within himself. ‘If you don’t get the trauma, you don’t get the art … It’s all fear really, the whole thing’, he remarked to an interlocutor (Crampton 1994: 12-13). Howson saw his responsibility not only to convey ‘the horror of what’s going on’, but also to reconnect art with people alienated by the ‘decorative game’ of modern art (Jackson 1997: 28), a sentiment with which, in a previous era, Kenneth

Clark would surely have agreed.

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Howson’s subsequent exhibition at the in 1994 certainly drew upon his assistant Iain McColl’s early suggestion that he ‘forget all about landscapes and just concentrate on the horror’ (Jackson 1997: 56). The figures that form the foci of most of his work are grotesque and brutalised caricatures of both civilians and soldiers: beaten, bruised, and occasionally bestial. It is hard to see the ‘heroic dignity’ with which Peter Stothard

(1994) claimed Howson had imbued his ‘ordinary men and women’, and little hope emerges from his paintings. The heritage of Goya, Callot and Otto Dix surfaces in the dismembered and mutilated corpses of ‘Plum Grove’ and ‘Ustazi’. Although the didactic imperative is strong, many pieces also serve a documentary function, such as ‘Life Goes On’ and

‘Neighbours’, in which ‘normal’ life persists against the backdrop of a burning house and amidst the ruins of a scorched village respectively. Reflecting on the Imperial War

Museum’s exhibition of Howson’s work, Bosnian Prime Minister Haris Silajdžić commented that ‘the normality and the violence are so closely joined that they become the same thing’

(Jackson 1997: 81). Reconciling the banal and the exceptional aspects of the Yugoslavian wars is still an incomplete project, and Howson and Silajdžić understood this deep tension at the heart of a conflict in which hitherto relatively harmonious communities fractured and imploded with such ferocity.

Peter Stothard, then editor of The Times (UK), wrote of Howson, ‘Today, when images of human suffering loom regularly on our television screens and in our newspapers, the painter has not lost the power to move’ (Stothard 1994). Stothard’s comment reflected a situation in which his work was well-received by the public, if not always by the critics. Patrick Bishop in The Daily Telegraph, for example, excoriated Howson: his works, ‘many based on imagination rather than experience, have subverted the [war art] tradition to the point where

8 it is hardly accurate to describe him as a war artist at all’ (Bishop 1994). Bishop’s criticism was based principally on the fact that Howson had not witnessed the rape central to his most controversial piece, ‘Croatian and Muslim’, a small canvas depicting the rape of a Muslim woman by two Croatian soldiers. Richard Cork (1994: 41-42) opined that ‘[f]irst-hand observation helps to prevent rhetoric from taking hold’, the quiet implication being that

Howson had failed on this score, although he did note that ‘Croatian and Muslim’ was the result of many meetings between Howson and female rape victims. Howson countered that over half the scenes in the Imperial War Museum collection were not actually witnessed by the artists: artists are meant to use their imaginations, even in war (Jackson 1997: 73).

Bishop, apparently promoting a reified academic view of war art, ignored the lessons of previous commissioning bodies and took little notice of the changing nature of war and society. Howson said, ‘My job is to do the things you don’t see, that the army doesn’t even get to see, not to be an illustrator, not to tell stories, but to produce strong images of things’

(Crampton 1994: 14). When art gives substance to ‘scenes which we have all imagined’ but not witnessed, such as the massive rape culture of the Bosnian war (Crampton 1994: 14), then Howson can be considered to have achieved his expressed intention of producing art to elicit emotions (Jackson 1997: 28). As Roy Strong said of the 1994 exhibition, visitors

‘leave it feeling annihilated. Their silence is a measure of the power of art to evoke reaction even in eyes dulled by the images of the camera on the television screen’ (Jackson 1997: 81).

Howson both reinvigorated painting as a vehicle for expression in a world of instant media, and advanced the idea that war art should be a sophisticated response to war rather than merely its record.

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Paul Seawright

The director of the Imperial War Museum Alan Borg (1994) wrote in support of Peter

Howson’s Bosnian project, ‘future generations will see the wars of [the twentieth] century through the artist’s eye as much as the camera lens’. This dichotomy between art and photography speaks to the prevalent function of the camera as an instrument for recording war rather than interpreting it. For French photojournalist Luc Delahaye, the problem with the photographic medium was that it relied on the ‘strong moments, the moments of impact and explosion’; Howson could go beyond these to the ‘weak moments’, to the ‘vile, unseen monstrous moments of atrocity and outrage. He can put his imagination where no Nikon can dare to go―into the very heart of the Balkan darkness’ (Crampton 1994: 14). The work of photographer Paul Seawright, commissioned by the Art Commissions Committee to travel to

Afghanistan in June 2002, dissolves the false art/photography duality. In similar fashion to

Howson, he sought to examine the spaces beyond the purely documentary, in order to present other aspects of conflict contingent as much on imagination as on the materiality of war that both artists confronted. Seawright ‘reflects―and helps us reflect―on matters beyond appearance’ (Vaizey 2003).

‘I have always been fascinated by the invisible, the unseen, the subject that doesn’t easily present itself to the camera’, wrote Seawright (2000: 63). His stark photographs of

Afghanistan (Seawright 2003), mostly taken after the conflict had died down in the areas he visited, are on one level records of the impact of war on the landscape but on a more important level signs that the war was, and tragically still is, unfinished. His otherworldly panoramas of live minefields and abandoned ordnance are reminders that swathes of

Afghanistan remain lethal landscapes even once the fighting has moved on. Valid comparisons are often made between Seawright and nineteenth century photographer Roger

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Fenton (Durden 2003; Lister 2007: 257), but perhaps his most obvious intellectual forerunner is British artist Paul Nash (see Stevens 2010). Both artists use landscape as a vehicle for broader statements about the relationships between man and war.

When Nash wrote from Passchendaele in 1917, ‘the grave which is this land; one huge grave and cast up on it the poor dead’ (Haycock 2002: 30), he was expressing his disgust at the destruction wrought by man upon nature: ‘it was not what had been made of man, but what has been made of earth’ (Bertram 1923: 22). The absence of human figures in Nash’s works like ‘Void’ and ‘Wire’ (both 1918) prefigures Seawright’s landscapes empty of humans, although there are fundamental differences between them. Whilst Nash’s landscapes are irredeemably destroyed in an ‘outrage on Nature’ (Read 1948, quoted in Haycock 2002: 33),

Seawright’s landscapes are transformed from benevolent, if harsh, passivity into swathes of dormant destructive power. The link between man and death persists in both, however: in

Seawright’s work, the work of war is unfinished, latent; for Nash, the job is done. If Nash paints ‘the inert chaos of the void’ (Causey 1980: 77), Seawright represents the voids within the chaos, liminal spaces in which the absence of movement and habitation belies their lethality and malevolence. Neither artist believes the landscape to be neutral.

Bertram (1923: 24) praises Nash’s ‘considerable economy of horror’ in works like ‘Void’.

Seawright could be similarly admired for a considerable economy, full-stop. His photographs are spare, unadorned, and unembellished by obvious signs of the concentrated violence of war. In this he shares a sparseness of vision with the early photographic work of

Paul Virilio (2008), or modern photographers like Simon Norfolk, whose landscape palimpsests, such as his ‘Ascension Island: The Panopticon’ series, are shorn of humans, pitting the relentless power of military technologies against man and nature (e.g. Norfolk

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2003).1 The essential remoteness of computer-assisted warfare and technologies of control―exemplified currently by the use of unmanned aerial vehicles (UAVs) in

Afghanistan, Iraq, Pakistan, Yemen and now Libya―has caused modern warfare, in

Seawright’s words, to be ‘as invisible or hidden as anything else’ (Durden 2003).

By the end of the nineteenth century the technologies of indirect fire presented problems to artists wishing to get close to the ‘action’, such that paintings from the Boer War are often painted at some distance from the firefight; in the modern theatre, remote technologies create the ‘impossibility of getting close to an event’ at all (Beegan 2005, n.13). Although

Seawright’s photographs might give the initial impression that he has missed the ‘event’, the portrayal of minefields in particular signifies that the ‘event’ may be yet to occur. We, the audience and the photographer, will not witness the maiming or killing of the Afghan who strays too far into one of Seawright’s deadly landscapes: we will miss that bloody event too.

Therein is the deadly paradox of modern warfare: the desire for bloodless conflict removes the hi-tech soldier from the battlefield, but in their remote lethality the weapons of war continue to wreak havoc on those beyond the gaze of the television camera or the embedded journalist (Der Derian 2009).

In Delahaye’s terms, Seawright never captures the ‘strong moment’; his photographs are complex matrices of elision, contingency, and the ambiguities of shifting and invisible boundaries. Although humans are visually absent from all his Afghanistan photographs, their presence is inferred everywhere. Like Paul Nash, all his landscapes bear the scars of human activities in the pursuit of war and, like Nash too, his work is polemic, although not crudely so. We can clearly derive Seawright’s intentions from the commentary his work

1 Norfolk’s new photographic series reverses this emphasis and focuses exclusively on the human aspects of the Afghan wars now and in the Second Anglo-Afghan War, 1878-1880 (Jack 2011). 12 makes on the effects of total war and its technologies. Although his pieces allude to a heritage of colonial photography in Asia and elsewhere (Stathatos 2003), they are curiously non-specific to the general viewer, and are therefore global in application and relevance. His constant references to boundaries and edges, and the spaces beyond and between, reminds us that modern war can exist anywhere, even within the sovereign boundaries of our liberal democracies (Dillon and Reid 2009). This universality is at the heart of Seawright’s interpretation of his brief to respond to the ‘War on Terror’, a globalised war in a globalised world.

Conclusion

Seawright’s work is further still than Howson from the academic and battle scene art for which traditionalists like Patrick Bishop must weep. Although there is some truth that war art is problematic ‘without the mitigating evidence of a close experience of the subject’

(Mackinlay 2003: 31), this cannot be said to have deleteriously affected the work of

Howson, Seawright and many others. Howson may not have witnessed a rape, nor

Seawright the visceral histories or explosive climaxes of his compromised landscapes, but both artists drew upon their experiences and their imaginations to accurately portray facets of modern warfare with which their audiences can readily identify. To criticise either man, or many of their peers, on the basis that they were not present at the ‘events’ they portray, is to misunderstand the nature of modern war. War is still bloody and terrible, as news bulletins selectively remind us, but it is also conducted by machines at distance, and mediated through sociotechnical assemblages to audiences around the world. To criticise an artist for not being ‘present’ is also to belittle the responses that ordinary men and women have to the mediated images which are their only experiences of war.

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At the heart of this perspective lies the responsibility of war artists and of those who sponsor them. Peter Howson understood that his responsibility was ‘to see if you can produce work with the ability to move people’ (Jackson 1997: 28). Public reaction to his work has shown that this is possible. As John Mackinlay has written, ‘the formless and dynamic nature of post-modern art frees the artist to take on the equally formless and dynamic nature of post- modern violence’ (Mackinlay 2002: 69). Many artists have taken up this challenge, supported by institutions like the Imperial War Museum, non-governmental organisations, awards bodies and, indeed, the art market. In addition to the artists already noted, we might mention the multimedia installations of Ben Langlands and Nikki Bell, the Goyaesque dioramas of Jake and Dinos Chapman, the three-dimensional canvases of Gerry Judah, the architectural speculations of Lebbeus Woods, or the imagined apocalypses of Hisaharu

Motada. The degree to which these artists interacted with the immediate physicality of war varies considerably. For example, Hisaharu Motada, in common with all post-Hiroshima and Nagasaki humans, cannot have witnessed the nuclear holocaust that inspires his lithographs. In all cases, though, these artists have shown that responses to war, with or without its exact and duplicative record, can illuminate the phenomenon of war for their audiences, at whatever physical remove they are situated. We might argue that in a period of globalised or total war, war is actually closer to geographically-dispersed non-combatants than it has ever been: the war artist may therefore find many more aspects of societies affected by war than at any previous time.

Slovenian digital artist Matjuška Teja Krašek has written that the role of the artist is to

‘elevate the level of order in these times of chaos’ (Krašek 2002: 229). In this sense, war art is also a form of memorialisation, an attempt to make sense of confusion and fear. In a globalised conflict environment, ‘memory and commemorative activities have become more

14 important as vectors of personal, local and, if not national at least regional activity’ (Kidd

1997: 157). The identity aspect of war art remains important, despite the postmodern, borderless ethic to which warfare and art both partially subscribe. History is as important to both Howson and Seawright as the present. War art ‘is the record of civilization when life takes second place to death’ and ‘an expression of culture … reflecting sociocultural attitudes to conflict over time’ (Brandon 2007: 131, 5). It also reproduces, in its subjects and vehicles, changes in conflict itself. Just as British soldiers in Bosnia were ‘not looking for any paintings of heroic Tommies’ (Crampton 1994: 12), we should not restrict our interpretations and expectations of war art to anachronistic perceptions borne of simplistic adherence to tradition but rather to an acceptance that global realities are complex and ambiguous. Importantly, it is for citizens that artistic ‘truth’ is revealed rather than any political ‘truths’ imposed by political and cultural elites alone: this marks a fundamental shift in what makes ‘war art’ the art of the comprehension and remembrance of war.

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