The Imaginary Bus: Khalo Who Foresaw His Own Death in a Dream — Volume One
The woman in red was still a little flushed. Perhaps it was the warmth of the bus, or all our eyes on her, or the fact that she had raised the question of art herself and now everyone expected her to carry on. She had done well so far, and Lena, who did not hand out praise easily in a discussion, had given her credit.
She ran a hand through her hair. ‘Very well. Now you’ve pushed me into the middle of the ring, let me begin with something I’ve always wondered about. We say “an artist of the people” so easily. What does that actually mean?’
The monarchist, who had been listening more than speaking, said, ‘Someone who makes art for the people, presumably.’
She laughed. ‘The problem lies in that word, “people”. Everyone says it. The government says “the people”, its opponents say “the people”, revolutionaries and counter-revolutionaries both say it. Where are these poor people actually supposed to be?’
‘A few are in my bus,’ I called from the wheel, ‘along with a donkey whose class position remains to be determined.’
His ears twitched.
‘His class position is clearer than any of ours,’ Lena said. ‘No capital, no means of production, and he hasn’t even paid his fare.’
‘The first revolutionary fare-dodger in history.’
Everyone laughed. The donkey turned and gave us a look that might have become a formal complaint if he could speak.
‘Jokes aside,’ said the woman in red, ‘it’s a serious question. Does making work about poor people, workers, prisoners, women, migrants or the dispossessed automatically make someone an artist of the people?’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Lena.
‘Why not?’ asked the newcomer.
Lena shifted in her seat. ‘People aren’t subjects in a painting. You can’t draw a few workers, farmers and poor women and instantly become their artist. Even their suffering can be made into a commodity.’
‘That’s what I wanted to say,’ said the woman in red quickly.
‘How can suffering become a commodity?’ asked the monarchist.
‘Someone can take another person’s pain, make a film or book or exhibition out of it, gain fame and money, yet have no connection to those people’s lives. They can become nothing more than subject matter.’
‘The poor are poor for themselves and raw artistic material for somebody else,’ I said.
She looked at me. ‘Bitterly put, but sometimes true.’
‘That’s why I’m careful with the phrase “of the people”,’ Lena said. ‘It isn’t only what a work depicts. It is how the artist sees human beings.’
‘What about its opposite?’ asked the newcomer. ‘An artist against the people?’
Lena paused. ‘That is more dangerous still.’
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘History shows that art is in danger whenever political power starts deciding who is “of the people” and who is “against the people”. Today a government condemns one poet. Tomorrow its opponents take power and condemn another.’
‘You reject the phrase altogether?’ asked the woman in red.
‘I’d rather discuss what an artist does than stamp a permanent label on their forehead.’
‘For example?’ asked the monarchist.
‘Suppose an artist knowingly joins a political power’s propaganda machine and makes repression, war or discrimination look beautiful. We can criticise that choice and ask what relationships the work serves. But if we say only “against the people” and close the file, we have issued a verdict instead of analysing it.’
The woman in red nodded. ‘I agree with that part.’
‘Well!’ I said, watching them in the mirror. ‘Part Forty-Two hasn’t even finished and you’ve reached an agreement. I’m worried about the future of this story.’
The newcomer laughed.
‘Wait. We’ll find a disagreement,’ Lena said.
‘We already have one,’ said the woman in red. ‘At certain moments in history, I don’t think artists can hide behind “I’m only an artist”.’
Lena looked at her. ‘Explain.’
‘Imagine people are being imprisoned and tortured, there is a war, or a group faces discrimination. An artist sees it all and says, “Politics has nothing to do with me. I only work on flowers, birds and love.” Are they truly neutral?’
The bus fell quiet. I liked the question.
‘They might genuinely not wish to engage in politics,’ Lena said.
‘I’m not disputing their right. They have that right. I’m asking about responsibility.’
‘Who decides their responsibility?’
‘Their conscience.’
‘And if their conscience tells them something different?’
The woman in red paused.
‘That is where the difficulty begins,’ Lena said. ‘If we say artists are obliged to speak on a particular subject, we must ask who imposes the obligation. A party? A state? A revolution? Society? The audience? Intellectuals?’
‘Or the artist?’ asked the newcomer.
‘I’m closer to the last.’
‘But silence can be a position too,’ said the woman in red.
‘Sometimes, yes. Not always.’
‘Art shouldn’t be political at all,’ said the monarchist, who had been listening.
The woman in red turned to him. ‘Why?’
‘Politics turns art into propaganda.’
‘Not necessarily,’ Lena said.
‘More often than not.’
‘Then we must distinguish political art from political propaganda. A work can be about power, war, poverty, revolution, despotism or freedom and still be art. A love story can be shallow and commercial. A political subject alone does not make a work propaganda.’
‘And a work claiming to be apolitical may still serve the existing order,’ said the woman in red.
The monarchist raised his eyebrows. ‘Is silence a crime now?’
‘I didn’t call it a crime. I said it deserves thought.’
‘Please don’t set up another courtroom,’ I said. ‘We’ve already misplaced a death officer. If a judge boards as well, who knows where this bus will end up?’
The donkey brayed.
‘And you needn’t volunteer as anyone’s defence solicitor.’
The newcomer laughed, but Lena was still looking at the woman in red.
‘There’s another issue. Artists can oppose political power and still look down on ordinary people.’
‘Exactly,’ said the woman in red.
‘Someone may write poems against a government but regard a worker, a villager or an ordinary person as ignorant. They may think of themselves as an enlightened rescuer of the masses.’
‘Opposing power alone doesn’t make you an artist of the people,’ I said.
‘Exactly.’
‘What is the test, then?’ asked the newcomer.
‘Perhaps there isn’t one fixed test. We must look at the work, the conduct, the historical situation and the artist’s relationship with society together.’
‘I would add respect for people,’ said the woman in red.
Lena looked at her.
‘For me, art of the people is human before anything else. It doesn’t use people as instruments. It doesn’t reduce the poor to objects of pity, see a woman only as a body, draw a worker only as a raised fist, or turn a prisoner into nothing but a hero. It sees their contradictions.’
Lena smiled. ‘I like that definition better.’
‘Your disagreement ended too soon,’ I said. ‘Please, somebody object or the reader will demand a refund.’
‘I object,’ said the monarchist.
‘Bless you. You’ve saved the story.’
Everyone laughed.
‘You forget that an artist has to live. Someone who works for a government, a court or a wealthy institution isn’t necessarily a hired mouthpiece.’
‘Quite right,’ Lena said.
He looked taken aback; he had evidently expected a fight.
‘You can’t understand art history without patrons,’ she continued. ‘Courts, religious institutions, governments and wealthy people have paid for many works. Taking money from power alone isn’t enough to judge the artist.’
‘But we still have to ask what they wanted in return,’ said the woman in red.
‘That is where the real discussion begins.’
‘The trouble doesn’t begin in the pocket,’ I said. ‘It begins when the pocket starts telling the pen what to do.’
The woman in red laughed. ‘That was good.’
‘Drivers sometimes make sense.’
The donkey made a sound.
‘You don’t have to confirm it.’
‘Power doesn’t always tell an artist directly what to write or paint,’ the newcomer said.
‘An important point,’ Lena replied at once.
Everyone looked at the newcomer.
‘Sometimes it doesn’t have to say anything. An artist knows which words will bring prizes and invitations, who will buy the work, which doors will open — and what they might lose if they say something else.’
‘Censorship isn’t just a pair of scissors,’ said the woman in red.
‘Exactly.’
‘This makes it more complicated,’ Lena said. ‘You can see official censorship: a book is banned, a play cannot be staged, a film is refused a screening. You cannot always see self-censorship.’
‘You connect everything to power,’ said the monarchist.
‘The market has power too,’ Lena replied.
He fell silent.
‘If only profitable works have a chance to be seen, the market can shape art’s direction too. Not by police orders, but by money.’
‘And now visibility itself has become a form of capital,’ said the woman in red.
‘Fame,’ said the newcomer.
‘Yes. Fame, followers, prizes, festivals, sales, media.’
‘First an artist had to worry about the king,’ I said. ‘Now they have to worry about the algorithm as well?’
The woman in red laughed. ‘More or less.’
‘Thank goodness our donkey doesn’t have a social media account.’
‘He’d have more followers than all of us,’ said the newcomer.
I looked at him. ‘Quite possibly. People get tired of politicians, but never of donkeys.’
The bus laughed again. The rain had eased. London’s streets gleamed under the lights.
After a little silence the woman in red said, ‘For all that, I still think there are moments in history when an artist’s silence cannot be seen as entirely neutral.’
‘And I still think assigning artists a duty opens a dangerous door,’ said Lena.
The woman in red smiled. ‘There’s our disagreement at last.’
‘What a relief. We can carry on with the episode,’ I said.
But I was thinking about both their arguments. An artist has to be free. Without freedom, art becomes an order. Yet artists do not live in a vacuum. They walk the same streets, see the same war, the same prison, the same poverty. They experience the same love, feel the same fear and sometimes live through the same exile.
Perhaps the point wasn’t to force an artist to take one side or another. It was to look at where they stood once they had chosen.
Beside power? Facing it? Beside the people? Above them? Or somewhere among all of these, with all the contradictions a human being can carry?
I looked at the woman in red in the mirror. ‘A question.’
‘Ask.’
‘If artists are free to stand wherever they wish, are people free to ask why they’re standing there?’
She was quiet for a few seconds. ‘I think so.’
‘Perhaps that’s better than deciding in advance where an artist must stand,’ Lena added.
The donkey suddenly gave a loud bray.
‘Very well. The art critic in the back row has also been heard.’
Everyone laughed. But the question stayed with us. It was no longer only about painters, poets or writers. It concerned us all: when history happens before our eyes, where does each of us stand?
The bus went on through the wet London street. I thought perhaps in the next part we should turn to those who for centuries have stood, built, fought, sung and died, while so many of their names never entered a history book.
To be continued…
Naser Kamali
London: Royal Festival Hall
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