Maori Art of the Nuclear Mother

Known as ANZUS, the Australia, New Zealand, United States Security Treaty was signed in 1951. This military alliance was one of several entered into by the United States in the early 1950s, as part of its attempts to prevent the international spread of communism and to prepare for the possibility of armed conflict with the Soviet Union.

Some thirty years later, as relations between the United States and New Zealand soured – throwing ANZUS into disarray – this piece of Cold War legislation inspired Māori artist, Emily Karaka, to create a dynamic work of art. In The Treaties, Karaka presents ANZUS as one of a series of treaties entered into by the New Zealand authorities that was to have a profound effect on her community.

Emily Karaka, ‘The Treaties’, 1984. Oil and paper on hessian and wood. Courtesy Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa.

Painted in 1984, this complex work is formed of four panels. Three equal-sized panels on the right each present a limp, abstracted figure, draped over a dark, menacing cross on a gold background, surrounded by Māori text. A panel dedicated to ANZUS sits alongside a central image featuring a figure with a bowed head and outstretched arms, in a classic crucifixion pose, representing the 1840 Treaty of Waitangi. The 19th-century agreement, between the British Crown and Māori chiefs, marked the foundation of the British colony in New Zealand and has been a recurring theme in Karaka’s paintings.

On the far right, a final cross depicts a figure bent over backwards, with blue text identifying the panel as dedicated to the Gleneagles Agreement of 1977. That year, New Zealand’s Prime Minister joined other Commonwealth leaders in a pact to refrain from staging sporting events in collaboration with apartheid-era South Africa. However, only four years later, New Zealand hosted the South African rugby team, leading to protests and fierce debate about the relationship between sport and politics. The Māori community was equally divided. While some attended the games, others were bitterly disappointed by the Springbok Tour, seeing parallels between racial discrimination in New Zealand and the treatment of the segregated Black community in South Africa. Karaka has noted that while each of the agreements was “meant to protect”, they would cause untold harm – as indicated by the torn, blood-drenched treaties that lie at the base of each crucifix.

 The larger panel on the left side depicts a figure that Karaka has referred to as a “nuclear mother”. Responding in particular to the ANZUS treaty and the heightened risk of atomic warfare in the Pacific, the panel shows that Cold War nuclear anxiety spread to the Antipodes, affecting people from all backgrounds and all corners of the earth. In an interview, Karaka has recalled how the painting was made in response to a vivid dream, the first she’d had in colour, in which she awoke with the feeling of being impregnated by the fear of conflict. The painting shows Karaka’s debt to fellow Māori artists, as well as the influence of Picasso’s Guernica, and her interest in the work of Frida Kahlo and Jackson Pollock.

Karaka’s concerns were shared by many of her compatriots. In the year that she created The Treaties, the New Zealand government declared a nuclear-free zone in its land, waters and airspace, barring all vehicles carrying nuclear weapons or radioactive waste from entering its territory. The policy, which remains in place to this day, led the United States to suspend New Zealand from ANZUS in 1986, and remains a source of tension between the two countries.

LIKE THIS STORY?
Here are some other Espionart posts you might enjoy:

The Art of the Baltic Way

The fall of the Berlin Wall in late 1989 has come to symbolise the end of the Cold War, as the hated barrier between East and West Germany was broken apart, and long-divided friends and families once again came together. A few months earlier, the creation of another kind of wall likewise showed the power of citizens to force change through unity. On 23 August, two million citizens of the Baltic states – over a quarter of the collective population – joined hands. Together, the Baltic Way (also known as the Baltic Chain) stretched unbroken across 600 kilometres: from Tallinn on Estonia’s northern coast; through the Latvian capital of Riga; all the way to Vilnius, near the southern border of Lithuania.

Photos by Gunārs Janaitis, Vilhelms Mihailovskis, Aivars Liepiņš, Vitālijs Stīpnieks, Uldis Briedis, Gunārs Janaitis. Courtesy thebalticway.eu.

The protest marked a moment of communal catharsis in a region that had suffered many years of occupation and tyranny. The date was chosen as the 50th anniversary of the Molotov–Ribbentrop Pact of 1939, when just prior to the outbreak of World War II, Nazi Germany agreed to pass the Baltic states to the Soviet Union, as part of a secret agreement to respect each other’s plans to invade their respective “spheres of influence”. For the next half-century, the Soviet regime refused to acknowledge their collusion, insisting that Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania has willingly joined the union. By coming together to form the Baltic Way, demonstrators rejected this false history, reclaimed their free will and demanded independence.

The gesture received support on both sides of the Iron Curtain, with people joining hands in solidarity from Leningrad, Moscow and Tbilisi to Melbourne and Toronto. The Baltic Way forced Gorbachev’s government finally to admit that the three countries had been forcibly subsumed into the USSR as a result of the Nazi-Soviet treaty; although the citizens of Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania would have to wait another two years to gain full independence.

In each of the countries, the Baltic Way is now memorialised through commemorative sculptures. Most striking is The Road to Freedom, in the Lithuanian capital of Vilnius. In 2010, sculptor Tadas Gutauskas initiated a collective art project to create the monument, in keeping with the cooperative spirit of the Baltic Way. The 60-metre-long wall is constructed from 20,000 bricks in the colours of the Lithuanian flag, each one contributed by a member of the public and stamped with the individual’s name. Among the bricks, hollowed silhouettes of life-size figures recall the men, women and children who joined hands in 1989.

The monuments in the other Baltic states are more modest in scale. In Käru in central Estonia, three large boulders linked by a heavy metal chain represent the protesters in abstracted form. The choice of materials perhaps symbolises the resilience of the citizens and the eternal, unbreakable spirit of the three Baltic states. Situated in a small borough rather than a major city, the monument is a reminder that the human chain stretched through towns and villages and across open fields, bringing together citizens from all corners of the countries.

Baltic Way tile in Riga, in front of Freedom Monument. Courtesy holeinthedonut.com.

In all three capital cities, smaller plaques – easily overlooked – also delineate the path of the Baltic Way. On a hill overlooking Freedom Square in Tallinn; in front of Freedom Monument in Riga; and in Cathedral Square in Vilnius; a pair of footsteps imprinted on a red granite tile marks the spot where protesters stood to form the human chain. Installed in 2013, the matching sculptures represent the ongoing unity of the Baltic countries since gaining independence, and their mutual commitment to resisting outside aggression at a time when that independence appears under threat.

North Korean Murals, from Namibia to Syria

Espionart previously explored a string of patriotic sculptures built in Africa by Mansudae Overseas Projects, the international division of the North Korean state-run Mansudae Art Studio. This propaganda-for-hire is part of an alliance between North Korea and several African nations that dates from the 1960s, when the secretive Asian regime provided material assistance in their struggles for independence against European colonial powers. Mansudae’s projects have proved controversial, as shown by the riots that accompanied the inauguration in 2010 of the African Renaissance Monument, in Dakar, Senegal. Locals were infuriated by the extravagance of the statue – the tallest in Africa – as well as the sensual design and the Senegalese government’s gift to North Korea of a large portion of state land.

Heroes’ Acre sculpture, Windhoek, Namibia

Another controversial sculpture was erected in 2002 in the Namibian capital of Windhoek, as part of a commission for Mansudae Overseas Projects to construct the 732-acre Heroes’ Acre war memorial. The design of the monument and the outsourcing of a multi-million dollar project to North Korea once again enraged locals. Despite that, Mansudae has received further commissions from the Namibian government – including one of the latest of a number of international war memorials and museums built by North Korean artists.

The Namibian War of Independence – also known as the South African Border War – broke out in August 1966. With support from the Soviet Union, China and several sympathetic African nations, the People’s Liberation Army of Namibia fought for independence from South Africa until the end of the Cold War. Namibia (formerly known as South West Africa) finally became a republic in 1990, and on its 24th anniversary, in 2014, the Independence Memorial Museum was opened in Windhoek.

Section of panoramic mural, Independence Memorial Museum, Windhoek, Namibia

At the centre of Namibia’s Independence Memorial Museum is a life-size panoramic mural, a visual strategy that tends to dominate Mansudae’s memorial designs. Rather than showing any evidence of a local artistic tradition, the mural is painted as an updated form of Socialist Realism, the artistic style developed in the USSR in the 1930s and that flourished in communist countries throughout the twentieth century. Despite the museum’s focus on independence, the ongoing appeal of Socialist Realism as a form of political propaganda is shown by the Namibian government’s decision to send state money to artists in another country, to produce work in a generic, Westernised style, rather than to give much-needed opportunities to local artists.

Similar designs have been seen more recently in the Angkor Panorama Museum, opened in Siem Reap, Cambodia in 2016. Entirely produced by Mansudae Overseas Projects, down to its staffing by North Korean nationals, the museum again contains at its centre a 360-degree mural, which purportedly took 63 artists in Pyongyang almost 2 years to complete. Thus, despite their unsubtle and anachronistic style, North Korea’s memorial murals and museum developments continue to prove lucrative – while demonstrating how Socialist Realist art remains alive and well, and much-loved as a form of propaganda for authoritarian regimes.

Section of panoramic mural, October War Panorama, Damascus, Syria

Mansudae’s museum projects date to the late 1980s, when North Korean architects were sent to Cairo to develop the 6th of October War Panorama, commemorating the Egyptian and Syrian alliance against Israel in the Yom Kippur War of 1973. North Korea had also contributed militarily to the conflict, sending pilots and fighters jets to engage the Israeli Air Force.

Painting of Hafez al-Assad and Kim Il Sung, October War Panorama, Damascus, Syria

The Assad regime subsequently commissioned Mansudae Overseas Projects in the late 1990s, to build a second museum presenting an alternative version of the conflict to the usual narrative of an Israeli victory.  The October War Panorama in Damascus features a number of grandiose Socialist Realist paintings depicting the history of Syria, soldiers engaged in battle, and the Syrian President, Hafez al-Assad, glorified in the classic style of a dictator, flanked by jubilant citizens. The Syrian museum also displays a large painting of Hafez al-Assad alongside North Korean leader, Kim Il Sung – further evidence of the close relationship between the two regimes.

LIKE THIS STORY?
Here are some other Espionart posts you might enjoy:

The Art Enigma of Gerald Ford

Gerald Ford’s astonishing lucky streak reached a dramatic climax on 9 August 1974, when he became, by default, President of the United States of America. This had been a rapid ascent for Ford, who only 8 months previously had been the Republican Minority Leader of the House of Representatives. Just as the Watergate scandal was reaching a crescendo, with widespread calls for the impeachment of President Richard Nixon, Vice President Spiro Agnew was forced from office because of his own legal troubles. Convicted of tax evasion during his time as Governor of Maryland, Agnew remains only the second VP in US history to resign. Ford was picked as his replacement, while charges against the President were at a critical point. The following summer, in another historic moment, Nixon became the only US President in history to resign. Thus in quick succession, Ford held the vice presidency and presidency without being elected for either post – an unprecedented feat.

Leading the United States in the middle of the Cold War, Ford presided over instability at home and abroad, including severe economic hardship, a brief détente with Communist Europe, and the Fall of Saigon. While respected in some quarters, Ford is condemned by others for his support for foreign misadventures in Vietnam and Indonesia that caused the deaths of thousands. When he finally faced a presidential election, in 1976, Ford narrowly lost to Jimmy Carter. Ford’s 895-day presidency went into the record books as the shortest in American history for someone who did not die in office. But perhaps this shorter term had some benefit: until 2017, Ford held yet another record, as the longest-lived US president.

 It seems fitting that the multi record-breaking 38th US President became the subject of an art enigma, exactly 38 years after he took office. In April 2012, residents of Grand Rapids, Michigan – the city in which Ford was raised and is now buried – spotted a number of spray-painted stencil images of the former president on the side of the Gerald R. Ford Freeway. Their appearance quickly sparked a lively local debate about whether the paintings were art or vandalism. The Michigan Department of Transportation thought the latter, designating them vandalism and a dangerous distraction for drivers, and vowing to have them removed.

The discussion then led on to debate about Ford’s record in office, his legacy, and the value of political art. The artist had clearly researched the subject in detail, basing the stencils on carefully selecting photographic images of Ford from key moments in his presidency and occasionally including quotes from landmark speeches. The first of the Ford stencils featured the words “I am indebted to no man”, spoken by the new president immediately after he took the oath of office, to humbly acknowledge that he had not been chosen by the American people.

The debate escalated from words to action, as some commentators staged interventions to alter the images: with the words “war criminal” sprayed in red paint; with Ford’s face covered by the V for Vendetta Guy Fawkes mask; and with a speech bubble containing the Grand Rapids motto “Motu Viget” (Latin for “strength in activity”).

 By May 2012, the first four paintings had been removed by a state cleaning crew. But the rogue artist soon returned, depicting Ford speaking at a podium, skiing and standing in a bathing suit and towel – the latter image appropriately appearing beside the Grand River and on the opposite bank from the graves of Ford and his wife, Betty.

Still the identity of the artist remained a mystery. Some hoped that the tag “SKBFF” next to some of the works would be a clue. In August 2012, MLive media group received an anonymous email, in which someone calling themselves Odd Job claimed to be the artist. This claimant dismissed SKBFF as an acronym for the “Society to Keep Betty Ford Forever”. In a subsequent email interview, in which Odd Job mostly wrote in riddles, they nonetheless provided some interesting context, claiming that “the images are about the community’s interaction with the memory of Gerald Ford”. The emailer also made some pertinent comments on the art vs. vandalism debate, welcoming the defacement because “really public art belongs to everyone. … I am pleased that someone interacted with it. … It is just part of the conversation. Art is brief; life is long.”

 However, the legitimacy of these claims were called into question when another emailer, signing themselves SKBFF, called Odd Job a fraud and seemingly proved the ownership of the paintings by sending images of the stencils used to create them.

The last of the Ford street paintings appeared in Grand Rapids that September, on the side of the building that was hosting the city’s annual ArtPrize. The image showed Gerald and Betty Ford celebrating his acceptance of the Republican party presidential nomination in 1976. The depiction of Ford’s short-lived success brought a similar reward for the creator, with the painting accepted as an entrant to the competition. On the ArtPrize website, the self-defined Unknown Graffiti Artist titled the work Vandalism and noted: “Recreating iconic images of Gerald Ford in Grand Rapids with stencils and spray paint raises some questions: Does painting popular images legitimize graffiti as an acceptable form of communication within community standards? Is this style of graffiti art or mere decoration?”

This artist’s statement was the last that was heard of the project. Publicly, the creator of the images and the intention behind them is still a mystery. Whether made by a single person or a collective; and whether an elaborate hoax, a guerrilla marketing stunt to mark Ford’s anniversary, or a multi-part conceptual artwork aimed at exploring the fine line between street art, graffiti and vandalism; nonetheless, it shone a light on the ongoing controversy about America’s Cold War record, the rights to commemoration, and the strange tale of perhaps the luckiest president in US history.

LIKE THIS STORY?
Here are some other Espionart posts you might enjoy:

Commemorating Bomber Command

In an unprepossessing corner of London’s Green Park – an oasis of tranquillity squeezed between the busy thoroughfare of Piccadilly and the grandeur of Buckingham Palace – stands an imposing neo-classical stone structure. This is the Bomber Command Memorial, opened by Queen Elizabeth II in 2012. The memorial took so long to be realised in large part due to the ongoing controversy about the magnitude of Britain’s bombing raids on German cities in the final years of the war, which inflicted widespread devastation and resulted in hundreds of thousands of civilian casualties. However, the aircrews also paid a high price: at the centre of the shrine is a large bronze group sculpture, depicting seven of the 55,573 servicepeople who lost their lives fighting in the RAF’s bomber forces in World War II – a staggering death rate of 44% of the entire force. The 9 foot high figures were created by Royal Sculptor, Philip Jackson. The work captures the exhaustion, relief, concern and fortitude of an air crew as they depart a plane, knowing they have once again survived a perilous mission but that their brothers-in-arms may never return.

The memorial has proved popular with Londoners and tourists alike, while making headlines for its endorsement by celebrities including Dame Judi Dench and the Bee Gees’ Robin Gibb.

Sculpture by Philip Jackson, within the Bomber Command Memorial, London. Courtesy Royal Parks.

Although the memorial focuses on World War II, Bomber Command didn’t disappear with the Allied victory in 1945, instead being thrust back to the front line in the atomic age. While the United States enjoyed an era of wealth and rampant consumerism in the aftermath of the war, European nations were slow to recover from the damage and loss. Thus, while America rapidly built up its nuclear arsenal and the USSR raced to compete, US allies in Western Europe struggled to develop weapons that might resist the Soviet threat.

Bomber Command Memorial by Philip Jackson.

In 1957, British Prime Minister Harold Macmillan appealed to US President Eisenhower to loan ballistic missiles to the UK, just as the perceived technological superiority of the Soviet Union sparked the Sputnik Crisis. The Americans agreed, and in 1959 they launched Project Emily, with the deployment of sixty Thor missiles to the UK. While US air force personnel were sent to oversee the weapons, responsibility for both men and machines fell under the control of Bomber Command. With its nuclear armory outsourced to the US, the UK was compelled to support its ally in a number of military forays at this time, and Bomber Command contributed to Cold War escapades in the Middle East and East Asia, and stood ready to serve during the Cuban Missile Crisis.

However, the downing of the U-2 spy plane over Soviet air space in 1960 was a wake-up call to the West. Acknowledging that military technology had dramatically changed in the Cold War, the British came to the realisation that their bomber air fleet would be no match for the Soviets in the new theatres of war. When the moment came to renew Project Emily in 1963, the British government instead opted to return the missiles to the United States, abandoning the idea of nuclear-armed aircraft in favour of submarines. With the dubious honour of safeguarding the country’s nuclear deterrent passed to the Royal Navy, Bomber Command ceased to have a role to play in the Cold War, and the unit was absorbed into the wider RAF in 1968.

LIKE THIS STORY?
Here are some other Espionart posts you might enjoy:

 

Nicaragua’s Revolutionary Murals

The present day turmoil in Central America, that leads so many to risk death or incarceration while attempting to cross the US border, has its origins in the Cold War. The civil wars and revolutions that reached their peak during the 1970s are collectively known as the Central American Crisis. This unrest in turn had its origins in the so-called Banana Wars of the early twentieth century, when the United States sent armed forces to occupy countries in Latin America and the Caribbean, in order to maintain control over plantations and to dominate regional trade.

Espionart earlier looked at Glorious Victory, a mural by Mexican artist Diego Rivera that expressed his outrage at a CIA-led coup in Guatemala that deposed the democratically-elected president, in support of the interests of the nefarious American United Fruit Company. The great Mexican mural movement, of which Rivera was leader, later inspired Nicaraguan artists to work together on creating numerous public paintings that responded to the long years of conflict in that country.

The Nicaraguan Revolution began as a series of uprisings against the ruthless dictatorship of the US-backed Somoza family, which ruled for over 42 years until it was swept from power on 17 July 1979 by the Sandinista rebels. In turn, the socialist Sandinistas were challenged by the Contras, right-wing militias trained and funded by the United States. Over the next two decades, both sides systematically terrorised and murdered civilians, with indigenous communities in particular decimated as they were – and continue to be – scapegoated as outsiders in their own countries.

Mural by the Felicia Santizo Brigade of Panama, 1980. Photo: David Schwartz.

After the Sandinista victory in 1979, murals began to spring up across Nicaragua. The first pro-Sandinista murals were in fact painted in Panama, a southern neighbour that provided both support and refuge to the Sandinista National Liberation Front (FSLN) during its years of insurrection. Brothers Virgilio and Ignacio Ortega formed the Felicia Santizo Brigade of Panama in the 1970s, painting starkly confrontational social realist murals near army bases and police stations. Soon after the coup, members of the brigade relocated to Nicaragua at the invitation of the FSLN, as the new government recognised the potential for consolidating its power through painting.

As the movement gained pace, international mural artists travelled to Nicaragua, resulting in the creation of over 300 murals during the decade that followed the Sandinista takeover. While the Felicia Santizo Brigade of Panama tended to depict Sandinista revolutionaries, the mural movement grew to include romantic or domestic scenes of an idealised post-revolutionary future, celebrating Nicaragua’s cultural heritage and supporting the FSLN drive towards mass literacy, universal health care, and gender equality.

Alejandro Canales, ‘Homage to Women’, 1980, Managua. Photo: David Schwartz.

While in power, the Sandinistas passed laws to protect the murals. But after they were voted out of office in 1990, the new pro-US right-wing government oversaw the destruction of many of the paintings, despite the efforts of local communities to preserve and restore them. Others took it upon themselves to document the murals, providing a lasting record for these lost artworks. During the 1980s, Albright College professor, David Schwartz, took full-colour images of many of the murals, some of which have been made available online. At the height of the destruction, UCLA art history professor David Kunzle also travelled to Nicaragua and succeeded in recording about 80 percentage of the original works. His book, The Murals of Revolutionary Nicaragua, 1979–1992, was published in 1995 and is partly available to view at Google Books.

But the Sandinista murals would prove to be as resilient as the political movement they celebrated. In the 2006 Nicaraguan general election, the FSLN and its leader, Daniel Ortega, once again claimed the presidency, heralding the start of a new mural movement across the country.

LIKE THIS STORY?
Here are some other Espionart posts you might enjoy:

Estampa Popular and Spain’s Anti-Francoist Art

The Spanish Civil War, which for almost three years from 17 July 1936 tore the European nation apart, resulted in 1939 in the establishment of a military dictatorship under the formidable General Francisco Franco. During World War II, the Spanish autocrat provided strategic support to Nazi Germany and Fascist Italy, repaying the countries’ backing of his Nationalist rebels during the Civil War. But in the advent of the Cold War, Franco found himself courted by the West, as the devoutly anti-communist state proved an uncomfortable though useful ally in efforts to resist Soviet influence in Southern Europe.

Espionart has previously explored how the United States used the visual arts as a means of reestablishing diplomatic relations with Spain in the 1950s. The Franco regime meanwhile hoped to obscure memory of its wartime alliance with the Axis powers by encouraging its artists to embrace a modern Western style. This favourable atmosphere led to a surge in abstract art groups in Spain, from the surrealist Dau al Set in Barcelona and the non-objective painting of El Paso artists in Madrid, to the constructivism of Parpalló in Valencia and Basque artists aligned to Gaur.

Selection of Estampa Popular prints, 1959–66, on display in Museo Reina Sofía, Madrid, 2016.

Although many of the artists associated with these groups were anti-Francoist, at the same time a counter movement arose among artists who felt that, if the regime favoured abstraction, then resistance required them to reject the avant-garde. While the state adopted popular American artistic narratives of art for art’s sake, projecting art as free, individualist and apolitical, artists explicitly against Franco emphasised art as collective and socially-engaged.

The Estampa Popular (‘Popular Press’) group was founded in Madrid in 1959 by José García Ortega (1921–1990), a social realist painter and engraver who was also a prominent member of the outlawed Spanish Communist Party (PCE). Ortega’s politics resulted in him being jailed in the late 1940s and then exiled between 1960 and 1977, during which time he lived in Italy and France, and befriended Picasso. In the founding manifesto of Estampa Popular in 1959, Ortega stated “that an art at the service of the people must reflect the social and political reality of its time and requires above all the union of content and realist forms”.

Ricardo Zamorano, ‘Jornaleros, España, loma a loma’ (‘Day labourers, Spain, hill to hill’), n.d.

Rapidly gaining support, Estampa Popular grew into a complex artistic network that extended to cities across Spain. The movement brought together a broad range of artists who shared a wish to use their art to bring down Franco’s dictatorship, which would continue until his death in 1975. Printmaking was its primary artistic medium, in line with other anti-elitist art movements around the world, and drawing in particular on the graphic art that thrived in revolutionary Mexico.

Estampa Popular workshops were established in numerous Spanish cities, providing artists with access to cheap printing techniques that made art affordable to all, while increasing the speed and ease with which they could produce protest posters. While working in a variety of styles, Estampa Popular artists tended to favour bold, figurative designs that were accessible and clearly comprehensible. In content, the prints bore witness to the dark side of Francoism and exposed false narratives of the regime, highlighting brutal political repression and the economic hardship imposed on rural communities and industrial labourers by the relentless drive towards modernisation.

Francisco Álvarez, ‘Manifestación’ (‘Demonstration’), c.1962. Courtesy Museo Reina Sofía.

Estampa Popular started to dwindle in the late 1960s, gradually replaced by groups such as Equipo Crónica and Equipo Realidad, which blended anti-Francoist sentiment with styles inspired by the global pop art movement. But it would prove to have far-reaching influence on art in Cold War Spain, empowering artists to seek alternatives to compliance with the regime’s vision of modern art.

LIKE THIS STORY?
Here are some other Espionart posts you might enjoy: