Banksy: "The Next Warhol"

The Girl With the Red Balloon
When my sister and I went to Paris, we stayed in a B&B on the outskirts of the city. Some online reviewers called the neighborhood seedy and even dangerous--it wasn't. Not really. But it wasn't what most people imagine when they think of Paris, either.

On the first night, on the bus into the main part of Paris, we drove under a dark overpass, and on the concrete wall I saw a beautiful piece of graffiti art: a little girl, her hair and her skirt lifting in the breeze, her hand outstretched toward the string of a heart-shaped red balloon. The string is close to her fingers, within inches, but the viewer already knows she won't catch it. In fact, I'm still not sure if she was trying to catch the balloon or letting it go.

We had an amazing time in Paris. We left Paris. And then I kicked myself for not taking a picture of the girl with the red balloon.

Months later, back at UofM, I decided on a whim to search the graffiti on Google. I knew it was a long shot--but I was bored. Might as well see if some other traveler had spotted the beautiful piece of street art and snapped a picture. I crossed my fingers for one accurate result.

I found hundreds.

Humanity and Red Lipstick
As it turns out, the girl with the red balloon is one of the classic images of Banksy, an anonymous British tagger whose pseudonym is almost legendary in the London (and worldwide) graffiti scene. His stencils are famous--especially the girl with the red balloon, which I stumbled upon in Paris.

According to an article in Esquire, Banksy's manifesto is a diary entry of a British officer who'd been among the first to liberate a concentration camp:

"It was shortly after the British Red Cross arrived, though it may have no connection, that a very large quantity of lipstick arrived. This was not at all what we men wanted, we were screaming for hundreds and thousands of other things and I don't know who asked for lipstick. I wish so much that I could discover who did it, it was the action of genius, sheer unadulterated brilliance. I believe nothing did more for these internees than the lipstick. Women lay in bed with no sheets and no nightie but with scarlet red lips, you saw them wandering about with nothing but a blanket over their shoulders, but with scarlet red lips. I saw a woman dead on the post mortem table and clutched in her hand was a piece of lipstick. At last someone had done something to make them individuals again, they were someone, no longer merely the number tattooed on the arm. At last they could take an interest in their appearance. That lipstick started to give them back their humanity."

Legendary Artist or Vandal with a Spray Can?

In the Esquire article, everybody knows Banksy's name. One man refers to him as "the next Warhol." But like the original mural in Graffiti Alley of Ann Arbor, Banksy's work is temporary--and, arguably, illegal. His passionate following demonstrates the fine line between vandalism and art (and the tendency for the two categories to overlap). Banksy's art is so powerful because it's NOT framed in a museum, behind glass. It's unsanctioned. On the margins. Banksy uses his stencils, sometimes whimsical, sometimes deadly serious, and sometimes both, to critique the world on the stage where everything intersects: the streets.

On Banksy's website, anyone can look through some of Banksy's art. And Google Images provides an even bigger gallery. His stencils resonate with numerous themes: anti-war, anti-capitalism, issues of sex and violence, environmental awareness, and loneliness/alienation, among countless others.

 

Banksy isn't a legend with everyone. According to the New Yorker, some critics feel that Banksy's art "glorifies what is essentially vandalism," and that his work contains "some wit . . . some cleverness--and a massive bucket of hot steaming hype."

On the other hand, it could be argued that Banksy's art is not as marginalized and alternative as he (or, rather, his supporters) would like it to be; his pieces have been known to sell for thousands of pounds, and his name pops up everywhere. But his fame isn't typical of our Hollywood-generated culture. His name is out there, his art increasingly mainstream, because people embrace his rebellion against artistic norms and his mode of critique. Banksy says graffiti speaks for those whose voices often aren't heard, and in the modern capitalist machine, there are many who feel their voices aren't heard.

"Bus stops are far more interesting and useful places to have art than in museums. Graffiti has more chance of meaning something or changing stuff than anything indoors. Graffiti has been used to start revolutions, stop wars, and generally is the voice of people who aren't listened to. Graffiti is one of those few tools you have if you have almost nothing. And even if you don't come up with a picture to cure world poverty you can make somebody smile while they're having a piss."
--Banksy, Banging Your Head Against A Brick Wall

Remix Storytelling

When I was little, Disney's Cinderella was my favorite movie. I mean, ever. At age three, I watched the movie every single day and never got tired of it (which is more than I can say for my mom). Even now, eighteen years older--and with the ability to recognize the issues in some of Disney's works--I still adore that movie. But now I'm aware of the rich history behind the simple fairy tale.



Fairy Tale Remix

This semester, in my Fantasies of Childhood literature class, we traced the origin of Cinderella in detail. In 1812, the Brothers Grimm published their first volume of folk tales. But these weren't original; they were based on the brothers traveling the countryside, talking to peasants who had heard stories passed down. The original folk tales were passed down orally, and they were MUCH darker...the Grimms were Christians, and they cleaned up the stories' most gruesome and sexual elements.

But they didn't cut out ALL the good stuff. The original Cinderella story resonates with danger and a twisted morality. When Cinderella's father thinks she's climbed up a pear tree to escape a search party, he chops the tree down. Correct me if I'm wrong, but this isn't a typical show of fatherly concern. The stepsisters, meanwhile, are so desperate to fit the glass slipper that one girl chops off her big toe, and other other slices off a chunk of her heel. (Disney wisely chose not to include that part.) And in the end, the stepsisters show up at Cinderella's royal wedding, and her pigeon friends--cheery, chirpy bluebirds in the Disney movie--swoop down and peck the stepsisters' eyes out.

This was the story that the Grimms recorded. Most likely, the original (spoken) tale in the German countryside was even more gruesome. As years passed, the Grimms toned down the darkness in some of their fairy tales--they cut out the mutilation at Cinderella's wedding, for instance.

But most people don't know that the story reaches back even further. In 1634, Neopolitan soldier and government official Giambattista Basile wrote about a young girl named Cenerentola, which shared the common features of a wicked stepmother and stepsisters, a magical transformation, and a missing slipper. And some decades later, in 1697, folklorist Charles Perrault wrote the version most familiar to us today: a fairy godmother, a pumpkin transformed into a carriage, and glass (not golden, like in the Grimms' version) slippers. There are even some who argue that Cinderella dates back to classical antiquity: an ancient Greek historian, Strabo, wrote of a girl whose sandal was carried away by eagles. The king found it and, intrigued by its beauty, sent out messengers to find the girl who fit the mysterious sandal.

This was written more than 2000 years ago.



Cinderella in the Modern World

Most of us know the Disney version best. Under closer examination, this sugary G-rated movie is a prime example of remix storytelling. Disney pulled the fairy godmother and glass slippers from Perrault's version; they lifted the bird-helpers from the Grimm version. And they sanitized it all, to make it appropriate for very young audiences. And versions of Disney movies (based on century-old stories, based on even-older oral folk tales) are STILL being created--look at Mark Rosman's "A Cinderella Story," starring Hilary Duff in 2004, or even "Beastly," starring Alex Pettyfer and released just this year. It's overwhelming to think that new works of art are still being created on the foundation of a simple story from 1634.

New Art

Collaborative art is nothing new. There's always been graffiti in big cities and writing on bathroom stalls.

But I'm interested in not only what, but also HOW and WHY. What's so intoxicating about writing where you're not supposed to? Why share something that will remain anonymous, something that will probably be painted over or covered up?

The internet has given a new outlet to this controversial art form. Websites like postsecret, fmylife, and even twitter allow strangers to come together and create a collage of secrets, of thoughts and ideas and confessions. Why are people so drawn to public (and often anonymous) forums? Should projects like these be considered art?

This study may extend into other areas....any place where people take ownership of technology or use a medium that no one else has thought of before.