Someone messaged me the other day, telling me I should "stick to art" and avoid politics. It's not the first message like this I've received in the past six months. It always makes me chuckle and raise an eyebrow. I know what the next step is: block. I used to feel bad about blocking people, but now it brings me joy, especially when it comes to Zionists.
I used to feel my art was meant to create beauty and reveal something uplifting to the world because of what I've been through, what others have been through. One of the ways to do this was through aesthetically pleasing creations. But when people are being massacred, and I see images of dead children on my phone, my focus shifts. My priority is no longer on aesthetics; it's on sharing the actual news, doing what I can to mobilize in my own way, and standing in solidarity with Palestine. While art and beauty can offer hope and solace, focusing solely on aesthetics during such times can feel disconnected and insensitive. We must acknowledge the atrocities and use our platforms to raise awareness and support those affected. Art plays a huge role, but it needs to capture the urgency and gravity of the situation, serving as a tool for solidarity and advocacy rather than mere decoration for applause or sales.
When people tell me to "stick to art," I think about how our way of living reflects our love, how our love shapes our creations, and how our actions define us. Everything we do is art. I see a generation raised on hate, intolerant of artists who use their work to connect with our shared humanity. I see colonizers, oppressors, and racists who fear art because within its strokes, voices, and expressions lie a formidable force of resistance and healing. Art is the guardian of culture, history, and collective memory—an unwavering defiance against the erasure sought by those seeking to dominate.
I used to post photos of my cakes, cookies, and breads on Instagram. I can't bring myself to upload pretty pictures of food while children are being starved to death in Gaza. I used to share more visuals about my personal life, too, but I can't find it in me to post much when I feel the pain of mothers in Gaza who've lost everything. I used to believe what I posted was important, doing it for various reasons—to build community, heal my trauma, showcase beauty—in order to connect us.
But most of the people who are connected to those things are nowhere near me now. They've fled as if their own lives were in danger. And in some ways, they knew their privileged lives were under threat. In danger of having their entire made-up realities shattered. To be unraveled from the inside out and see the lie you've been living is painful, and privilege doesn't know pain by its name. It only knows how to coddle feelings, how to pretend, and how to protect itself.
It's undeniable—our lives shift when we're witnessing such gut-wrenching images on our screens. How could they not? How can anyone remain unchanged? How can you not feel an unwavering moral imperative to raise your voice, no matter the cost? How do we just carry on, business as usual, while genocide unfolds? People desperately cling to the illusion of normalcy, craving the comfort of their routine. They turn away from the horrors beyond their immediate vicinity. But Palestine has taught us a brutal truth: none of us are truly free. I once thought freedom meant having the liberty to create and live as I pleased. Yet, in reality, I find myself trapped in a paradox. I create to survive, to pay the bills, only to realize that my taxes fund violence.
Many years ago, I used to believe that intertwining my art with worldly events wasn't true art. The man I was with at the time often reiterated this sentiment. He'd say, "My art is not marketing or an advertisement for others; it's authentic art that flows through me, not from the world." And I used to think that made sense simply because he'd been an artist much longer than I had.
Now, I see the truth: where art and artist, myself and all life, merge into a singular entity. The sincerity of our craft is honed by our unwavering determination to confront the world.
And so, I stick to art. I refuse to let anyone belittle or dismiss my emotions.
I continue to delve into honesty through questioning, evolving my perspective, creating, and speaking up. I've realized that beauty is not merely depicted on paper; it embodies courage, dignity, and moral fortitude that we must strive for, no matter how daunting, trembling, or uncomfortable.
I used to feel the need to conceal parts of myself—my opinions, thoughts, and spirit—to fit in. But if I've learned anything, it's that honesty is sacred, and I understand its worth.
I used to believe that altering my art was necessary to advocate for causes; I thought it needed to appear different. But I've learned that I don't need to change my art: I need to use it as a tool for change instead.
It's crucial to extend, to offer, to share, to release our creations into the world. Our art finds its way to us and courses through our being, enabling us to practice our humanity by relinquishing what we hold dear, allowing it to serve others in the same profound way.
Sticking to your art during these times is necessary, is healing, and is vital. At a time when sacred cultural symbols and chants are banned by law, when fascism grips nations, when indigenous peoples are annihilated from their land, when oppressive regimes gaslight and seek control, may your art take many shapes, may your art keep you sane, may your art serve the hearts, and may your art pulse for a Free Palestine.
With love,
Vanja
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This was so beautifully expressed. I felt so much resistance to launching a website I spent months working on while Palestinians couldn't even get a good night's sleep because of warplanes constantly whizzing above them. Promoting my services feels so trivial when so much blood is being shed without tax dollars, yet capitalism makes it so that I have no choice. It's suffocating.
And I, too, used to post cute photos of kitchen creations, but it feels like continuing as if nothing has changed feels impossible. Feels so dismissive of the collective trauma.
Anyone who hasn't yet figured out that all art is political...I pray for them.
Thank you for your work. <3
P.S. The sweater is perfection! I will be grabbing one soon.
♥️