Love and Justice

Hugo Perez

For the past week I have been ruminating on what was in every way a fine and moving evening last Tuesday, when we screened Hugo Perez's Neither Memory Nor Magic, a film portrait of Hungarian poet Miklós Radnóti. I had moist eyes more than once as I watched this beautiful and poignant work, which, though it depicts the life of a man who died miserably in the Holocaust, is ultimately about life, not death; courage, not fear; beauty, not brutality. Radnóti's poems, the few I know from the film and from Carolyn Forché's anthology Against Forgetting: Twentieth Century Poetry of Witness, have burrowed deep into me. He bore witness to the barbarity of the Nazi labor camps where he was imprisoned, with a voice at once elegiac and indomitable, and though he never flinched from the horror of his circumstance, his poems ultimately are expressions of profound love. Love for his wife Fanni, for the music of language, for the world:

. . . tonight the moon is so round!
Don't go past me, my friend— shout! and I'll come around! 
                                                                              
I was just admiring, up there, your eyes' blue sheen,
when it clouded over, and up in that machine
the bombs are aching to dive. Despite them, I am alive

My definition of the "documentary arts" is broadly inclusive, as evidenced in the mission state on this page; it's meant to embrace all art that bears witness to the struggle, striving, and triumph of the human spirit. Bearing witness in this sense is no passive, legalistic stance. It demands an active engagement with the world and, perhaps more deeply, a committed relationship to soul. As Forché writes in the introduction to her book, witnessing art "will have to be judged . . . by its consequences." Among the consequences must include art's ability to advocate for life, to stand on the side of compassion, generosity, care; in short, to love. As a position, this is not at all simple or easy. The instinct of a great many artists who fall loosely under the heading "documentary" is, I observe, not toward love as much as justice. I once asked the poet Hayden Carruth which of those two imperatives was "more important"; he declared in favor of justice, since justice implied love. I'm not entirely sure I agree with his choice, but the logical equation is not at all straight-forward: all love may encompass justice, but too few things that pose as "justice" can be said to espouse love. Indeed, the concept of justice is commonly defined according to the duality of good and evil, a useful dichotomy if one is in need of enemies or dominion, but not one that accommodates grace. Grace, simply put, is treating others not necessarily as they "deserve," but as love requires — as fellow travelers on a divine journey. This is a radical notion, one that runs counter to logic and experience, yet it seems to me just where we can situate Radnóti, and where the artists I most admire reside. This does not mean I take no interest in art that seeks to expose injustice or address suffering. Far from it. That is also an act of witness. Yet I have long believed, and maintain more strongly now than ever, that art's greatest power is not as a mirror, but as a torch, beacon, guide, path — whatever metaphor works for you — to higher consciousness. Art elevates humanity not so much via the enlightenment of argument and evidence as through the illumination of the soul's mysteries and wisdoms.

This is what Hugo's film accomplishes. There are passages in it as moving as any I've seen in a documentary film; in one, the screen painfully dissolves to black, a darkness broken by one of Radnóti's poems like a herald from heaven. I want to express my gratitude to Hugo for his work and for being my guest in Albany, and thank all those who attended and stayed for the lively Q&A afterward. More screenings are planned for the future; the Opalka Gallery, my partner in last week's event, will be co-host and venue for a series of four films beginning in October. I am currently programming that series and will have more information to share on it shortly.

The audience during the Q&A

Poetry excerpts from "Forced March" and "Letter to My Wife," translated by Emery George, from Against Forgetting: Twentieth Century Poetry of Witness, edited by Carolyn Forché. 

"What makes us vulnerable makes us beautiful"

Here's a brilliant TED talk by Brene Brown, research professor at the University of Houston Graduate College of Social Work. She has spent the past ten years studying vulnerability, courage, authenticity, and shame, and is now using that work to explore wholeheartedness.  





Dr. Brown's findings go to the heart of compassion. I was sent her talk in preparation for a two-day workshop on Love, Loss, and Forgiveness, founded and facilitated by Michael Murphy. The workshop was an exhilarating and occasionally harrowing excursion into vulnerability and bearing witness, which Dr. Murphy, an early leader in the hospice movement in America, identifies as an act of love. "We need witnesses to heal," he observed. "Our secrets are what kill us." To wholeheartedly bear witness to another's distress is difficult but intimately life-affirming and has implications far beyond the individual. As Brown and Murphy reveal, we cannot feel true compassion for others if we do not have it for ourselves. 

A site and an exhibition

Battlesight is an exhibition of photographs from the central fronts of what was formerly called the "War on Terror," in truth two separate wars lead by the United States in Afghanistan and Iraq, and touching Pakistan, Iran and the whole Middle East/Southern Asia region. These are wars that, despite their long duration (the first troops were sent to Afghanistan in 2001, shortly after 9/11), the American public knows relatively little about, and today sees even less of, mostly brief clips on TV and a decreasing number of images in the press. Today, unless you are, have been, or know someone in the military, the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan (renamed the "Overseas Contingency Operation" by the Obama Administration) are being fought far from American awareness. Battlesight features the work of internationally renowned photojournalists Cheryl Diaz Meyer, Balazs Gardi, and Teru Kuwayama. Sometimes embedded with US or Coalition forces, sometimes working independently, these photographers have risked their safety to bear witness to the realities and consequences of warfare on combatants and civilians. For their work, they have won numerous international awards, including a Pulitzer Prize. 

     The Center for Documentary Arts at The Sage Colleges is an education center founded to address humanitarian issues through documentary art. As director, I've organized Battlesight to make a statement about the Center's chief mission, which is, through the work of documentary artists, to take part in the public conversation about issues that confront individuals and the world community. Whether the conversation is a polite exchange or passionate debate does not matter nearly as much as the fact that it expands and deepens our engagement with the world. Documentary artists are committed to reporting the factual and emotional truth of the world. The term you will encounter again and again on this site, the central thrust of my concern, is bearing witness. This simple act, when undertaken by caring artists, transforms reportage into an act of empathy, the first step toward compassion and the ethical foundation of the Center for Documentary Arts. In posts to come, I will talk more about the Center's mission and plans for Battlesight. I'll post images, news, essays, and interviews, and explore the issues that surround the show and work like it.