There is a land where people work together and thrive long enough that they are able to become a nation. For centuries, the nation has been crafting its soul—layer by layer, myth by myth. It begins not with borders, but with stories: of chosen people, sacred land, and heroic struggle. Poets and philosophers give it language; composers give it rhythm; revolutionaries, fire. Over generations, the people come to see themselves not just as citizens, but as heirs to a destiny—one forged in sacrifice, sanctified by tradition, and sharpened by conflict. As the decades pass, the identity grows more ornate. It is taught in schools, etched into monuments, sung in anthems. Pride becomes policy. Memory becomes law. And when the world shifts—when economies falter, enemies multiply, and certainties collapse—the nation turns inward. It searches its past for strength, and finds not just glory, but grievance. The truth comes out and while some are shocked, others are proud that something they knew for a long time is becoming memetic. The nation continues to turn inward and begins to point fingers for whom to blame for their struggles.
Then comes this moment. A leader and a movement promises restoration—not just of power, but of purity. They speak the old language with new urgency. They offer belonging to some and exclusion to others. The myths are then weaponized. The soul, once a tapestry, becomes a banner. But even as the nation narrows its soul into slogans, resistance blooms in the margins. Artists and poets and misfits refuse the call to conformity. They paint in colors the regime can not name, write in metaphors that slip through censors, dance in rhythms that defy the march. Their work does not seek to unify—it seeks to complicate, to fracture, to remind the people of their multiplicity. In alley galleries and underground theaters, in zines passed hand to hand, they build a counter-narrative: one that embraces contradiction, celebrates dissent, and reclaims identity as something wild, unfinished, and ungovernable. Where the state demands unity, they offer polyphony. Where power seeks purity, they make noise.
And so, after about 200 or so years of dreaming itself into being, the nation stands at a crossroads: between memory and myth, between identity and ideology. Who would they become?
What do you think? Who do they become? Whose story am I telling? Is it Germany? Or is it Italy? Am I talking about Japan? Or Spain? How about the current United States of America?
Germany created an identity years before Adolf Hitler was elected and harnessed the narrative. Italy, looking back on Rome, pushed towards Nationalism, to preserve their glory days, along their fascist takeover. Japan went under a cultural consolidation which was then warped by totalitarianism. All three of these nations heavily controlled the art that was being created and seen under these governments to make sure it fit their mold. That didn’t stop contradicting art from being made. George Grosz and John Heartfield made satire to mock Nazis. Cesare Pavese and Salvatore Quasimodo wrote poems to fight Mussolini. And after WWII, Gutai rejected the art of propaganda and encouraged more chaotic and abstract creations.
The United States of America will be reaching its 250th birthday in 2026. In preparation, The White House has already sent letters to 8 of the Smithsonian’s Museums to prepare for a review in 120 days. This review will be to make sure they have replaced “divisive or ideologically driven language with unifying, historically accurate and constructive descriptions.” Our current government feels our National Museum of American History, for example, is filled with “wall-to-wall, anti-American Propaganda."
We are on the same path, but our history hasn’t been written yet. As the “Never Again” exhibition in Warsaw powerfully frames it: “the struggle against fascism is never won once and for all. It demands constant vigilance—and art remains one of the most potent tools for that resistance.”
Don’t let history repeat itself. Become ungovernable: Make Art.
