An Interview by Maria-Jésus Hernaez Lerena, PHD. La Univeritad de la Rioja, Spain. Feb. 15. 2022 [YouTube]
“How Do You Think That Art Can Contribute to Social Justice?”
The concept of “art” has, in contemporary discourse, become increasingly complex, often to the point of confusion and over-complication. But can we not also argue that this complexity is, in part, intentionally cultivated? I would certainly contend that it is. The question arises, however: is this evolution of art’s meaning truly relevant, and, if so, in comparison to what? How does this evolving definition influence broader creativity? At its core, art can be seen as one of many human endeavors; but how does its relevance stack up against something as critical as intensive emergency medical care, for instance?
Historically, certain individuals and institutions have appropriated the term “art” for their own interests, at times contributing to its practice, but equally undermining its essence. This appropriation is not merely incidental; it has often been instrumental in distorting or commercializing art for financial gain or ideological purposes.
A similar pattern can be observed in the field of “social justice.” Regardless of the specific cause or issue at hand, the core dilemma remains the same: who controls the definition, and to what extent can that definition be manipulated or co-opted? The real question, then, is to what degree this manipulation can be harmful.
Take, for example, President John F. Kennedy’s decision to officially define any object over 100 years old as an “antique” in the United States. This seemingly trivial classification had profound economic consequences, turning “matter” into capital by creating a market value for objects once considered ordinary or inconsequential. An Italian living in a remote village might find this designation laughable, given the far longer history embedded in their own culture. To them, a 18th-century church would hardly be considered “old.” This divergence in definitions highlights the constructed nature of historical and cultural categories—something Napoleon famously acknowledged when he remarked, “History is simply a set of people agreeing on how events unfolded.”
Returning to the concept of “art,” I would certainly classify works like Francisco Goya’s etchings as art—his raw, expressive talent vividly exposes the horrors, injustices, and societal vices of his time, providing a universal and timeless commentary on human nature. The power and relevance of his work lie in its ability to transcend the specifics of its historical context and engage with fundamental aspects of the human condition.
However, not all forms of graphic expression, imagery, or visual representation should be deemed “art.” For example, I would hesitate to label any piece of propaganda, regardless of how well executed, as art. While it may be highly polished and expertly crafted, propaganda is often designed with the intent to manipulate, rather than to provoke genuine reflection or understanding. To me, such works fall into the category of what might be called “junk art”—a term that, ironically, may eventually be rebranded as virtuous, given the tendency to normalize or reframe art’s purpose in service of particular agendas.
The underlying issue is that a growing number of individuals—often highly intelligent and persuasive—are adept at recontextualizing almost anything to their benefit. Their arguments, while not necessarily malicious, are often limited by their own perceptual frameworks. Yet, through sheer rhetorical skill, they manage to make their claims seem legitimate, which can be acceptable until they ascend to positions of influence, where they become the self-appointed guardians or ambassadors of art. This dynamic transforms discussions about art into contentious debates, much like the conversations surrounding politics, religion, race, or gender. Those without the requisite skills in discourse find themselves at a distinct disadvantage.
The term “justice” has similarly been appropriated by competing factions, each using it to legitimize their own positions. In today’s age of rapid digital image sharing and alteration, the manipulation of images has become ubiquitous. What was once a sincere and honest visual representation can be quickly re-contextualized, often distorting its original intent. This transformation is almost inevitable, as images circulate and are altered by third parties. The concept of “social justice” itself becomes vulnerable to distortion in this process, with the original message of a given image potentially being completely undermined by subsequent modifications.
In conclusion, the notion that an image or work of art can contribute to the discourse on social justice, or any other issue, is fraught with complications. The image, once released into the public sphere, is no longer solely the creator’s to control. The degree to which it can retain its original meaning or purpose is a matter of chance, and its potential to contribute meaningfully to social discourse is increasingly uncertain in a world where visual content is so easily manipulated and co-opted for various agendas. Thus, the role of art, and the definitions we apply to it, remain deeply contested and subject to ongoing redefinition.
“Censorship?”
To begin addressing this complex issue, it is important to recognize that “art” rarely achieves its intended effect in a straightforward manner. This is primarily because, in the vast majority of cases, the artist is not free to fully express their own vision. Rather, they are often compelled to work within the constraints of pre-existing “concepts and ideas” dictated by external forces—be it a client, a publisher, or societal expectations—rather than being allowed to create from the heart, as in the case of Goya’s deeply personal and evocative works. In some instances, artists are even asked to mimic or replicate the visual language of others, drawing on “reference materials” that are not their own.
In the specific realm of illustration, particularly as I have observed it in the United States and Canada, the image is frequently subordinated to the accompanying text. In such cases, the image becomes little more than a vehicle for the text, and often, as a result, loses its vitality and meaning. The expectations of many clients or publishers can be particularly restrictive. For instance, an artist may be tasked with visually representing a concept—such as “Christ’s torture”—but without depicting the act itself or showing any graphic content, such as blood. This leads to a kind of visual censorship, where even the most basic elements of the scene are excluded from representation. Such constraints render the image less powerful and less capable of evoking the emotional or intellectual response the artist may have intended.
Moreover, in the field of illustration, particularly in commercial contexts, an artist’s work is often competing not only with other illustrations but also with advertising imagery. In many cases, the true driving force behind the production of a newspaper or magazine is its advertising revenue, which can, at times, take precedence over the artistic content. This dynamic further diminishes the potential impact of the artist’s work, as it is often relegated to a secondary role in service of commercial interests. It is hardly a revelation to anyone familiar with the media industry that financial imperatives shape the ways in which images are used and presented.
In sum, the autonomy of the artist and the integrity of their work are frequently compromised by external pressures—whether those pressures come from commercial, institutional, or societal forces. As a result, the image, particularly in the context of illustration, often fails to fulfill its full potential as a medium of artistic expression, becoming instead a mere tool in the service of external agendas. This phenomenon raises important questions about the relationship between art, commerce, and the distribution of creative power.
“Breaches of the Human Rights – Which kind of breaches of human rights have impacted you most?”
The principle of “breach” itself is inherently significant, regardless of the intensity or magnitude of its manifestation. In this context, it is untenable to claim that one form of breach is more tolerable than another, as doing so would constitute a form of discrimination by privileging certain violations over others. Such a hierarchical approach would implicitly endorse the prioritization of some breaches of conduct or morality over others, which is ethically problematic.
While it is undeniable that some breaches are associated with greater severity, such as the case of “torture,” which is unequivocally linked to extreme physical and psychological harm, this does not justify a differential treatment of breaches based on their perceived level of horror or criminality. Each breach, in its essence, constitutes a violation that must be addressed within its own context, without reducing its moral and legal gravity by comparison to other, potentially more extreme, forms of transgression. To allow for a system that ranks breaches in terms of severity could lead to a relativistic approach to justice, where certain violations are minimized or overlooked, thus undermining the foundational principles of equality and fairness in moral and legal discourse.
“How did you become an artist?”
An exceptionally talented artist friend of mine—who has since passed away—used to say, “One does not become an artist; one is born an artist.” Of course, while this may be a sentiment some would resonate with, it also acknowledges the choice involved in embracing this “gift.” One can choose to accept or repudiate it, as pursuing a vocation in the arts is neither an obvious nor an easy decision. In French, this is referred to as la vocation, a term that, in the contemporary context, may hold less significance in our society than it once did. Honestly, I am uncertain whether this concept carries much weight today.
I grew up in a remote village in the Pyrenees Mountains, isolated for much of the year, with six months of snow, no library, and no museum. I missed school frequently due to illness, and during these times, drawing in bed became my only form of expression. Everyone, I believe, has a particular talent—whether for good or ill. For me, that talent was drawing better than my peers. It was quickly recognized by my teachers, especially since it was the only area where I did not fall behind. My mother, however, strongly resented the idea of her son becoming an artist. Perhaps this resistance played a pivotal role in my eventual choice to pursue art. As a pragmatic woman, she feared that I would one day suffer the consequences of being an outsider or a “misfit” in society. There is truth in this concern—one must develop resilience to endure in such a path. As Frank Sinatra’s song goes, “When I was 17, when I was 21, when I was… but now…” It is the “but now” that frees me in some ways, as I am increasingly aware that I am in the final phase of my life, and I no longer worry about conforming to societal expectations.
I am primarily self-taught, which has been a solitary journey—one that has often been isolating. Solitude, however, has been extolled as essential by figures like Leonardo da Vinci, and while I did not fully grasp this necessity at the time, I came to understand that one must eliminate distractions in order to cultivate mastery. For the first ten years of my artistic practice, I focused solely on drawing, working diligently to improve my technique. I was often told, and found it hard to disagree, that without a “decent” working hand, nothing could truly be achieved, regardless of the medium used. In this sense, all visual mediums—whether painting, sculpture, or photography—are, at their core, variants of drawing. While the public may not always recognize this, I firmly believe it to be true.
It was only by necessity that I discovered engraving. When I needed to create a poster for my first exhibition, engraving became a practical solution, though at the time, I did not yet consider it an art form. The reality of artistic training is that one does not only train one’s hand but also one’s eye and memory, and these must be coordinated in a harmonious and deliberate way. This integrated approach to seeing and creating is fundamental to developing true artistic skill.
“Favorite drawings or your favorite artist?”
The question of which of my works is my favorite is akin to asking a mother to identify her favorite child. Certainly, depending on the time and situation, one may experience varying degrees of affection or frustration with them all. However, I will refrain from using the word “love” in relation to my own work, as it feels imprecise. The reality is that each of my artworks serves as a reflection of my lived experience during a particular period of my life. They function more as journals or personal reminders—documents of time and experience—and as such, each piece evokes both joy and pain upon revisiting, depending on the memories they bring forth.
As for favorite artists, Goya and Leonardo are undoubtedly among the foremost. Yet, as time passes and my perspective matures, I find myself increasingly drawn to the classical masters—those who transcend cultural boundaries. While I have always appreciated their work, I now better understand why. By this, I refer to the “masters” from various global traditions—artists from China, Asia, Central and South America, Africa, and elsewhere—many of whom remain anonymous, but whose work resonates with profound strength, grace, and elegance. Their art speaks directly to the viewer in a way that is deeply impactful, often bypassing the need for a recognizable name or brand.
The modern, mercantile tendency to assign significant value to the name of the artist—as a form of marketing and commodification—seems at odds with the true purpose of art. Ideally, art should speak for itself, without needing to be labeled or categorized by the identity of its creator. However, this view can be difficult to convey in a world dominated by consumer culture, where the identity of the artist often takes precedence over the substance of the work itself. Try explaining this idea to a salesperson at Nike, or a devoted fan of Christian Dior or Armani, and the contrast becomes all the more apparent. In such contexts, the name often holds more weight than the intrinsic value of the product—whether that product is a pair of shoes or a work of art. This reflects a broader cultural tendency to commodify artistic creation, which diminishes the ability of art to stand on its own merit.
“Engravings – Could you explain in simple terms how engravings are made?”
Consider the landscape of hills and valleys, the undulating contours of the earth, or the act of someone digging a trench into the ground. The bed created by the flowing of a river, the texture of tree bark, or the marks left by people carving names and hearts into the walls of public spaces. Think of the cast iron plates embedded in city streets, bearing the names of utility companies—Con Edison, sewer systems, water mains—and the subtle engravings that appear everywhere in the built environment. Our entire world, both natural and artificial, is imbued with traces of engraving. Even the inscription of your name on the doorframe of your home, or the carving of your loved one’s epitaph on a gravestone, belongs to this pervasive tradition on hoping to make it everlasting.
A world that is entirely smooth—like a piece of glass—would be too slippery, too ungraspable. It is through the act of engraving, of leaving a mark, that we come to terms with our surroundings; we need to “come to grips with” the world in a tactile, physical way. This process of making marks on surfaces, of etching into material, becomes a fundamental part of our interaction with the world. Does this not seem self-evident?
If, by “engraving,” you refer to the technical process, it is important to understand that it involves a literal struggle of hard against soft—whether working with metal, stone, wood, or any other medium. In fact, there is nothing delicate or gentle about it. One must apply pressure, exerting strength and persistence, to leave a lasting imprint. For lack of a better term, I would describe this process as inherently “forceful,” as it requires more than mere dexterity—it demands physical effort and focusing. Engraving, in this sense, is an act of resistance, a confrontation between the tool and the material that results in a permanent mark, a tangible trace of human presence and intervention in the world.
“Human struggle?”
I acknowledge my own limitations and ignorance, particularly when it comes to understanding the vast scope of human experience. For instance, I have little knowledge beyond what can be described as the “tip of the iceberg.” This became glaringly apparent when I had the rare opportunity to witness an iceberg in person. I realized, in that moment, that I would be incapable of adequately capturing or describing the intense translucence and luminosity of its form. To truly convey “human struggle,” one would need to have the ability to express not just light, but the opposite: the profound intensity of darkness and suffering.
Strangely enough, I have been asked on several occasions, particularly in relation to my illustrated works, to represent this very concept. Perhaps this request arises from my graphic style, often executed in woodcut or linoleum, which tends to emphasize stark contrasts and bold expressions. However, despite these technical abilities, I would never claim to be capable of fulfilling such a request with authenticity. How could one, after all, presume to capture the essence of true suffering—how could one pretend to understand or depict something so deeply personal and visceral, to be “under the skin” of such experiences? This question, for me, remains unanswered, as I believe the representation of profound human pain requires an emotional and experiential depth that goes beyond mere technical execution.
“Isn’t anyones duty of sharing knowledge?”
From an early age, we are taught to compete, often with the belief that our success is best measured by how we outperform those around us. We’re led to think that our survival depends on it. After all, in the wild—illustrated by videos from brave tourists on an African safari—we often witness the strongest animals preying on the weaker. This image is frequently held up as a symbol of individualism and strength.
However, the reality is more nuanced. Lions, for example, are not solitary hunters. They work in teams, cooperating to bring down prey, and they share the spoils once they’ve secured it. This example highlights an important truth: while survival may involve competition, it also depends on collaboration and sharing.
This concept is not new. Our lives, in fact, are constantly defined by cycles of exchange—of “in” and “out”—whether it’s the air we breathe, the food we consume, the ideas we share, or the emotions we express. Everything we experience and do is part of a larger system of sharing and interconnectedness.
To hoard knowledge, to act as though we alone possess it, is to deny our fundamental nature. Our survival as a species is rooted in our ability to pass on what we know, to exchange and share what we have learned. Knowledge is not just acquired, but also discovered, passed down, and often borrowed from others. We are not isolated individuals; we are part of a vast web of sharing that sustains both our personal and collective existence.
Acknowledgment
I would like thank Maria-Jésus Hernaez Lerena, PHD and La Universitad [ the university of] de la Rioja, Spain for offering me the opportunity to present my work through this interview and lecture on a very important and difficult topic [ it took me two year to create a post on my present blog]. Since both of my parents ancestors originate from Spain, I cannot be more thankful for being invited to reconnect culturally with my roots.
Dessin . drawing . disegni . original linoleum cut and woodcut . linogravure originale et gravures . xilografie e incisioni – iPad [works-travail-lavoro] . Copyrights © Raymond Verdaguer 2022. Copyrights © la Universitad de la Rioja 2022.
