By Nico Valenzuela
As an idealistic teen, I believed art had the power to change the world. Like many young people coming into political consciousness, I was blown away by the politically subversive ideas I encountered in countercultural media, like hardcore music, auteur cinema, and edgy stand-up comedy. The messaging within these art forms was loud and clear, and I adopted their same anti-capitalist stances, firm in my resolve to decry the powers that be.
However, as I get older, I’m less and less hopeful about art’s political power. Despite the prevalence and success of anti-establishment media, nothing seems to change; in fact, things feel much worse since my initial radicalization via art. Yet, because of my personal views, I was able to let myself off the hook and blame the corrupt system for the state of the world. I could sleep soundly knowing that I stood ideologically opposed to the status quo. If it were up to me, I’d simply say no to capitalism.
I’m somewhat embarrassed to think there was ever a time when I thought art was powerful enough to bring the system down. Looking back, I realize that I was raised on media from companies run by the Boomer “Fight the Man” generation of artists and executives. The messaging of this generation’s artistic output individualized the political process in a way that was easy to comprehend and live by. One could stand up to “The Man” by fully realizing one’s individual liberty—living your truth and letting your freak flag fly. After putting on the figurative “They Live” sunglasses, the enlightened individual could no longer be corrupted by the system. Awareness and a heightened consciousness were the only requirements to resist capitalism.
My consumption of popular, left-leaning media in my youth is in large part responsible for my leftist politics as an adult. Like a lot of kids, I wanted to be more like anti-establishment rock stars and actors than stuffy country club conservatives and ruthless businessmen, who were usually the villains of my favorite movies and TV shows.
I figured that if enough individuals had their minds changed through artistic revelations, the system would surely collapse. Ergo, artists were society’s greatest heroes because they revealed the uncomfortable truths to the masses, setting the stage for a proletariat-led revolution.
Unsurprisingly, the revolution never came. As my artistic taste developed, and I encountered more experimental art, I concluded the problem lay in the commercialization of mainstream entertainment. The art I had initially been exposed to, while vaguely anti-capitalist, was not radical enough. I eventually came to the disheartening realization that the avant-garde is inherently anti-populist. Our greatest artists are often stereotyped as misunderstood geniuses and outcasts—their work too cerebral for the run-of-the-mill working-class philistine. Only a small group with enough education and exposure to high art can truly appreciate and benefit from it.
My hopes that a broad audience could wrap their thick heads around the messages of “real” art were vanquished. Intellectually challenging art could never replace commercial entertainment, and as long as the masses remained satiated by popular media, nothing would change.
This nihilistic point of view has become an increasingly defining feature of high-brow art. Much of the most famous and critically acclaimed modern art is overtly cynical, so we’ve come to think of sincerity and optimism as signs of naivete. If things suck and there’s no vision for a better future, then “real” art is the kind that holds a mirror up to this hopeless reality. Take, for example, just a few of the most critically acclaimed TV series of the last decade: Severance, Black Mirror, and Squid Game. All three take place in a not-so-distant future society that much resembles our own, in which the monetary interests of the capitalist class wreak havoc on mass society.
In an era of hopelessness, the pessimistic themes of these shows elevate them to a higher cultural status. Still, art has to be somewhat pleasurable, even in its most experimental form. So, throw in a little ironic humor or satire into your depressing art piece, and you’ve got all the tools to become an indie darling.
Despite remaining steadfast in my political convictions, a seed of doubt remained in the back of my mind that I could never quite resolve. If capitalism is as evil and oppressive as I believe it to be, then why does the system not only allow, but encourage, the production of blatantly anti-capitalist mass media? Why do megacorporations like Netflix and Apple invest billions into stories that villainize big business? Isn’t the ruling class afraid of losing power if enough people are exposed to countercultural ideas?
It was only after reading Capitalist Realism by Mark Fisher that I came to understand the logic behind this paradox. Fisher points to the Disney/Pixar film WALL-E (2008) to exemplify capitalism’s ability to not only survive but thrive within a society that ideologically opposes it. WALL-E is set in a near-future dystopia, in which humans are overweight, mindless consumers, doting about on floating chairs, eyes glued to screens, and stuffing their faces with junk food. People are forced to live on a spaceship and seek refuge on another planet because their rampant consumerism and capitalist system have rendered the Earth uninhabitable. Viewers, from the parents to the children, can internalize the not-so-subtle message that unfettered capitalism will lead to environmental catastrophe and social regression of the human species.
While WALL-E unabashedly critiques capitalism, it also generated $527M in revenue for a monopolistic media giant with a valuation in the hundreds of billions. Fisher explains, “[WALL-E] performs our anti-capitalism for us, allowing us to consume with impunity. The role of capitalist ideology is not to make an explicit case for something in the way propaganda does, but to conceal the fact that the operations of capital do not depend on any sort of subjectively assumed belief…capitalism can proceed perfectly well, in some ways better, without anyone making a case for it.”
In essence, capitalism’s power lies in its ability to commodify anything and everything that appeals to consumers—including anti-capitalist art. Thus, the countercultural ethos becomes a commodity to be bought and sold, rather than a real political movement that threatens systems of power. Punk rock aesthetics become merchandise for sale at Hot Topic stores or modeled on luxury fashion runways. A hip-hop artist can headline a Super Bowl halftime show, replete with “revolutionary” images and themes. These artistic cultures—defined by their outsider status and refusal to conform—are paradoxically absorbed by the system precisely because of their subversive ideology.
It’s easy to be tricked into thinking that consuming anti-capitalist art is a contribution towards dismantling the system. We feel riled up, politically charged, and inspired by the unflinching critique of power. Yet when we shut off our screens, take off our headphones, or close the book—what do we do? We go right back to our normal lives and our individual roles as participants and subjects of capitalism.
In many ways, consumption of countercultural art is a selfish act. Not only does it provide pleasure or entertainment, but it can also boost our self-esteem. We feel empowered, seeing ourselves as intelligent in our ability to decipher political messaging within the art and righteous for our ideological opposition to the evils of capitalism.
But ideas alone are useless without tangible action. While it may feel rebellious to hold a position that challenges the status quo, there’s nothing radical about promoting or espousing anti-capitalist rhetoric. The truth is that capitalism does not need your approval to thrive. In fact, we can point to free-flowing anti-capitalist discourse as proof of the system’s non-oppressive nature.
The capitalist class can handle tough talk—they can even sell it back to us—but what they fear most is material action. We must recognize subversive ideology as a means to an end, and not the end itself. Countercultural art is valuable in its ability to awaken our political consciousness, but if that heightened consciousness doesn’t lead to real-world organizing and activism, then all art—from the avant-garde gallery exhibit to the most popular streaming series based on billion-dollar IP—is just a diversion. Art is a roadmap; it can point us in the right direction, but it will take our own effort and sacrifice to arrive at the destination.