Looking at War: Tomasz Szerszeń on Images, Memory & Responsibility

tomasz_szerszen_fot._filip_wolski.jpg, default, Tomasz Szerszeń, photo: Filip Wolski

On the fourth anniversary of the full-scale invasion, as our sensitivity to the war inevitably wanes, we reflect on the act of seeing, ‘onlooking’, and the boundaries of human empathy. We discuss this topic with Tomasz Szerszeń, an essayist, photographer, and cultural anthropologist working at the Institute of Art of the Polish Academy of Sciences, and author of the book ‘Być Gościem w Katastrofie’ (Being a Guest in a Catastrophe), which analyses the war in Ukraine from a visual perspective.

Julia Marczyńska: Is there any point in watching the war if we can’t influence it anyway? Isn’t that just voyeurism?

Tomasz Szerszeń: In taking up this subject, I wanted to reflect on who we are – we, the people here, in this safe place – as the audience. Are we merely spectators? Or perhaps, in our own way, witnesses to what is unfolding? How can we define our stance at all? In what way do these images engage us? Do they actually influence us, inspire us to take action, or do they simply leave us indifferent?

Clearly, this is a universal question – it affects everyone who witnesses and faces different kinds of tragedies. However, I was also interested in it within the context of Polish society: who we are, being very close yet also very distant...? Our awareness of this war – although it is quickly diminishing – remains much higher than in the West, where interest has already faded. In the book, I reflect on what these images do to us and where they position us.

JM: It’s not just Polish society; Ukrainians living here, for example, are asking themselves the same question. I, for one, feel a sense of duty to know what’s going on, but at the same time, I feel helpless and wonder whether I should watch it.

TS: Helplessness is the right word. I understand the helplessness you feel, though it’s different from my own. In your case, it has a specific quality. We, on the other hand, are grappling with the realisation of our lack of influence, our lack of agency – we watch images of suffering, but there is little or nothing we can do about it. This mechanism is frustrating in its own way, and it distances us even further away from the images. Right at the start of the war, when people were deeply engaged and closely following the news, they quickly realised that simply watching wasn’t getting them anywhere, that their ability to make a difference was minimal. You can donate to a charity, but your power to effect change is limited, and that, I believe, leads to frustration. So, we lose interest.

Photographs also lose their impact when there are countless of them, or when they become repetitive. This applies not only to war but also to the modern world as a whole, which is saturated to an unprecedented extent with images, including those depicting others’ suffering.

Picture display

standardowy (864px desktop)

Donetsk Academic Regional Drama Theatre in Mariupol, 7 April 2022, photo: Alexander Ermochenko / Reuters / Forum

Picture image

_teatr_mariupol_zniszczenia_forumforum-0680985700.jpg

At the same time, tragedies start to ‘compete’ for our attention. One overshadows another. It all boils down to a contest of suffering. This stems from how modern media operate: they capture our attention, engage us emotionally, and then abandon us in an instant. It is a deeply perverse mechanism.

JM: In your book, you state that this is the most visible war in history. Do you believe this influences the war itself, or only how it is perceived?

TS: Never before have we been confronted with such a vast number of images depicting war, destruction, and human tragedy. Nor have these images ever been so widely accessible. In the past, for example, during the Second World War, coverage was controlled by the military or the press. However, much of the current coverage has been created by ordinary people, including soldiers themselves.

Nor have we ever experienced observing certain situations ‘from there’ in real time. This exposure has its good and bad sides. It allows us to identify criminals, but also aids in tracking down people in hiding. And then there is artificial intelligence. The concept of truth is becoming blurred – it is increasingly easy to fabricate ‘facts’.

JM: I remember those urges when the war started – to film everything to show who’s who and what’s really happening. Because there were different narratives, and different narratives still exist today. Back then, people claimed that the photos from Bucha had been staged. It was a struggle for the truth.

TS: On the one hand, images can reveal the truth; on the other, we don’t trust them – they are so easy to fake, and there is so much disinformation. Photography used to be proof; now it isn’t. Despite this, we still want to look at pictures.

Picture display

standardowy (864px desktop)

Hryhorii Skovoroda National Literary Memorial Museum after Russian shelling, photo: State Emergency Service of Ukraine

Picture image

narodowe_muzeum_literacko_skoworody_po_zniszczeniach.jpg

JM: You mention that whatever we photograph, there is always something left out of the frame. We decide what to show and what to omit.

TS: Yes, cropping is always a political issue, in a way.

JM: How can we maintain our trust in images? How can we identify which ones are worth paying attention to? We cannot stop looking.

TS: It is important to recognise that each photograph reflects someone’s choice or decision, and that it can be manipulated. On the other hand, many images are taken by chance these days, making it difficult to determine the author or their intention.

That is why journalism is increasingly moving towards rigorous source verification and providing the ethical context in which an image was created. It may be the case that a photograph taken by oppressors becomes evidence – it is useful, even though the authors' intentions were not good.

JM: Do we have a duty to watch the war? Is it enough just to read about what has happened?

TS: It’s always a personal matter; after all, the level of empathy varies from person to person. I’d say we have a duty to do so, but it’s not something that can be imposed; everyone has to decide for themselves.

JM: In the past, before television existed, observing other people’s suffering could also serve as a form of entertainment. The execution of a condemned man in the main square drew crowds. The tragedy attracted enormous attention. I fear that watching other people’s pain has, to some extent, become our form of entertainment.

TS: There is definitely such a risk. That is the nature of modern media: news is presented as if it were part of an entertainment show.

Tomasz Szerszeń, ‘Being a Guest in a Catastrophe’, photo: Wydawnictwo Czarne

JM: The media want people to watch them, so they must show us what we want to see. It follows, then, that we are very eager to see other people’s suffering...

TS: We are gradually becoming desensitised to this suffering – at the start of the war, the photographs had a much greater impact. I remember those from the beginning of the war very well; I can recall them clearly. These are specific images from particular moments, but as time passes, they begin to blend together, forming a kind of visual magma. The photographs start to look alike and operate on a different level.

JM: So where does the boundary lie? How can one know without knowing too much? Observe, without observing too much?

TS: I don’t know the answers – in the book, I ask questions and try to offer as broad an interpretative context as possible. I wanted to draw attention to the fact that in Poland, we are historically accustomed to the role of victims; we used to like portraying ourselves as a suffering society. Suddenly, we have been confronted with images of your suffering. We are close yet simultaneously distant, and this cognitive paradox captivated me.

JM: Your book is titled ‘Być Gościem w Katastrofie’. You reverse the roles: you state that the Poles are the guests, despite it being the Ukrainians who came to them.

TS: I’ve been reflecting on whether, as a society, we are guests in your tragedy or merely spectators. And then there is the concept of the ‘onlooker’. It’s possible that at the beginning of the war, we were more like guests, but now, unfortunately, we are becoming onlookers. People are losing interest; they no longer want to watch. It is also human nature that we grow accustomed to the sight of others’ suffering. The question arises: what can we do about this?

JM: In your book, you go beyond an anthropocentric perspective. You write about animal suffering and the destruction of nature.

TS: I get the impression that this is the first war during which we have begun to think about the suffering of nature. We are realising how everything is interconnected. The destruction of the landscape also contributes, for example, to the climate crisis; war accelerates various negative processes.

JM: But you can see the positives too.

TS: In analysing how artists depict war, how they relate to it, and what kind of (non-photographic) image they create of it, I have realised the extraordinary power of art. It is not about agency: rather, it is about the ability to perceive phenomena, problems, or threats – often before they are problematised by scientists or journalists. I wanted to show what happens to art in situations of collapse or catastrophe, how art reacts, and how it transforms trauma and difficult experiences into visions of the future. This need to create despite and in defiance of everything is extraordinary.

In Poland after the Second World War, there were many outstanding artists, such as Andrzej Wróblewski and Alina Szapocznikow, who processed their experiences of the occupation with great energy and in extraordinary ways – this momentum persisted for many years after the war ended. It seems to me that a similar process will continue in the Ukrainian art scene over the coming decades.

JM: Art, even if it is helpless, possesses the power to respond – it contains an almost primal urge to seek an answer to the world’s collapse and suffering.

TS: Many artists have felt as if they were being called to respond – that they, too, must contribute in the way they know how. Even though they are often aware that their agency is, in a sense, illusory. Art, even if it is powerless, still holds the capacity to respond – it carries a deeply rooted need to find an answer to the collapse and suffering of the world.

JM: It’s a certain aporia. On the one hand, the number of images is so immense that everything turns into a magma, and we see less and less. On the other hand, we can’t stop looking. Therefore, we need to find what is redeeming in this act of looking. What do you think that might be?

Picture display

standardowy (864px desktop)

26 April 2022, Borodianka. Nadija Bondarenko returns home, passing a housing estate destroyed by Russian bombing in the early days of the war. The entire central section of one of the buildings has collapsed, burying people beneath it. As the shelling continued, no one was able to come to their aid for many days, photo: Justyna Mielnikiewicz

Picture image

jm_ukr_isr_2022._039.jpg

TS: The fact that, even if only in one’s mind or on celluloid, certain elements of a world that is being destroyed are preserved. They are kept alive by someone who remembers: they are saved in a look or in a photograph. These images of cities, memories of people, landscapes... We know it won’t restore what’s lost, but this persistence in memory has value for us; it’s a kind of ever-living presence. In fifty years, the photographs will be nothing more than historical records showing that such a war was fought, who started it, and how many perished. We won’t view them emotionally anymore. But look at the value they hold. We realise that this world is terribly fragile, that it could vanish at any moment; so many things do vanish in the end. That’s why we should strive all the more to preserve it, to save it.

Translated from Polish by Agnieszka Mistur

Language English

ukraine

photography

war