Art is Dead

Art is dead. For decades, we all knew it would be killed. We fought, but in vain. At first, we did what artists are expected to do—speak the truth and act as society's mirror. But the authorities privatized cultural institutions and treated them like personal property. Budget theft, public procurement scams, banning plays, films, exhibitions... They decided what could and couldn’t be said.

Then, we began speaking the truth in our own names, but anyone who uttered a word against the government was branded a traitor. Some were even barred from entering the country. We turned to protests. In response, they began arresting us—especially young people, the ones expected to succeed where we failed: dismantling the system.

The arrests of the young and even children only fueled our rage, and we amplified our protests. That’s when they unleashed thugs and unmarked “police” in civilian clothes. They beat us. With batons, baseball bats, fists, feet, and sometimes even bombs.

When that didn’t stop us, they brought in the military and opened fire. After the last massacre, the government decided not to risk further resistance. Orders were issued to demolish all theaters and cinemas. Concert halls became venues for political rallies, and all books and paintings were burned. Music was banned. Dance, too.

Yet, there was a twisted sort of justice in their actions. The regime wasn’t racist or nationalist; it was purely fascist. This time, it didn’t matter what the writer’s skin color, nationality, or religion was. They burned every book. How nice of them.

Many artists were killed. Nobody knows exactly how many, nor whether any of us are still alive. Some joined the system, while others had already been working for it. The Pinheads who neither understood nor cared for art became the most zealous spies. "Secret agents" were no longer secret nor agents—they were our neighbors, brothers, mothers. At the slightest suspicion that someone was an artist, these Pinheads reported them to the authorities. Barely a soul remain with life still clinging.

The government purged art because art asked questions, and questions led to rebellion. "Emotions are dangerous, and artists are enemies of peace!" they preached from podiums. And the idiots, devoid of doubt, listened. Their stupidity was our death sentence.

Back in better days, when we were alive, the birth rate of Pinheads compared to intellectuals was suspiciously high. Educated and intelligent people struggled to conceive naturally, and medicine rarely helped. Meanwhile, prostitutes, addicts, idiots, and imbeciles reproduced like machines. We now understand it was all part of a plan. The seed of intelligence is now eradicated.

My name is Frank, and I’m one of the surviving artists. I think I’ve endured because I’ve stayed under the radar. Like everyone else, I raised my voice, but not with my own words. I shared what others wrote, filmed, photographed, or said. Perhaps it sounds cowardly, but I was loud. I just avoided drawing personal attention.

Even so, I endured significant oppression. But being neither a famous writer nor resident in a big city, my voice didn’t travel far. That’s likely why I’ve survived to witness art's demise.

I’m writing this because I caused an incident last night, and I fear it might lead to the extermination of perhaps the last witness to this history—me.

Last night, I didn’t think my forgetfulness could lead to my persecution. I fell asleep in the living room with the light on. Around 3 a.m., I woke up, turned it off, and moved to the bedroom. But this morning, as I left for work—I’m an accountant now—I noticed my neighbors gathered in a group. They weren’t even trying to hide it; they were talking about me.

In that moment, they reminded me of the pinnacle of Norman Rockwell's painting style, particularly his piece Gossip. They whispered, shook their heads, glanced at me suspiciously, and pointed fingers. That’s when it hit me: staying awake until 3 a.m. was a standard rule-breaker. Only an artist would be awake at such an hour.

Even though I hadn’t done anything wrong, a stupid coincidence had marked me for persecution.

As I got into my car, I overheard words like "different," "weird," "outcast," and "deviant." Some were already on their phones, and I knew the situation was already out of control.

On my way to work, a police car appeared behind me with its sirens on. I pulled over. The conversation started as routine, until the officer asked me a question that had been purged from our vocabulary for years. Caught off guard, I instinctively replied with a quote from Chekhov.

"What is life?" the officer asked, interrupting the standardized dialogue. Unconsciously, my brain responded with an old reflex: "You can’t ask what life is. That’s like asking what a carrot is. A carrot is a carrot."

By the time I closed the quotation marks, I realized I’d given myself away.

"Step out of the vehicle and come with us."

Even though he didn’t recognize the Chekhov reference, this ignoramus knew that only an artist would speak like that.

They took me to a cold, gray, concrete room and sat me before five nearly identical people in gray suits. Since the death of art, the entire city looked like that office. To me, the aesthetics always recalled Terry Gilliam's film Brazil.

There were no introductions. They scrutinized my clothes, hair, and face before beginning their interrogation with genuine riddles. Luckily, I’m quick to think, and as they spoke, I realized I couldn’t show that I knew any answers if I wanted to hide my intelligence.

I remembered how Pinheads spoke—monotone, thoughtless—so I slowly repeated “I don’t know” to every question. My voice sounded a bit melodramatic, pitched too high, and I prayed they wouldn’t notice.

“What is this?” they asked:

-"Speak my name, and I disappear.”

I sat in silence, staring at them as if I didn’t understand.

-“It moves through the woods without rustling, across water without rippling.”

The second riddle irritated me as they obviously treated me like a shadow of a man.

-“It lies during the day but tells the truth at night.”

“This is classic torture! God, tell me this is just a dream?”

-“It has a cover but isn’t a knife. It has leaves but isn’t a tree.”

The sheer stupidity made my nerves shake. “For God’s sake, people, read just one book!”

-“Who sings when others cry?”

“No, really, call me a priest!”

Then, they made me recite tongue twisters, which I couldn’t do even if I wanted to.

Finally, they handed me a document, calling it a standard procedure, and asked me to sign it. That’s when panic struck.

“If I sign, I’ll confirm I’m literate. If I don’t, they’ll realize I’m smart enough to resist. How do I get out of this?”

Seconds felt like hours. They were far enough not to notice the sweat beads on my forehead but close enough to see if I paled. I needed to act fast. I scrawled an X at the top of the document instead of the designated signature line.

I couldn’t read their thoughts. For the next fifteen minutes, they just stared at me. Then, for another ten, they played a game of broken telephone while I sat there, with the The Internationale ironically echoing in my head, tempting me to laugh. But I clenched my fists to keep it in.

At last, one of the five—though I wasn’t sure which—told me I could leave but that I had to appear that evening at 9 in the former church of St. Luke.

I’d never been to St. Luke’s. Back when I was an artist, it was a gathering place for sinners and gays; now it was a hub for morons and fanatics. I didn’t belong to either group. But both the old and new congregations shared a common link: faith. Both believed the site was sacred, performing rituals in its honor. Previously, they sought answers from the Bible; now they seek them from the Code of Conduct.

Thankfully, the Code was publicly available online—the only thing that still existed on the internet. I’d tried reading it before, but that sheer stupidity could kill a person. Some of the rules included:

-         "It is mandatory to break mirrors, as they trap thoughts."

-         "Upon seeing a bird, kill it immediately, as birds spread forbidden information."

-         "Water artificial flowers to prove obedience."

To me, these rules were incomprehensible. “And this is why I’m an outcast. This is the end of the world.”

The government demanded absolute submission, rivaling the most oppressive regimes in human history.

It is 8 o’clock. I prepared to leave for the church, determined to mimic others and blend in. If someone reads this letter, it means I didn’t return.

______________________________________________________

On my way to St. Luke’s, passing the National Theater—now half-destroyed—I was struck by nostalgia. I forgot the dangers ahead as memories of Boris Asafiev’s ballet The Flames of Paris in that very building came flooding back. It felt as if the spirits of the dancers were still twirling beneath the open sky where the roof once stood.

Walking toward the church was like marching to the guillotine. My chest felt heavy—not with fear, but with a sense of defeat. I knew this was the end.

I entered the church as if everything were normal. But the moment I stepped inside, I knew I hadn’t been sent there by chance.

The crowd of turned to me in eerie unison, their eyes bloodthirsty and hypnotized. This was a test.

"If I want to mimic them, I’ll have to act! But I’m a writer, not an actor!"

Panic overwhelmed me. My heart pounded wildly, and I struggled to breathe. I couldn’t let them see me like that. Suddenly, I remembered a line from an old actor friend: “You just have to believe completely in what you’re thinking and feeling. The rest will come naturally.”

I focused, stared each one of them down in silence, and gave them the same bloody, soulless gaze they gave me. Whether my performance was convincing, I didn’t know, but one by one, they turned their heads back toward the pulpit. I felt the horror of the stories I used to write—but now I was living it. Art truly imitates life.

The president himself stepped up to the pulpit, but the crowd remained silent, as expressions were banned. A short Pinhead—clearly one of the president’s cronies—handed each of us a book. My hands trembled, hopefully unnoticed.

“Books—I know books! I understand them! Whatever is written here, how am I supposed to remain blank in the face of a book?” To my relief, when the brute next to me opened his copy, the pages were blank.

“The government still printed books, but without content. What for? What am I supposed to do with this? Follow the others, do what they do. Just blend in for God’s sake!”

At that moment, the hypnotized crowd began tearing apart the blank books.

“But this makes no sense! A blank book can’t be a threat. Wait—this is a ritual.”

I joined the crowd, tearing pages, silently thanking God they were blank because I wasn’t sure I could tear Sartre apart.

Yet, under the strain of psychological exhaustion, absurdity, and anxiety, I began to hallucinate. On the blank pages, I started seeing fragments and quotes from masterpieces—The Master and Margarita, The Trial, The Stranger, Animal Farm… The images spun in my mind.

“I can’t do it!” I froze. “I can’t tear a single page! This could have been any book. I can’t! But they’ll kill me if I stop. Pull yourself together! They’re just blank sheets. Blank sheets don’t make a book—they make a notebook. Tear it, or you’re dead!

I closed my eyes for a second, steadied myself, and forced my trembling hands to mimic the crowd. But it felt as if I were tearing apart my own unwritten manuscript with each torn piece being erased. Yes, these weren’t books- they were graves for ideas. Silent tombstones for the minds we’d lost.

A brute next to me had brought his eight-year-old son along. The child, upon seeing us tear the empty books, quietly asked, “Why?” His father slapped him so hard that the boy hit the ground, blood streaming from his nose.

Asking questions, especially “why,” was forbidden. It signaled curiosity.

For a brief moment, I glanced at the boy lying on the ground. In his eyes, I didn’t see fear but a question, as if he thought I had the answer. In child’s bloodied eyes, I saw something I thought had vanished- hope. A fragile, desperate hope that someone still held the answers. But I no longer had one. I wanted to tell him it was all meaningless, that there was no answer. Instead, I looked away, suppressing my emotions as the crowd did.

Suddenly I felt a rage begin to stir—a feral, unrelenting rage, like the years before. I wanted to stuff those blank pages down the brute’s throat and take the child away. But I knew that showing empathy, especially here, would get me crucified right there in the church of St. Luke. Empathy wasn’t even banned; it simply no longer existed. It had been eradicated along with the artists.

Frozen in place, trembling with rage, I ignored the boy like the monsters I had to become to survive. “They’re not Pinheads,” I thought. “They’re monsters. And if I want to stay alive, I must blend in among them. I must become one of them.”

A bell rang, struck by the president’s crony. In unison, the crowd began chanting slogans ten times over:

“Blessed is ignorance.”

“Only the stupid are happy.”

“The less I know, the less it hurts.”

"The little I know I owe to my ignorance."

I choked on my fury, which nearly stole my voice. Then, I unleashed it, shouting the slogans with all my strength, my fists clenched so tightly that my nails pierced my palms. Blood dripped from my hands, and two blockheads noticed, whispering to each other. They were shot on the spot. Whispering, too, was forbidden; it hinted at rebellion.

Suddenly, I heard a voice I recognized. I turned alongside the crowd and saw my old actor friend. He stood ablaze with passion, reciting passages from one of my favorite book- Orwell’s 1984. Before I could rejoice that he was alive—that I wasn’t alone—the crowd rushed him, crushing him under their weight, blood spilled between their knees.

Before he fell, he looked directly at me with that same old smile from the stage. From his lips I understood his final words: “You live for art. But you also die for it.”

In hindsight, I believe that was the moment I crossed over.

While the crowd was occupied with the killing, I seized the opportunity to carry the boy outside. Using the torn blank pages, I lit a fire. My hands trembled as I struck the match. The fire’s glow danced on the pages I had torn, each one a fragment of the art we had lost. The flames quickly engulfed the church’s entrance, trapping everyone inside. As the flames consumed the doorway, I stood paralyzed, torn between fleeing and watching them burn. I was outside the church and outside of my mind.

The fire consumed the church with the grace of a symphony. Each crackle of flame was a note in a requiem for the art we’d lost, and all I could think was, “I’ve never seen more beautiful art... Burn, burn, burn!”

As the town’s other Pinheads gathered to witness the inferno, no one tried to save those inside. Empathy! The crowd erupted in applause, shouting “Bravo!”, “Hurrah!” and “What a Pinhead!”

Through the noise, I heard a clear shout of support that would haunt me forever: “You’re worse than them. They don’t know what they are, but you do.”

Hearing those words, I couldn’t tell whether I felt triumph or despair. Was I still Frank, the artist, or was I the monster they needed me to be?

Still, watching the flames consume the roof, I realized I had become their mirror. I am art. And art is not dead—it has only changed its form. And I have become its grave face.