Visual Culture Blog

“I am in Tripoli and not in Venezuela.” These words uttered by Muammar Gaddafi late in the night on Libyan state television will be remembered as a key moment in the downfall of an autocratic and ruthless regime. Western media pundits were quick to point to the bizarreness of the TV footage, referring to Gaddafi’s ‘eccentricity’, implying that few elements in this artifact of visual culture made any sense. Some have even compared Gaddafi’s appearance with the surrealist art of the spanish painter Salvador Dali. At the same time, conspiracy theories emerged almost immediately. Gaddafi is holding a large umbrella, but did it actually rain that evening? Rain is so rare in that part of the world that it is a valid question.

Yet a more careful reading of Gaddafi’s short but memorable TV appearance shows that a number of elements are likely, apart from the rain, very deliberately planned and executed. Ever since the footage was screened, there has been a huge amount of curiosity regarding the vehicle that Gaddafi is sitting in. Here, it is important to point out that Gaddafi is sitting in the driving seat, clearly signifying that he is in charge of determining the direction his country is heading towards. Gaddafi’s TV appearance is reminscient of propaganda billboards erected throughout the country, which depict the dictator driving a Volkswagen Beetle.

The message is clear: he is the ‘driving’ force in running the country. Unlike the Volkswagen Beetle however, the vehicle depicted in the TV footage is, importantly, a car with only one seat. While the propaganda billboard shows Gaddafi driving without passengers, the single seated vehicle even negates the possibility of any passengers. In other words, Gaddafi is depicted running the country, without any interference, all by himself. The single-seated vehicle in the TV footage signifies precisely the type of state Gaddafi is leading: autocracy is defined as a system government by one person with absolute power.

Gaddafi’s compound in Bab Al Azizia in Tripoli, bombed by American Forces in 1986.

Gaddafi’s bombed home at Bab Al Azizia, Libya, 1987, by Peter Arkell/Impact Photos

Google Earth image of Bab Al Azizia, location of Gaddafi’s compound in Tripoli, 2011

The most important aspect of the footage is the location where it was made. Gaddafi says, “I am in Tripoli”. More precisely, Gaddafi is located in front of his compound in Bab Al Azizia which was heavily bombed by the Reagan administration in 1986. Instead of rebuilding the shattered compound, Gaddafi chose to leave it as it is. The skeletal structure of the building acts as a powerful message of defiance and resilience. In 2003, just as Libya’s relationship with the West was thawing, Gaddafi even held a beauty pageant with international contestants, including British and American women, at this historically important site. The British photographer Muir Vidler produced a strikingly surreal series of photographs that depict the proceedings. The Bab Al Azizia compound would also become the backdrop to Nicolas Sarkozy’s state visit to Libya in 2007. The photograph clearly depicts Sarkozy’s discomfort for being turned into a strategically placed pawn by Gaddafi’s propaganda apparatus.

Muir Vidler, Libyan Beauty Pageant, 2003

Nicolas Sarkozy state visit to Libya in 2007

Hugo Chavez state visit to Libya in 2006

Gaddafi’s late night TV appearance thus sets up a fairly complex web of signifiers that might not be immediately determinable. By depicting himself in a single-seated car, Gaddafi wishes to communicate that it is still him, who is leading the country. The location is carefully chosen as a site of historical importance, signifying Gaddafi’s assumed resilience and defiance vis a vis the most powerful nation on earth. Gaddafi portrays himself as David standing up against Goliath. But the message is also directed at Britain, as it was the British Foreign Secretary William Hague who initially speculated that Gaddafi was on his way to Venezuela. A photograph of Hugo Chavez and Gaddafi in a luxury car is an ironic symbol for Venezuela’s close ties with Libya. Unlike the TV footage however, it showed Chavez in the driving seat. In his very brief TV appearance, Gaddafi thus sets up a geopolitical web of international relations that spans the whole globe. Similar to my blog post on the final speech by the former Romanian president Nicolae Ceausescu, the signs and symbols used in Gaddafi’s TV appearance are a desperate attempt to cling on to the steering wheel.

For more on cultural production in the Arab world, please read Arab Cultural Studies: Mapping the Field edited by Tarik Sabry.

This is a screenshot from a Facebook user based in Cairo where, at the moment the screenshot was taken, a popular uprising is taking place. In order to protect the identity of the user, I blacked out their names and personal details. Consistent with various different Egyptian Facebook users, the profile photograph has been changed in recent days to reflect the countries mood. A number of users uploaded the Egyptian flag, others show images of Karl Marx or Che Guevera, yet the vast majority of politically motived profile changes on Egyptian Facebook accounts include a photograph taken by an anonymous person depicting the initial protest march on the 25th of January 2011 at El Tahrir Square in Cairo. As reported in an article on Fastcompany.com, the photograph was posted by a Facebook campaign called Mama Qarat.

The use of this specific photograph for a profile change is an important aspect in the current protest and the visual culture of ideological change. Taken from a high vantage point, the photograph depicts masses of people gathering in Cairo’s biggest public square protesting against the government and the president Hosni Mubarak. The location depicted in the photograph has a political significance since El Tahrir square has been the central focus for a number of protests in Cairo: from Anti-Iraq War to Pro-Palestinian marches, the square is a strategic point for political expression. Apart from that however, little detail is visible in the image. The masses remain absolutely anonymous. This is an important aspect because the image itself doesn’t compromise the identity of an individual protester (nor did I wish to compromise their identity by showing their profile information). By choosing this photograph as profile shot, the Egyptian Facebook user is equally willing to suspend his or her photographic identity in place of a greater cause.

The photograph is also highly self-referential with regard to the context it is disseminated in. While it depicts masses of people, the photograph itself is uploaded by masses of people signifying their allegiance with the anti-government protests. In other words, the photograph signifies the popular uprising in two significant ways: in what it depicts, but also, in the way that it is circulated via the social network. Here, it is also important to point out that the existence of social media in itself is a critical agent in uprisings in Iran, Tunisia and most recently Egypt. This is the power of the so-called flashmob: an almost instantaneous gathering of a large mass of people effectuated through social media such as Facebook or Twitter.

The recent changes by Egyptian Facebook users underlines the significance of the social network in the creation of a critical mass which has proven to take down autocratic regimes in the past. The changing of the profile photograph is significant because, apart from the Facebook users name, the profile photograph is the first visual encounter with the user, and, importantly, Facebook informs other users when the a number of ‘friends’ change their profile photograph. As the anonymous photograph is uploaded at a rapid rate in Egypt, the photograph in itself becomes the agent of political change.

For more on cultural production in the Arab world, please read Arab Cultural Studies: Mapping the Field edited by Tarik Sabry.

Nicolae Ceausescu’s last speech, 21st of December, 1989.

I will begin my blog on visual culture with a case in which the production and consumption of an image (in this case TV footage) marked the end of a political era. It was the 21st of December 1989, and the Romanian dictator Nicolae Ceausescu gave a speech to about 100.000 people who have gathered at Piata Republica in the capitol Bucharest. Romanian state television transmitted the speech live, in what was supposed to be a celebration of Ceausescu’s leadership. The broadcast begins with the predictable signifiers of an autocratic regime: Ceausecu stands on the balcony of the gigantic Central Committee Building, speaking down to the huddled masses below, his amplified voice is echoing in the vastness of the Republican Square. In support of their General Secretary, Ceausescu is flanked by various Communist Party officials and the Deputy Prime Minister of Romania, his wife Elena. Romanian TV operated mainly two cameras who covered this event: one focusing on Ceausescu standing on the balcony, and the other focusing on the people standing in the square. The depiction of the crowd is also highly stage-managed and filled with ideological signification. The front segment of the crowd are likely party members clapping in unison or holding up banners and giant portraits of Ceasescu and his wife. The elevated viewpoint of the camera has the effect that the grandness of the occasion is matched by the huge masses that can be seen filling up the square. But also, by filming from high above, the people gathered in the square remain, in the eyes of the viewer, an anonymous mass whose purpose that day was to support their leader. In other words, in the footage any individualism is reserved to Ceausescu himself.

The moment Ceaucescu notices hissing in the crowd.

The TV footage however would also depict that Ceausescu’s regime was already crumbling by the time he made his speech. A few minutes into his final act on the political arena, sections of the crowd start hissing. It is an unusual sound that creeps from the back of the crowd towards the front row. Like a wave crashing into the shore, the sound of his own people booing and hissing in condemnation finally reaches Ceausescu whose facial expression is one of disbelief. For a brief moment, the sound coming from the crowd is so high pitched that it has the characteristics of a panic. The camera starts shacking. The transmission is interrupted by interference and noise.

Transmission failure and party members rushing into the Central Committee Building.

While Ceausescu raises his right hand asking for calm, the TV camera picks up rushed and flurried activity on the balcony of the Central Committee Building. One man in particular stands out: he is well-built, dressed in a black suit, looking towards the square as if to check out who exactly started the hissing as he rushes behind a curtain. The signification of the curtain in these moments caught by Romanian TV are important: as if to signal that the iron curtain was, following the fall of the Berlin Wall, finally also lifted in Romania. The curtain also underlines the performative aspect of Ceausescu’s appearance on the balcony. It’s as if he is the main actor, the politbüro the supporting actors, the balcony the stage and the people the audience who knows that the final curtain is about to fall.

Romanian state television searching for appropriate subjects while Ceausescu calls for calm.

When it became clear that neither Ceasescu’s desperate attempts to calm down the crowd, nor a shot of the crowd itself were conducive to the agenda of the party, the camera starts filming a building on the other side of the square. Another shot depicts a similarly monumental building, whereas the crowd itself was cropped out in both shots. In other words, the camera, lost in the fast advancing events of that day, was searching for appropriate subjects that would not undermine the regime. For almost three minutes, Romanian state television broadcast these scenes while Ceasescu’s can be heard saying over and over again ‘hallo, hallo, hallo …’. Still in disbelief that the people are hissing, he knocks on the microphone in the assumption that surely, if the people heard his orders, they would stop booing him. Elena as well can be heard reaching towards the microphone, asking for silence. Again, the echoes of their voices are bouncing of the buildings in the square. The visuals and the sound are thus entirely paradoxical. While state television filmed subjects that signify steady government, the desperateness of the situation is only discernible in the combination of image and sound.

Ceausescu’s last speech coming to an end.

After three long minutes, the crowd reaches a temporary moment of silence and the cameras take up their usual positions. However, as opposed to earlier shots, the camera zoomed away from Ceausescu and his cronies as if to signify that even Romanian state television are now, literally, distancing themselves from the regime. Ceausescu’s voice, tired of demanding order, is breaking up as his final act comes to a close. He would disappear behind the curtain while the crowd grew bigger, louder and more agitated. The revolution had begun. Ceausescu and his wife were trapped and they needed to be airlifted with a helicopter the next morning. Three days later, on the 25th of December, Nicolae Ceausescu and his wife Elena were sentenced to death and executed on the spot. The execution happened so quickly that the omnipresent camera of Romanian state television failed to capture the decisive moment.

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