Unveiled

Journalism is not only a social need and a checking point of balance and counterweight for governments and their actions. A healthy and uncomfortable place for politicians. But it is also true that several times, journalism crosses a thin line of respect with its particular way of pression, summary judgment, and disrespect, even being invasive.

Last week, in the middle of all the fires around the globe, Banksy’s identity was reportedly unveiled, with two news media fighting to be crowned as the ones who achieved it: the agency Reuters and LOC of the Spaniard newspaper El Mundo, the latter claiming to have obtained that information one year ago.

Banksy, London

Beyond the dispute, I wonder: what does this contribute to the already unfair and rough art world? What purpose does it serve other than feeding a certain appetite for morbidity?

Nothing, perhaps, but the thirst for demystification—the quiet violence of turning mystery into spectacle.

Nevertheless, this note is not an attempt to act as a grand jury. My point is that while many celebrate the unveiling of an identity, many others feel a subtle sting in memory—of a time when creation itself carried a different kind of aura. Some of us grew up in our 20s and 30s with that feeling, listening to the rise of Massive Attack or the singular world of Björk.

You can call me bucolic, nostalgic, sad, old-fashioned, or melancholic—this last one, undoubtedly. That’s the price of years.

And believe me, unless we die young, we are all condemned to arrive at that place.

Unveiled