Long wars give rise to an odd economy that is rarely discussed in public. A buyer purchases a framed print of smoke rising over Aleppo for four hundred euros somewhere in a Berlin gallery. The photographer may be in a town outside of Gaziantep, in Istanbul, or they may have already moved on to another conflict. Sometimes the money finds its way back. Not always tidy. Not always fast. However, it moves.
An enormous body of visual art was created during Syria’s revolution, which is now so old that the children born during its initial protests are almost teenagers. Professionals like Narciso Contreras, the AP photographer who recounted running through Karmal Jabl with rebels carrying explosives, taking the photo, and then hiding back inside a building to wait out a tank, created some of it. His pictures traveled. They appeared in newspapers, were later sold as fine prints, and were displayed in venues like Rundetaarn in Copenhagen, where Danish tourists stood silently in front of grief they had never experienced firsthand.
Where that money goes is more difficult to monitor. Revenue from print sales from large agencies typically goes to the photographer and the agency rather than the subjects of the photograph. However, it is accompanied by a quieter circuit. Something more akin to a funding pipeline has been established through independent photographers selling directly to collectors, smaller galleries, and activist-run sales. Sometimes the proceeds are used for medical evacuations. Occasionally, to a family in hiding in Reyhanlı. Sometimes, to a printing press producing posters that, at three in the morning, someone more courageous than most of us will adhere to a wall in a suburb of Damascus.
It’s a precarious economy, and its romanticism often masks its true messiness. Not all print buyers are good people. Not every dollar shows up where it was promised. Speaking with those who have worked in this field gives me the impression that, similar to underground economies, the system is primarily based on reputation and trust. A fixer has the endorsement of a photographer. The photographer is endorsed by a gallery. In Brussels, a buyer takes it at face value.
The story of Firas Fayyad, the filmmaker who was arrested at the airport in Damascus in 2011 and subjected to four months of beatings in subterranean cells, highlights something that the print economy covertly maintains. After being freed, he continued to work while escaping on foot with what he described as eighty or ninety other people, including tired children and injured people. Filmmakers like him require festival fees, travel money, and editing suites. Grants account for a portion of that. Print sales of stills, posters, and limited-edition photos sold on the fringes of festival circuits account for a startling amount.
One could contend that the entire situation is a form of guilt laundering, with Western viewers paying to feel close to a tragedy they have no plans to stop. That’s most likely partially accurate. Exhibitions of Syrian art frequently take place in cities whose governments have done little to put an end to the conflict that gave rise to the artwork.
However, if there were no economy at all, there would be fewer cameras, films, and voices. The prints keep someone fed, regardless of your opinion on ethics. They maintain a small collective of puppets. In some subtle ways, they preserve the record. It is another matter entirely whether that is sufficient. Most likely it isn’t. However, it is what it is.
