ART BY THE MASSES, FOR THE MASSES: THE ‘NO KINGS’ PROTEST AND POLITICAL VISUAL CULTURE

The March 28, No Kings rally in Cleveland was a visual spectacle led by individuals who may not consider themselves artists, but practice their creative freedoms through colorful, authentic imagery. Their cries bounced off of the Free Stamp — whose gigantic letters spelling the word ‘FREE’ seemingly resonated with the cause. At protests, the signs and art are only curated by the emotions and perspectives of individual participants. The final product –the visual mood of the protest–reflects the collective personalities of all the participants, without a barrier to entry.

A collective, heavy anger filled the air. Despite all of the attendees sharing similar ideologies, heads appeared to be turned to the skies, shouting at whoever could listen. Signage reflected this tension through bold, handwritten letters spelling out harsh obscenities with caricatures of President Donald Trump not too far away. These complaints were presented in brief quotes alluding to recent events such as President Trump’s felony conviction, connections to financier Jeffrey Epstein, and the aggressive presense of Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) officers into American communities. Smeared paint on homemade poster board spelling the term “SHITLER” was amongst the first of the signs to be in view when I approached the park. Its contrast against the red gleam of the Free Stamp set the tone for what was to be said, spoken and unspoken.

Tongue-in-cheek puns and clever phrasing alleviated much of the weight that hung in the air. A sign can speak volumes while leveraging the cause; a rabbit frantically hopping away from the miniature President Trump shaped into a swastika — surrounded by text stating “HOP AWAY FROM FASCISM” — incorporates a clear message into a piece that resembles an inconspicuous newspaper cartoon. These posters are vital to the survival of counterculture,  responses to opposing beliefs that remain self-aware of the absurdity of modern affairs that are expressed on either side of the political spectrum.

Stretching beyond the boundaries of what one would consider “art,” petitioners followed behind the group of protesters that carried the previously pictured signs, with signatures written in dying pen scattered across the page — promoting a politician who could, curiously, not be there themselves. Their clipboards became a mind-numbing spectacle of beige not unlike the assembly line imagery of Andy Warhol’s 210 Coca-Cola Bottles.

As protests are documented and images shared in online spaces, costuming has gradually crept into the culture, offering a playful integration of expression–though the humor may not always offer productive interpretations of political talking points. Hollywood themes of destabilization–as seen in the film V for Vendetta–bled into the real world as some protestors came dressed in black robes and golden masks resembling those in the film. The design has become recognized for its connections to the hacker collective, Anonymous, which reputedly uses technological acumen in support of progressive causes.

Something wholesome, more blue, roamed along the perimeter of the area. Squidward held a sign that stated “NO king in the Bikini Bottom,” engaging in lighthearted photo opportunities and signing petitions with synthetic tentacles. Meeting at a midpoint between stoicism and irony, the parallels between both forms of costume support the presumption that one cannot exist without the other. Humanity must walk a thin line that divides radical pessimism and optimism, lest they fall into a blind approach to evolving our society.

‘Hope’ is the word that describes the second section of signage and media. This group was small, making their mark through desperate pleas for people to get along, drowned out by the roaring engine of a truck plastered in red, white, and blue flags with “TRUMP 2028” written between the stripes. They acted with service toward their fellow man rather than targeted hostility. It rang

with the sound of a grandfather clock that was rusted and struggling to keep up with the changing hour — perhaps they may join in on the pandemonium if something sets them off. I was taken aback by the statement “WE ARE ALL NEIGHBORS,” because it lacked any outwardly political message; it caught the eye with multicolored pigments and provided a reminder that wanderers were certainly welcome. The positivity was amplified with a song that has grown in popularity in demonstrations against ICE, “It’s okay to change your mind / Show us your courage / Leave this behind,” preaching love over cruelty.

The excessively orange heads of President Trump, a common motif, made out of recycled mannequin parts or papier-mâché, clashed against the blue sky. Behemoths of caricatured proportions, it was clear that the intention was not to flatter. One, a ten-foot sculpture,  eclipsed the sunlight (as seen above). The figure was steered by a person hiding behind its curtained torso, manipulating it via a pole affixed through the center. Harsh shading contoured the wrinkles of his face, emphasizing furrowed eyebrows and puffy eyebags. Regardless of its cultural context, it stood out as a calculated parallel to George Orwell’s 1984; “Big Brother is watching you.” Mixed media implements visual elements that can extend past the confines of what two-dimensional posters are capable of. In an open environment, why not expand, fill the space?

Protest pieces demand your attention, yelling obscenities or whispering soothing affirmations with the assistance of jumbo permanent markers. When placed outside of a gallery, art reaches for the audience rather than waiting to be seen. It can be large or downsized, meticulous or hasty. The final product reflects the personality of the individual without a barrier to entry. Smiles were abundant, and violence did not evolve further than expletives on t-shirts. It was a seed, not the entire tree — but human ingenuity planted the beginnings of art as it returned to the hands of the masses.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: The faces of those who did not consent to being photographed have been blurred.

Kylee Herrick is an art history student at Cleveland State University, and a fellow in Collective Arts Network’s Broadening the Conversation program for young writers. Broadening the Conversation is made possible by a visionary grant by Wally Lanci, and support from the Cleveland Foundation and the George Gund Foundation.