Pablo Hidalgo - Star Wars Propaganda: A History of Persuasive Art in the Galaxy

Rosanna Brockley

Latest work by Janyor of Bith, created on the eve of the Hosnian Cataclysm.

BY JANYOR OF BITH

Our galaxy has known war for ages. That such conflict is inevitable should encourage us to embrace the blessed islands of peace that dot the oceans of time. It is incumbent upon us to advance the best in civilization during these respites before the ravages of war drag us back into the ashes. Artistic expression is indeed among the best of what societies have to offer. But unlike other advancements that flourish solely in peacetime, art can be fueled by war.

Across the scattered civilizations of the galaxy, war and art are inextricably linked. Both forms of expression share similar origin points in a cultures time line. A people able to take moments away from frenzied survival to pick up a brush or shape some clay enjoys, at least, some modicum of stability. Predators and famine have been held at bay for the scraps of time and comfort required to create.

From this, we conclude that these primitives have. And to have is to be targeted by those who covet. So the brush and potters wheel attract the sling and stone. War erupts, which spurs the artist to react. Bursts of violence and the rush of conquest stir the spirit. Art reflects the conflict at hand, and in turn, may spur the next one. The artist becomes an instrument of conflict, even if he or she rejects the conflict itself.

As an artist, I have worked in many forms and media in my fourteen decades of life, and have also witnessed more than my fill of war. These syncopated patterns of creativity and destruction are chronicled in my art, which serves as a type of diary during these tumultuous times. Each armed conflict sparked artistic comment, which in many cases fed further conflict by striking exposed nerves in damaged societies. That this pattern can be found in the infant steps of the earliest tribes, as well as in the galactic conflicts of the allegedly advanced, may be depressing to some. Is it not a scathing indictment that we, as sentients, are locked into an unbreakable cycle of destruction?

I am not so fatalistic, however. For in my time, I have witnessed breathtaking creation emerge from appalling destruction. Art and war are inevitable, yes, but they are also forges that can temper souls unlike any other. The worst of us is required to draw out the best of us.

Russell Walks

Janyor of Bith, holo by Adree-515.

Russell Walks

Early Imperial unity poster by Janyor of Bith, created after the drafting of the Imperial Charter. In his autobiocron Dear Anguillon, Janyor described his disgust with himself upon reflecting on this unflinching fascist image, complete with brutalist Atrisian Basic motto Empire united over all.

An artist need not be a soldier to be a warrior (although Ive been both, I hesitate to say). In turbulent times, an artist uses expression and symbolism as weapons, transforming art into propaganda. There are scholars of art who reserve only the most scornful tones to utter that word. I am not one of them. Art is a reflection of civilization. So is war. Art in the service of war is doubly so. To dismiss propaganda as a lesser form of art is to deny a fundamental part of who we are. The fact that the Coalition for the Preservation of the New Order was the patron behind Dalraga de Cueravons Imperius Unitada ober Totallex does not strip away the artists merits, not without descending a slope of unreasonable demands for artistic integrity. Can a patriot never touch a canvas?

I have been a propagandist, a young defender of the Republic, blind to its faults and gripped by a jingoists fervor to support the soldiers of the Clone Wars. I believed in the rhetoric of Chancellor Palpatine. I believed in the evils of Count Dooku and the selfish damage inflicted by the Separatist Alliance. I believed in the promise of a thousand years of peace and thought the Galactic Empire was just what civilization needed: a strong guiding hand to keep us on a path to a bright future.

That future was not to be. I was not shy to express my disillusionment with the so-called New Order. The protest art pieces that resulted were full of blunt anger and inarticulate condemnation of the Galactic Empires excesses and, in time, they forced me into exile. There I gained new artistic currency among the elites who valued such things. My eyes had been opened (an odd metaphor for a lidless Bith to employ, but here we are), yet I was still a propagandist. This time, I was doing my part for the burgeoning Alliance to Restore the Republic. I had a new patron, one that aligned with my rebellious heart.

The Rebel Alliance was perennially underequipped to battle the Empire. Its meager resources could in no way compare to the vast might of the Imperial war machine. But to the Rebellion, a well-crafted message of hope and defiance could mean more than ten thousand blaster rifles, a thousand starfighters, or a hundred capital ships. The Galactic Civil War was not a battle for territory. It was a struggle for the hearts and minds of the galaxy. The war artist was the Rebel Alliances superweapon.

In the rickety Alliance government that rose in the wake of the Galactic Civil War, I ascended to a rank of Propaganda Bureau Chief. With a small team of ostracized illustrators, beleaguered journalists, and other such willful idealists, we crafted messages meant to explain to the citizenry of the galaxy the true state of the Empire. In practice, it meant attempting to counter the nonstop Imperial propaganda spewed into the ether by a government with nigh endless resources. I admit, to tip back the scales upset by its outrageous lies, we were forced to craft lies of our own and hope that somewhere in the balance a truth could be found.

In the years that followed the destruction of the second Death Star, and the capitulation of the Imperial military, I fooled myself into thinking the propagandists brush would grow dry and brittle. I retired to enjoy my island of peace, becoming soft and complacent in the cosmopolitan core. My vigilant eyes grew cloudy with cataracts of comfort and largesse. My fires of outrage cooled while I received accolades and made speeches at burnished assembly halls.

I was the kind of old, blind fool that infuriates young artists who create with fire in their bellies. Thankfully, this new generation was eager to speak, and the New Republic allowed for such expression. They warned against the treaties of convenience that kept the former Empire at arms length and away from prying eyes. They warned that the New Republic was becoming too lax in its effort to avoid any whiffs of autocracy. They warned that the titans of commerce were happy to bend export restrictions and help fuel the secret militarization in First Order territory.

We, the old fools, did not heed such augury. These new artists told us that the First Order was the reincarnation of an old evil and that the lethargy and corruption of the New Republic were accomplices. Thankfully, a Resistance of the young has emerged, and artists stand amid its ranks. I regret that it required an unmistakable provocation of violence to awaken me from my slumber. Years of inflated reflection on the past failed to translate experience into action until it was too late.