COMMENT | The means of cultural production
COMMENT | In Viet Thanh Nguyen’s deconstruction of the cultural legacy of the Vietnam War, Nothing Ever Dies, he touches on how the production of art is often in service of state propaganda. The Vietnam War is re-fought in novels and films, particularly the United States, in accordance with the dominant narrative and understanding.
He views the publishing industry, for instance, as an industry dominated by systemic injustice, and therefore the resulting representation of minority writers who neatly fit the bill. In an interview with Asymptote, he specifically brings up how the inability to own the means of cultural production means that it is easy for mainstream, non-minority audiences to read and classify their work in a way that fits with the dominant narrative.
Moving beyond the various polemics surrounding it, and shallow attempts at “diversity”, there is a clear issue regarding representation in publishing and literature, in this case in the English language. The fact is that unconsciously or not, various institutions shape a work in so many ways. Everything from a Master of Fine Arts programme, editors at publishing houses, down to book reviewers and bookshops, are all gatekeepers within the publishing industry. They are the ones who select certain kinds of stories for publication and consumption.
By default, books that agree with the mainstream narrative of suffering and ultimately (West-friendly) redemption gain traction. Such an issue makes the writers themselves complicit in the promulgation of skewed narratives and ethnic stereotyping. It’s not necessarily a moral fault, and in many ways, it is the only way to survive as a writer. How then, does one navigate a creative industry where there is a clear trajectory made available from the start?
This is not to say that the writing produced through this system is of poor quality, most times it’s beautiful and excellent, but oftentimes it does not cover a lot of new ground or ask deeper questions. Montreal-based Kim Thuy’s Ru is a particular example. Written in French and later translated into English, Ru‘s beautiful prose-poetry sweeps back and forth through time, touching on the experience of Vietnamese refugees. There are even some scenes set on the east coast of Malaysia, although ...
COMMENT | In Viet Thanh Nguyen’s deconstruction of the cultural legacy of the Vietnam War, Nothing Ever Dies, he touches on how the production of art is often in service of state propaganda. The Vietnam War is re-fought in novels and films, particularly the United States, in accordance with the dominant narrative and understanding.
He views the publishing industry, for instance, as an industry dominated by systemic injustice, and therefore the resulting representation of minority writers who neatly fit the bill. In an interview with Asymptote, he specifically brings up how the inability to own the means of cultural production means that it is easy for mainstream, non-minority audiences to read and classify their work in a way that fits with the dominant narrative.
Moving beyond the various polemics surrounding it, and shallow attempts at “diversity”, there is a clear issue regarding representation in publishing and literature, in this case in the English language. The fact is that unconsciously or not, various institutions shape a work in so many ways. Everything from a Master of Fine Arts programme, editors at publishing houses, down to book reviewers and bookshops, are all gatekeepers within the publishing industry. They are the ones who select certain kinds of stories for publication and consumption.
By default, books that agree with the mainstream narrative of suffering and ultimately (West-friendly) redemption gain traction. Such an issue makes the writers themselves complicit in the promulgation of skewed narratives and ethnic stereotyping. It’s not necessarily a moral fault, and in many ways, it is the only way to survive as a writer. How then, does one navigate a creative industry where there is a clear trajectory made available from the start?
This is not to say that the writing produced through this system is of poor quality, most times it’s beautiful and excellent, but oftentimes it does not cover a lot of new ground or ask deeper questions. Montreal-based Kim Thuy’s Ru is a particular example. Written in French and later translated into English, Ru‘s beautiful prose-poetry sweeps back and forth through time, touching on the experience of Vietnamese refugees. There are even some scenes set on the east coast of Malaysia, although it’s not exactly clear where exactly this is.
It touches on familiar themes: memory, displacement and eventually a sort of assimilation that still considers cultural differences. It is beautifully crafted and each line is exquisite.
But the challenge that has yet to be overcome and which lurks in the pages of the book, as Nguyen stated, is that it focuses on a familiar narrative of suffering at home before finding redemption in an alien land, and where home, wherever home is, feels distant, alien, viewed at from a safe distance of political and economic security with the passing of time as a comfortable buffer in-between. In the construction of memory, the West may still lose wars, but ultimately it retains its moral and cultural strength.
The production of memory locks the enemy in a constant spectre of violence, brutality and repression. Perhaps this is the same trend that tends to appear in some books written about Malaysia, how the narrative of the Emergency, in particular, follows an established trend – the familiar villains, morals and heroes, with an occasional book muddying the waters, blurring the lines between white and black, clearly demarcated bad and good. In war, politics and the stories we tell, the narrative should not be that simple.
Turning away from Malaysia for now: If we went from here to look at a lot of pioneering North American “minority” literature, for example, it hinges on a narrative of suffering and eventual acceptance. There are still vicious concentration camps, rioters and lynch mobs, war and death and peace back “home”, but ultimately the stories have redemptive arcs. Figures as diverse as Amy Tan and Wayson Choy have told one version of this or another.
Varnished history
Assimilation, or as it appears on the surface, seems to be the key, and this is where the mechanics of the publishing industry maintain the status quo. Dissenting voices or experimental writing are the preserve of others – the model minority has no need to complain. Politically and economically, things seem secure, the only things that must necessarily be given up is a direct link to a former life, a small price to pay for a new present. There may be diverse writers of varying ethnicities, but the stories that they tell follow the same broad contours.
In her book Minor Feelings, Cathy Park Hong points out this fact specifically: that there is effectively a template in place, one that does not necessarily need to be tweaked any further. It is much easier to reproduce an existing narrative, in line with in-house quotas, thus reinforcing the status quo.
Returning to the interview with Nguyen earlier, it is useful to quote him at length, to better explain the situation at hand: “Publishing is an industry like any other. Well, it’s different from others in that it’s staffed by liberals, but it’s still an industry marked by inequality. That inequality is an outcome of colonisation, of racism, of structural forces that are also related to the very kinds of histories that have produced refugees.”
But sometimes, there are voices of incredible anger and honesty. Perhaps the strongest example is Carlos Bulosan’s America is in the Heart, published in 1946. Bulosan tells the experiences of the Filipino diaspora in the United States through his semi-autobiographical work, and he does not flinch. He writes about systemic violence, pure and simple. Persecution, constant danger and vigilante action follow Bulosan’s characters. He can still believe in a mythical, welcoming America – but he recognises that the struggle never ends.
Ultimately the immigrant, or the refugee, is a perpetual victim of the system. Perhaps it was the most honest form of diasporic fiction, but his outspokenness came with a price. He was ostracised for his socialist writings and died in poverty ten years after publishing his novel. It was not until the Long Sixties when disenfranchised Asian American writers found and republished his works.
Closer to home, what could such a rebellion look like? There is an example from Singapore that we can look at. Ostensibly about an overlooked master comic artist, The Art of Charlie Chan Hock Chye is a love letter to comic books and postwar popular culture. The quality of the artwork is staggering and beautifully rendered, switching between a variety of styles at a dizzying rate. On the surface, Charlie Chan is deceptively simple. It follows the life of the titular artist from his youth to an unsuccessful old age.
Charlie Chan’s youth brims with idealism as he hurries from one publisher to another, struggling to get his stories told. Charlie’s art draws inspiration from the work of masters such as Osamu Tezuka, but his visions are foiled by financial considerations and nervous publishers. Is it also a coincidence that Charlie Chan shares a similar name to that famous fictitious Chinese-American “Oriental” detective?
While the artwork is a technical marvel in itself, it is Liew’s overtly political stance that truly defines it: a re-investigation of Singapore’s political left. What truly sets Liew’s work apart is the degree to which he tears down Singapore’s founding myths and reveals how history was varnished and retold by the victors.
The narrative created by Sonny Liew, the author and artist of the graphic novel, was so critical of the late prime minister that Liew’s grant from the National Arts Council was revoked. This decision backfired when Charlie Chan. Liew eventually garnered international attention and three Eisner Awards for his daring work—the most prestigious awards in the world of comics.
The ending of Charlie Chan is quietly fierce. Charlie, now in the twilight of his life, lives a simple life. He does not work in a studio and he has not achieved the fame that he doggedly pursued on the old streets of the city in his youth. Instead, he leaves some music or a television programme playing in the background and keeps a simple hot or cold drink on hand.
He begins to draw. This effectively embodies the ethos of Charlie’s/Liew’s work. In the end, the only thing we can do is to hold on to our ideals despite our disillusionments. Ultimately, we must keep struggling on.
WILLIAM THAM WAI LIANG is an editor at Gerakbudaya and the author of two novels. His new novel, The Last Days, is set in 1981 and covers the continuing legacy of the Emergency. His first book, Kings of Petaling Street, was shortlisted for the Penang Monthly Book Prize in 2017.
The views expressed here are those of the author/contributor and do not necessarily represent the views of Malaysiakini.
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