The
Transparency of Veils: A Semiotic Critique
of
the Veiling of Picasso’s Guernica at the United Nations Security Council
and
Observations on the Discourse of the Solitary Gesture
(by
Jim Dwyer)
Since the dawning of the mass-media
age in the twentieth century, certain photographic images have been
captured, like bugs in amber, for all time as something like crystallized
events. These frozen images have come down to us as historically and
culturally significant ones, laden with Symbolic weight Some of them
have been most meaningful in retrospect (Neville Chamberlain’s fist
filled with meaningless paper, raised and shaking above his head) while
others have virtually pulsated with immediacy (the lone individual with
the shopping bags who stood before the line of Chinese tanks during
the Tiannamen Square rebellion, or the sledge-hammers raised above the
heads of joyful Berliners, dismantling the decades old Wall). Though
these events, or occurrences are not texts, in their having been captured
as images, they transcend the fleeting nature of temporality and enter
the historical record.
It
is my contention that such images of events have tremendous symbolic
value and thus historical significance and are decidedly worthy of close
study, in spite of their non-textual nature. I also plan to argue that
the failure on the part of those in power (who often suffer from a lack
of imagination) to recognize what might become such an era-defining
image or event, can at the very least become a spin-doctor’s
nightmare (a major publicity problem) and can indeed often portend a
downfall or decline. To put an even finer point upon it, I plan to suggest
that the Republican Party has a poor understanding of the power and
importance of art, and though this is often (sadly) of little consequence,
such an ignorance or disregard of this power is not without its
costs. We will see that often times, an image
or an idea is more conspicuous when it has been covered or concealed
than had it been left alone and in the open.
Recently,
the world was served up another one of these harbinger-like event/images.
On January 27, 2003, as the world held its breath and hoped against
hope that war might be averted in the middle east, a striking, iconic
event occurred at the United Nations. Outside the entrance to the meeting
chamber of the Security Council, a tapestry of Pablo Picasso’s famous
painting Guernica has hung for years. This celebrated anti-war statement,
which depicts the madness, violence and human suffering which are the
consequences of war in general but of aerial bombardment in
particular, is perhaps the single most famous
painting by one of the twentieth century’s most celebrated artists.
Yet, on the date in question, as this section of the United Nations
compound was being converted to a press briefing area, a gesture of
huge symbolic significance took place-- this anti-war image was veiled,
or curtained-off, having been deemed (by whom exactly?) as an inappropriate
backdrop for briefings about the possibility (and increasing likelihood)
of war.
What
can such event/images be said to mean? How do they accumulate or accrue
this meaning, and how is their meaning employed in
[1]
further discourse? I will refer to such events and occurrences as the
discourse of the solitary gesture, after Michel Foucault, who in his Discourse
on Language said that If discourses are to be treated first as ensembles
of discursive events, what status are we to accord this notion of event,
so rarely taken into consideration by philosophers? Of course, an event
is neither substance, nor accident, nor quality, nor process; events are
not corporeal. And yet, an event is certainly not immaterial; it takes
an effect, becomes effect, always on the level of materiality (159). This
idea, taken alongside Roland Barthes observations (in his essay Myth Today),
clearly allows for the symbolic interpretation of texts that are essentially
not word-based. Barthes says that, not only written discourse but also
photography, cinema, reporting, sports, shows, publicity, all these can
serve as a
support to mythical speech (34), his term
for symbolic language which deals out doubled meanings beyond the obvious
surface intent. He further states that Pictures become a kind of writing
as soon as they are meaningful: like writing, they call for a Lexus
(34).
To
return to the veiling of Guernica, it is evident at once that what has
occurred is a substantial piling on of meanings, and a clash between
art and politics. There is, first of all, Picasso’s masterpiece, with
its own meaning. Secondly, there is the placement of this tapestry facsimile
at the United Nations, and the additional meanings that accrue. Finally,
there is the act of veiling, or draping, itself. Each of these three
aspects of the event can be said to have meaning-- but taken in combination,
what then can be said about meaning and intent? How have the two poles
of the political spectrum responded to this veiling? Whom did it serve
and who can be seen, if anyone, as having benefited from this (unintentionally?)
symbolic act? Let’s take on the three layers of meaning related to Guernica
first, and then see how they collide, leading to the resultant discourse
and doctrinal spin that the discourse of the solitary gesture, that
is, the decision/event itself fosters.
Picasso’s
Guernica is itself a massive work, measuring eleven and a half feet
high and nearly twenty-six feet wide. Painted in response to the vicious
attack on the unarmed and unsuspecting villagers of Guernica, Spain
by German and Italian air squadrons in the service of fascist upstart
Franco, the painting was first displayed at the Spanish Pavilion during
the 1937 Paris World’s Fair. According to David Cohen, who calls Guernica
the 20th century’s most iconic protest against the inhumanity of war,
(1) after the World’s Fair, the painting toured Europe, where it was
used as a fund-raiser for anti-fascist concerns. In 1939 the painting
came to New York, again to be used as a fund-raising tool, this time
for Spanish war-relief. The painting’s spare use of blacks, whites and
grays give it a shattered newspaper photograph effect. That it was employed,
and so early on, as an emotion-stirring fund-raising device itself speaks
volumes about the compelling power of great
art to hit home and comment upon politics.
Though Guernica would often be taken on world-tours,
New York and the Museum of Modern Art (MOMA) was to become its semi
permanent home (Cohen 2). After World War Two, many felt strongly that
the painting belonged to Spain-- after all, it is the suffering of the
Spanish people that is so graphically represented. Ironically, even
Franco himself wanted the painting returned to Spain, though how he
might have chosen to display it presents a real head-scratcher of a
problem! This, of course, would never be, for following
the victory of Franco’s fascist army, with the aid of Hitler and Mussolini,
Picasso forbade the works display in Spain until the country enjoyed
public liberties and democratic institutions (Walsh 3). Picasso later
said, in 1956, "It will do the most good in America" (Cohen
2). The massive painting was eventually returned home to Spain, in 1981,
after the death of Generalissimo Franco and in time to mark the centenary
of the artist’s birth.
This
is a history of the work itself, but I feel it is also worth a brief
reminder (especially since this essay is not illustrated, and must rely
upon the readers own memory/impression of Picasso’s painting) as to
the details of the images depicted in this famous work of art. Writing
for the New York Daily News, Pete Hamill describes Guernica as follows:
Picasso ignores the particular and concentrates on the universal. To
the left, a woman howls at the sky, a dead child in her arms. Behind
her is a bull, stolid, its face ridged with anger or annoyance, probably
a symbol of implacable Spain itself, while above the bull we see a shrieking
bird. On the ground before them lies the severed head of a man, wide-eyed
in death, a claw-like hand frozen in futility...Rising in the center
of the mural-- and dominating the memory of most viewers-- is a horse
in agony...we can almost hear the creature’s terrified whinnying (1).
Hammill goes on to comment that "The effect (of Guernica) was powerful,
scary and universal". But he had created something that would endure,
a warning of what was coming, an assault on all
sentimental notions about war (2).
This
is all quite clear enough in it’s own right, but how did an image/facsimile
of Guernica find its way to the United Nations? David Cohen, art critic
and director at the New York Studio School tells us that, "The
tapestry version at the United Nations was a gift from the estate of
Nelson D. Rockefeller in 1985". The tapestry version succumbs to
the temptations of color--browns and taupe-- considerable weakening
its effect, as does the change in medium (2). Indeed, the browns and
taupes mute the horrors depicted, making them seem somehow more distant,
less immediate than the stark, crisp black and white. Naturally, fabric
also softens the blow of the piece, making what should be gruesome and
gory images out to be something more like fuzzy, misshapen cutouts.
Aesthetics
aside however, what is the symbolic meaning of this gift from a wealthy
patron? Strictly speaking, Rockefeller’s gift is an entirely separate
piece of art—Picasso’s work, after all, is unavailable to hang in this
location. The tapestry version is a much smaller, much softer, far less
evocative facsimile, and little more. That having been said, we have still
two remaining issues to resolve involving this gift-- one deals with the
United Nations (UN) itself, and the other with the patron. As for the
UN, whatever its faults and shortcomings might be, it is an institution
largely devoted to the prevention of another world war, and the vast devastation
that would certainly result. Though the UN has had mixed results in the
area
of prevention of hostilities, it is quite obvious
the symbolic value that a work of art such as Guernica would have upon
the wall of such a world body. Even the ultra-conservative Washington
Times acknowledged, in an article by Betsy Pisik, that it would be difficult
to imagine a more fitting example of site-specific art1). The image of
Guernica is, as has been mentioned, both reminder and warning, of the
horrors of war.
As
far as Nelson Rockefeller is concerned, although it may be a little
unfair to the man himself, generally speaking wealthy patrons are not
always art fans nor are they anti-war activists. While Nelson Rockefeller
may indeed have been the former, he was
decidedly not the latter. Almost certainly,
beneath the Guernica tapestry, will be found a small plaque bearing
the textile artist’s name as well as the name of the patron. Site-specific
the work may be, but the Rockefeller estate are following the lead of
industrial-barons of yore, such as Andrew Carnegie and even old J.D.
Rockefeller hisself-- spend some money on nice things (libraries, public
art, etc.) and your misdeeds will likely be forgotten. Certainly the
Rockefeller estate aren’t going to commission any artistic renderings
of the putting-down of the Attica prison riots, for example. Put another
way, though the hanging of this Guernica tapestry seems on the surface
to be at the UN because of the desire of that international body to
prevent war, a wealthy patron has other interests at heart besides,
or perhaps in addition to (though not necessarily in place of) the artist’s
original intent. In this way, the patron gets to co-opt at least some
of the power of the art.
We
now have Picasso’s original artwork, and his original intent, layered-over
with additional meanings and intentions in the display of the tapestry.
It isn’t difficult to see the use of image ÿas Barthes mythological
speech here. Though for Picasso, war itself and the attack on a specific
locale is the signified, and his painting is the signifier. For those
who walk through or engage in press conferences in the chamber wherein
this tapestry is hung Picasso’s Guernica is the signified, the tapestry
the signifier. At each layer of signification, it would seem, we get
further from authentic essence, but how could it be otherwise? What
then to make of the third layer of meaning: the veil? Why, exactly,
was this facsimile veiled, and at whose request was it done? Was it
censorship, or something more benign? If the latter, what then to make
of the consequent discourse that this act of veiling has generated?
First, we must consider the actual series of events (insofar as such
can ever be adequately ascertained) and only then comments stemming
from them.
According
to William Walker, writing in the February 9th edition of the Toronto
Star, It (the Guernica tapestry) hangs over the exact spot where Security
Council
members stop and speak before TV cameras.
It was decided the violent anti-war images would not be a fitting backdrop
for talk of a new war (3). Walker also quotes UN chief media officer Abdellatif
Kabbaj as saying, "Its only temporary". We're only doing this
until the TV cameras leave (3). Decided by whom, one might well ask. In
an article dated February 6, 2003 by Zachary Dowdy, appearing in Newsday,
it was hinted that censorship was indeed afoot: Diplomats at the UN, speaking
on condition that they not be named, have been quoted in recent days telling
journalists that they believe the United States leaned on UN officials
to cover the tapestry, rather than have it in the background while Powell
or other US diplomats argued for war on Iraq (1) However, in the next
sentence, Dowdy assures that Rather than the United States, it was broadcasters
who asked for the change, said Stephen Dujarric, a UN official. He said
photographers would not get the full effect of the tapestry as they focused
on the diplomats (1). When the word effect is employed here, one can only
wonder if artistic effect is the intended sense. This is interesting,
since the room is essentially exactly for the stationing of a speaker
or speakers before a throng of reporters, why then is t
his
supposedly symbolically charged image generally considered a visual distraction,
a broken and too obscured image? If the effect is lost, can it any longer be
considered then a sign of anything at all? Certainly, while in an unobscured
state it can function as one. The unspoken implication here is perhaps
that the tapestry is not in fact a sign for those to whom it is obscured
by heads-- the TV audience. It is after all they who will see the press
conference, but not the tapestry (even in its unveiled state) on television.
The tapestry then must be for those who see it as they walk past, for
Security Council members and staffers. It is stated elsewhere in Dowdy's
article that typically the tapestry is obscured by flags and a UN logo
when the larger space (the tapestry chamber) is needed for bigger crowds.
Betsy
Pisik's February 3rd article UN Report, in the Washington Times seems
to confirm this when she writes that (Kabbaj) noted that the diplomats'
microphone,
which usually stands in front of the Security
Council sign, had to be moved to accommodate the crowd of camera crews
and reporters. With the Picasso as a backdrop, Mr. Kabbaj said, no one
would know they were looking at the United Nations (2). If this is so,
one might ask if Mr. Kabbaj is doing a very good job in his tenure as
UN chief media officer! While the word accommodate, used in association
with the media, is quite interesting, another comment Pisik attributes
to Kabbaj seems telling: We had a problem with, you know, the horse
(2). Maureen Dowd's 'Powell Without Picasso', dated February 5, 2003 states
that "The UN began covering the tapestry last week after getting
nervous that Hans Blix's head would end up on TV next to a screaming horse
head (1). In her typical fashion, Dowd wryly links this veiling to another
recent case: (Maybe the UN was inspired by John Ashcroft's throwing a
blue cover over the Spirit of Justice statue last year, after her naked
marble breast hovered over his head during a televised briefing)(1). While
many chuckle at Ashcroft's apparent fear of titillating Americans with
naked, albeit marble, breasts, (I mean, who puts a dress on a statue,
really?) here we have a very obvious case of censorship. Some, however,
might see it as but one of many examples of this administration’s penchant
for secrecy. It is however also more than this. In both instances, if
we assume these accounts of the reasons for the veiling to be true (and
I do find it more likely than the idea that it was an act of outright
censorship, insofar as Guernica is concerned) what we have in effect is
an attempt to visually sanitize a TV picture, an assertion of an aesthetic
(a good TV shot) and a fine example of Foucault's observation that "Discourse
is a will to truth-- pushing away everything it can't assimilate"(151).
Thus, although censorship is not the stated purpose in covering the tapestry,
it is the end result in any case. In other words, the needs of the media
and the TV aesthetic precede the importance of symbolic works of art specifically
chosen
‑ to be seen in the context which now we are told
is an inadequate, even inappropriate setting. When, then, does the TV
viewer get the chance to see this tapestry, this art, this reminder of
the UN's mandate, in the
context of the actual UN itself without actually
going there on a slow day and seeing it for herself? This intended symbolic
connection has been lost, and at the discretion, apparently of the press
and not the politicians.
Though
the visual aesthetic of the TV shot is the purported reason for the
'inappropriateness' of the tapestry, doubts remain. Some have suggested
that the draping of the tapestry is reminiscent of the manner in which
the likeness of a recently deceased loved one is covered, or turned
to face the wall. This however would seem to suggest that we are (to
speak in general pluralities) protecting ourselves from seeing the warning
that it signifies, and isn't that like hiding under the covers from
the boogieman? Others have suggested that the tapestry was covered so
that the idea that the painting represents, that war is bad, is not
so disgracefully ignored, but this explanation seems to personify the
artwork and the entire process of signification itself. One of the better
observations, though itself, I think, inaccurate, is that the tapestry
was veiled to shield us, the viewers of the world, from an excess of
irony. Russell Martin, art critic and historian, as well as author of
a new book about this very painting (entitled Picasso's War: The Destruction
of Guernica and the Masterpiece That Changed the World) commented upon
the superabundance of irony in this decision to 'mask' the tapestry
on liberal (though frequently squeamishly so) National Public Radio.
The UN's decision not to allow Guernica's images to be used as a backdrop
for discussions about whether Iraq should be attacked preemptively are
ironic, given the Pentagon's stated intention to intensively bombard
Baghdad, a city of five million people, as the war commences (2). Martin
also drew the connection, overlooked by many in the media, between US
'shock and awe' tactics, and the Nazi 'blitzkrieg' approach, for which
the attack on Guernica was the trial run. Martin then spoke of 'critical
truths' that are represented in the painting, arguing that 'They are
truths that should not be shrouded, truths that news cameras and every
one of us around the world must dare to look at directly’ (2).
It
is in such statements that we come finally to the strangest aspect of
this event. The veiling itself, apparently decided upon because of a
perceived need to clarify a visual image being tailored to fit a screen
and not to make a political statement about the display of anti-war
art on the wall of the UN has been widely believed to have been just
that: an act of censorship. And since, though unintended (with consequences
apparently unanticipated as well) this veiling becomes a censoring,
especially since the end result is indistinguishable from an intentional
act of censorship. It has thus generated the discourse that an overt
act of censorship would have generated. In this we can see the failure
of imagination, and the failure to appreciate the power of art, that
has allowed the discourse of a solitary gesture to generate a whole
lot of publicity, inescapably negative publicity for the power structure.
This is not the failure of any one individual, but a failure of three
institutions: the media, the United Nations itself, as well as the Bush
administration. All of these failed to understand the consequences of
a seemingly innocuous, solitary gesture. At some point, it seems incredible
that no one from any of these entities stepped forward to suggest leaving
the tapestry alone: 'Might it not look as though we are censoring a
work of art if we veil this thing?' No one, apparently, raised this
issue as a point of interest.
It
is at this point that an event enters into or becomes mythology. However,
and for whatever reason Guernica the tapestry was veiled, since it takes
on the appearance of censorship (what seems must be), this event will
forevermore be referred to as the veiling (censoring) of Picasso’s Guernica. This is the area to which Barthes refers when
he speaks of the 'immediate reading of juxtaposed meanings’ (28). Myth,
Barthes insists 'is a system of communication...everything can be a
myth provided it is conveyed by a discourse’ (33). Though critics on
the right will not be happy with this state of affairs, this is the
way things have shaken out. After all, when the veiling is seen in the
context of a Bush administration that 'deployed its intelligence agencies
to spy on friendly governments and to doctor evidence to prove Iraqi
wrongdoing’ (Bleifuss, 1), who
wouldn’t believe that the 'pressure to veil'
came from Washington? {If this sounds incredible, consider this: In
a memo leaked from the National Security Administration, and printed
in the London Observer, Frank Koza, an NSA official wrote that the NSA
was spying on UN Security Council members (bugging phones in homes,
offices, monitoring e-mails) 'for insights as to how membership is reacting
to the on-going debate...minus US and GBR of course' (Bleifuss, 1).}
Critics
on the right shouldn’t complain too much. Consider Foucault’s observation
that 'a single work of literature can give rise, simultaneously, to several
distinct kinds of discourse’ (152). And so can a single event, even if
that event is, as has been explained, not as it seems! Allow me to briefly
consider how this event has generated discourse, and the kinds of discourse
it has generated. I will look at three examples: one from Maureen Dowd
(an interesting case in that she once wrote speeches for Bush sr., and
is currently one of the mainstream media’s most outspoken critics of Bush
jr.), one from Socialist writer David Walsh and
one from ultra-right (though often
wrong) Claudia Winkler, editor of The Weekly Standard.
Dowd,
in her playful way, uses the veiling event to speak of other veilings,
and other kinds of veiling, mentioning early on in her piece that 'Mr.
Powell can't very well seduce the world into bombing Iraq surrounded
on camera by shrieking and mutilated women, men, children, bulls and
horses’ (1). This, again, plays into the suggestion, or suspicion, that
quite possibly it was pressure from Washington that led to the veiling.
Dowd goes on to link Picasso's fractured cubist style to the casus belli
arguments: 'The administration's argument for war has shifted in a dizzying
Cubist cascade over the last months’ (2). Finally, she tells readers
that 'When Mr. Bush wanted to sway opinion
ion on Iraq before his State of the Union
speech last week, he invited columnists to the White House. But he invited
only conservative columnists, who went from gushing about the president
to gushing more about the president. The columnists did not use Mr.
Bush’s name, writing about him as 'a senior administration official,'
even though the White
House had announced the meeting in advance.
They quoted the 'official' about the president's determination on the
war. That's just silly’ (2). Dowd is being somewhat generous here, as
this is something worse than 'silly.' It is, in effect, a new way of
'covering' the news, it is another way of 'veiling' a critical voice.
David
Walsh, in a piece dated February 8, 2003 entitled 'UN Conceals Picasso’s
Guernica for Powell's Presentation' very carefully quotes several mainstream
sources, including Newsday and the Washington Times for his factual
items, but in keeping with his political ideology, he sees the event
as 'an act with extraordinary historical resonance’ (1), a term not
widely used to describe the veiling in the mainstream media. While much
of his article is centered upon the history of Picasso’s masterpiece
and the actual debate going on at the UN Security Council itself, he
also states that Picasso’s painting threatened to s[1]÷peak
to historical parallels that the Bush administration and UN officials
were clearly determined that the media or the public should not make’
(2). Such a viewpoint would seem to be informed by Foucault’s observation,
in 'The Discourse on Language' that 'Disciplines constitute a system
of control in the production of discourse, fixing its limits through
the action of an identity taking the form of a permanent reactivation
of the rules’ (155).
In
her piece, dated April 16, 2003, Claudia Winkler uses the term 'myth'
in her title ('The Guernica Myth') but she is using it in the pejorative
sense, as in 'falsehood, untruth'-- not an accurate or clear use of
the term myth. Although, as I have acknowledged earlier, the act of
'censorship' is in effect
a myth (that is, it was not
necessarily an intentional act of censorship) once the event becomes
discourse, no one can control or undo the new discourse that will result.
Winkler can call it a 'myth', but for most observers, the irony of the
'event' is striking enough to develop 'legs of its own', to employ a
journalistic parlance. Winkler writes,
'Too good to check' is the technical term for a story like the
censoring of Guernica...The episode was a bonanza for anti-war, anti-Bush
propagandists and those eager to believe them.
Writers of letters to the editor recycled
the claim as fact’ (1). Indeed, the event was a bonanza for anti-war writers,
for the very reasons I have listed above, chief among them the failure
of imagination on the part of
the
pro-Bush propagandists and those eager to believe them. Winkler too has
underestimated the power of art, as well as failed to realize that a veiling
is a veiling, and for whatever reason, what ends up looking like censorship
may as well have been censorship. In a comment that seeks to place blame
(where it in all probability lies) with the media, she writes 'As over
200 cameramen were setting up, they complained that the background at
the new location didn't work for them. Powell would be speaking in front
of the tapestry, of which only indecipherable shapes would be visible’
(1). Again, the UN bent to accommodate the complaints of the media-- and
though this may well be true, Winkler fails to acknowledge how the decision
to veil put the administration in
a
bad light. Further, her comment could be read as a critique of Cubist
approaches to artistic style as well. She also states, Ò...expect the
suppression of Guernica by the Bush administration to enter the settled
leftist lore of the Iraq war’ (2). Winkler may never realize that, like
it or not, often times what seems is what people believe. She also, apparently,
has little problem with swallowing whole the bald-faced lies and assertions
uttered by the likes of Powell and Rumsfield et al. If this sounds like
mere leftist ideology on my part, simply think back to the claims made
in Powell's power-point presentation, which utilized demonstrably false,
even forged documents, courtesy of British intelligence. Winkler and others
on the right might be disappointed,
but
they shouldn’t be surprised, when the Bush administration’s failure of
imagination kicked up a loose puck to the anti-war movement, who swept
down the ice to score an easy, if purely symbolic goal.
That the Bush administration fails to understand
the power and significance of art was further revealed, once the war
had begun and ended, when raging mobs were allowed to storm into the
unprotected museums and archives of Baghdad, and untold treasures from
the ancient world were either lost or destroyed. This too has turned
into a public relations disaster for the
Bush administration, who will now pay out bad money after good in sending
the FBI to help track these treasures down, at a cost far greater than
simply stationing a few tanks around the museums would have cost in
the first place. Appearances do matter, and so does art, even if those
in power often fail to realize this.
To
conclude, it is worth noting, one last time, that often, we draw more
attention to an item or event when we make a gesture to conceal or cover
the same. Had the tapestry been left uncovered, yes, critics and anti-war
writers would have commented upon the irony of Powell speaking before
this piece of art. But in agreeing to the veil, and in failing to realize
that the veil amounted to a tacit act of censorship, the pro-war politicians
created their own public-relations disaster. Though, all things told,
this event is of minor consequence, given the scope and scale of the
damage that war has wrought in Iraq, it does serve as a powerful reminder
that art, silent and yet still critical, is alive and well, and its
powers are, if not always recognized, still a force to be reckoned with.
This
event also serves as a perfect reminder of Barthes' observation about
the culture in which we live, which by its mass production of images
bombards us with meaning almost incessantly: 'The development of publicity,
of a national press, of radio, of illustrated news, not to speak of
the survival of a myriad rites of communication which rule social appearances
makes the development of a semiological science more urgent than ever.
In a single day, how many really non-signifying fields do we cross?
Very few, sometimes none’ (35). And as we have seen, even a blank blue
veil can become a signifying field, intentionally or otherwise.
Works
Cited
Barthes,
Roland. 'Myth Today.' Literary Criticism 511, Course Pack Two. Ed. Jim
Knapp. Ypsilanti: Mike's Printing,
2003. 33-37.
Bleifuss,
Joel. 'Spies Like Us.' In These Times April 2003: 1.
Cohen,
David. 'Hidden Treasures: What's So Controversial About Picasso's Guernica?'
Slate 6 Feb. 2003. 19 April 2003. <http://slate.msn.com/id/2078242>.
Dowd,
Maureen. 'Powell Without Picasso.' New York Times 5 Feb. 2003. 19 April
2003. <http://www.nytimes.com/2003/02/05/opinion/05DOWD.html?ex=105089 7600&en=7d60e59d76dac425&ei=5070>.
Dowdy,
Zachary. 'A UN Cover-up? Just For One Day.Ó 6 Feb. 2003. 19 April 2003. <http://www.newsday.com/news/nationworld/ny- wohide063118864feb06, 0,6
833051.story?coll=ny-worldnewsprint>.
Foucault,
Michel. 'The Discourse on Language.' Critical Theory Since 1965. Eds.
Hazard Adams and Leroy Searle. Tallahassee: University
Presses of Florida, 1986.148-162.
Hammill,
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š
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