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WISE ENCOUNTERS

Lena Herzog: Art as an Antidote to War and Cultural Extinction

by Serena Fogli

Artist Lena Herzog reflects on the wounds of our time—from the loss of languages ​​to the nuclear threat—tracing the role of art as an act of resistance capable of reawakening our now-dormant *amor mundi*.

What will remain of us once we lose the ability to tell our own stories? And how do we tell those stories in a world that seems to have lost the capacity to listen? These are some of the themes we discussed with Lena Herzog, a world-renowned visual artist whose work spans from photography to virtual reality. Against the backdrop of the major CinemAmbiente festival, we explored her visceral body of work, which transforms themes such as war and extinction—both cultural and physical—into a poetic narrative designed to strike directly at our nervous system. With her latest project, *Trinity – An Immersive Lament in the Age of Extinction*, Herzog compels us to confront the tragedies, wounds, and perils of our era. She reminds us that, in an age defined by mass distraction (and destruction), art can still restore truth and beauty to us, leading us to (re)discover the *amor mundi*—that love for the world—essential to saving human existence (and our planet) from destruction.

Many of your works require the viewer to be silent, to listen, and to observe at length. In an era characterized by speed and fragmented attention, how do you manage to invite people to pause and listen to a “whisper”?

The answer is twofold: one must tread softly so that the silence can be heard, yet at the same time, it is necessary to make beautiful, authentic things “loud” enough for people to stop and listen. Everyone of us, in fact, is in search of beauty and authenticity, because we were not made to live amidst a senseless cacophony. One of my works, *Last Whispers*, is an oratorio featuring languages ​​that are extinct or at risk of extinction. When I presented it to the clergy at St. Stephen’s Cathedral in Vienna—though the piece was not ultimately exhibited there—I was told by the priests that its tone evoked the way one speaks in the confessional. And that is precisely how some of the material for the work was gathered: to create it, I relied on linguists who listened—much like priests—to the last remaining speakers of a language; these are individuals who have no one left to talk to, as there is no one else in the world who can understand them. Perhaps we should take a cue from confessors and learn that a genuine interest is required before it can be shared with others. By the same token, we must find beautiful and authentic ways to express ourselves, for nothing is more powerful than beauty and truth.

The work *Any War, Any Enemy* addresses the theme of war—a subject that has become highly normalized today. We experience war from a safe distance, witnessing it indirectly and in real time via social media. Yet, viewing war through a screen can make it seem remote, making it easy to slip into a voyeuristic perspective. How can visual art awaken the viewer’s conscience without resorting to rhetoric or the sensationalization of suffering?

To answer this, let me briefly touch upon my own work. *Last Whispers* and *Any War, Any Enemy* are the first two chapters of a trilogy titled "Trinity," subtitled "An Immersive Lament in the Age of Extinction." The first chapter deals with cultural and linguistic extinction; the second focuses on the physical extinction of humanity due to nuclear war. The third chapter, titled "Reversal," acts as a counterpoint to the first two, envisioning a possible future and a return to joy and to life. In essence, it is a dance of souls and spirits, but also a list of things that—in my view—make life worth living. To sum it up in a single phrase: *amor mundi*. When we cultivate love for the world and for our own existence within it, we become more attentive and caring toward it.

Returning to your question—how art can awaken conscience without falling into the rhetoric of suffering—it does so in a poetic and unconventional way. War and death have always been part of our culture; they have always been depicted because, ultimately, we are all destined to die. However, in *Any War, Any Enemy*, I portray nuclear war—a conflict distinct from all others, as it would bring about the simultaneous extinction of the entire human race. When the nuclear-armed superpowers—namely the United States, Russia, and China—launch their nuclear weapons, it will mean the end of life on Earth.

How can art halt this process?

In the 1960s, a project called "Artists Against the Bomb" emerged, with most of the associated works created in the wake of the Cuban Missile Crisis. At that specific moment in history, the prospect of nuclear war was terrifying; today, however, we have become so accustomed to the idea of ​​war and nuclear weaponry that we no longer fear them. Yet, ultimately, war begins precisely when we stop fearing it.

We are, however, witnessing a radical shift today. For centuries, the underlying premise of any war was: "If you don't do what I say, I will kill you." Nuclear war, by contrast, declares: "If you don't do what I say, I will kill all of you." However, in a Mutually Assured Destruction that also means everyone since the other side will do the same. We currently lack the language to describe this shift because, in concrete terms, we have not yet experienced it: surviving a nuclear war is impossible, and thus, recounting its aftermath is equally impossible. Nuclear war brings everything to an end.

The atomic bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki in 1945 possessed only a fraction of the destructive power of today’s nuclear weapons; nevertheless, some people survived and were able to tell us what it was like. Japan even has a specific term for them: *hibakusha*—atomic bomb survivors. Today, conversely, a nuclear war would leave no survivors in its wake. How, then, can we convince people to fear it? Merely explaining the facts would be of little use; telling people what to do or think never works. We must show it to them and make them feel it viscerally—and this can only be achieved through the language of poetry. And this is precisely the reason why, for instance, Dante’s *Inferno* has come down to us: because it is immensely poetic, because it embodies a human insight of extraordinary depth.

Dante’s *Inferno* profoundly influenced the way I depicted our own hell. Three "Trinities" appear in *Any War Any Enemy*. At the center of the first is a pair of lovers, like Paolo and Francesca. Yet, while Paolo and Francesca endure for eternity in their circle of hell, my lovers fly upwards and turn to ash. The first Trinity, then, is air: everything is reduced to ash, just as happened at Hiroshima. The second is fire, because we know that in the areas closest to a nuclear explosion, everything is consumed by flames. The third is water; indeed, one of the scenarios envisioned in nuclear war planning involves detonating atomic devices over the oceans near the coast to generate gigantic waves capable of sweeping everything away.

Air, fire, and water are, therefore, the three Trinities. And, of course, there is another reference: "Trinity" was the name of the first atomic test conducted in the United States. That was the name given to the first experimental nuclear explosion, the laboratory for which was led by J. Robert Oppenheimer.

Your works often stem from a deep, sustained engagement with themes such as loss, absence, destruction, and death. From a creative and personal standpoint, are you able to maintain an emotional distance from the project, or are there moments when you feel emotionally overwhelmed by the works you create?

It is a bit of both. If the theme you are addressing doesn’t burn you or move you, it cannot move anyone else; if you don’t let yourself be swept up in what you are creating—if you don’t feel overwhelmed—then no one else will be, either. If a theme leaves us indifferent, it will leave the people we are sharing it with indifferent as well. At the same time, however, designing a work requires care, precision, a cool head, and a grounded approach—especially with work like mine, which utilizes virtual reality. My pieces are built around experiences linked to an idea—something that allows the viewer to explore a world just as I experienced it; essentially, the viewer finds themselves inside my head. That is why, beyond being overwhelmed by the world one wishes to translate into a work, one must also be extremely precise and dispassionate executing it.

One day, David Sylvester asked Francis Bacon what he was trying to achieve with his work, and Bacon replied: “I want to create paintings that strike directly at the nervous system.” That is precisely what I aim to do with my own work, whether it is a photograph or an immersive environment: you don’t even notice the technology being used because you are completely inside it. The beauty of an immersive work is that you find yourself—magically—inside a picture: not standing in front of it, but right within that frame. It is pure magic.

For centuries, war has been portrayed as heroic and glorious, as well as a means of asserting power. Conversely, the suffering of victims—with a few notable exceptions—has often remained in the background. Why do you think humanity has felt such a strong need to depict war in heroic terms rather than confronting what it actually produces?

Because power needs to drive people to go to war—to kill or to die. And that—unless you are a psychopath—is not normal. To convince you, power must make you believe you are a hero, embodying something far more valuable than life itself. Yet, if we look at how war has been depicted, there are exceptions—especially when it comes to the nuclear issue. A prime example is the story told by John Hersey in *Hiroshima*, a book published in 1946—one year after the atomic bomb was dropped on Japan.

The U.S. Navy granted the journalist permission to visit Hiroshima because he had previously published a book titled *Men on Bataan*, which featured an extremely flattering biographical profile of General MacArthur. In 1946, General MacArthur headed the GHQ (Supreme Commander for the Allied Powers) and ruled occupied Japan with near-absolute authority. Mindful of Hersey’s earlier work, the military allowed him to travel to Hiroshima, anticipating a celebratory report. Hersey, however, did something entirely different: he recounted the stories of six survivors, revealing the consequences of the atomic bomb to the world.

The editors at *The New Yorker* at the time recognized the significance of Hersey’s work—which stood in stark contrast to the triumphalist narrative the U.S. government had promoted up to that point—and consequently, the production of that issue was a secret, clandestine operation. Yet the impact was profound: following the report’s publication, the majority of Americans declared themselves opposed to the atomic bomb...

What has changed today? 

If we look back in time—to the First World War, for instance—we know it brought about the collapse of three empires and caused millions of deaths: we destroyed ourselves, yet we survived. With nuclear war, that will not be the case; therein lies the crucial difference. It is absurd that no one talks about it, even though it is difficult—neurologically speaking—to imagine the non-existence of living beings. Yet today, we live amidst a cacophony of nonsense, no longer able to discuss what truly matters. After all, we think in words; that is why, in my view, the loss of languages ​​and the outbreak of war are inextricably linked. It is no coincidence that Margaret Atwood remarked, "Every war is a failure of language." It represents a lack of understanding, but also a failure of thought, given that we communicate and think precisely through words. To draw a comparison, extinct languages ​​are like the canaries miners once took underground to detect the presence of deadly gases: if the canary died, the miners knew they had to flee and return to the surface. The death of a language—like the death of the mine canary—warns us of danger; after all, every language embodies a unique way of thinking, being, and perceiving the world. While a multiplicity of languages ​​fosters balance, it also serves as a means of monitoring our own ways of existing and acting. When a language goes extinct, its unique character vanishes along with it. In my opinion, this marks the final stage before total extinction. Without anyone to "validate" us or to keep is in check, we destroy ourselves. That is why solitary confinement is such a terrible form of imprisonment: the confined individual becomes a prisoner of their own world—a world that ultimately self-destructs. Today, we have created a world that values ​​neither its genuine diversity of being nor its own incredible beauty. And if recognizing and appreciating the world cannot stop us, nothing will.