The cardinal of culture

A senior Vatican official's decidedly unconservative approach to art.

Catholicism, like all religions, inspires certain stereotypes. In this case, it’s fair to say that “progressively modern” isn’t one of them. But could this be about to change?

Consider the unlikely Cardinal Gianfranco Ravasi. A senior Vatican official who is so popular there is currently a two-year waiting list to get him confirmed at a conference. He, amongst other things, criticises priests for their "boring" and "irrelevant" sermons. He encourages them to use Twitter.  He quotes Nietzsche. He advocates Darwinian theory. He likes cutting-edge contemporary art. He blogs, jokes and – incidentally – is one of the most likely contenders to become the next Pope. Could this perhaps be the most interesting man in the Catholic church?

Cardinal Ravasi, a former professor and archaeological scholar, has been ordained for 46 years and was, in 2007, appointed as President of the Pontifical Council for Culture. In this role, he is effectively the director of the church’s policy on art. One of the most interesting aspects of this the undeniably intriguing clergyman is his genuine eagerness for the church to re-engage with contemporary art in a meaningful way.

The director of the Venice Bienale, Paolo Barrata, announced recently that the Vatican will be participating at the next event, in 2013, with its own pavilion. In terms of signalling a new direction in Catholic cultural policy, this is a bold move; after all, when the Biennale was inaugurated, the church dismissed it as a "debacle". The pavilion will put a papal presence at the centre of the most controversial and prestigious art event in the world, an art event which makes aesthetic contemplation of, amongst other things; prostitution, violence, bodily fluids and painted pigeons.

"We are trying to get a dialogue up and running between the church and contemporary art – particularly artists at the highest level,” explained Ravasi. “We are looking for world-famous people. Venice is a showcase for all the big countries in the world and the Holy See would like to be there too. We're trying to get the best of international artists on our side who can create new works with a religious or spiritual subject."

Some may dismiss these statements as the buzzwords of a PR man, but the decision to exhibit at Venice should prove them wrong. The work on show here is far from populist, and Ravasi’s approach to it proves that he understands his task and is taking it seriously. His choice of words is significant – he wants to initiate a "dialogue". Not didactics and disapproval, not preaching and polemics – but a reciprocal conversation based on mutual respect.

The only surprising thing about the above statement should be the surprise with which it has been received. The history of western art is after all, intractably intertwined with the history of Christianity. For 1,500 years, the church was the axis around which all art production revolved. No institution has ever come close to having such influence or producing such iconic works, and there is therefore a certain logic in the desire that some lost ground should be regained.

Ravasi, it seems, is taking earnest steps in this direction. It was his idea, back in 2009 to invite five hundred of the world’s most prominent artists, writers and architects, irrespective of religious background, for a meeting with the Pope. Anish Kapoor and Zaha Hadid were amongst the hundreds that attended.

So far, so admirable – but the world, of course, has changed. Is it really feasible to believe the church can have its voice heard – let alone be taken seriously – in the hyper-sceptical and resoundingly unorthodox world of contemporary art?

Religious themes are still strongly present in the work of the art world’s major-players, albeit with a notable lack of spiritual sincerity. Crucifixes have appeared mixed with human excrement in the works of Andres Serrano and Chris Ofili, sexed-up in the semi-erotic drawings of Tracey Emin and adorned with graffiti and plastic shopping bags in Banksy’s work.

The dialogue, as it currently exists, between the church and contemporary art is fraught. Accusations of blasphemy (the Vatican requested the removal of statue of a crucified frog from an Italian museum in 2008), violent protests (the notorious case of Serrano’s Piss Christ destroyed by Chrisitan fundamentalists) and the constant disputing of dogma are what currently characterise the presence of Christianity in major world art fairs and galleries.

Yet the truth is that, historically, many of the greatest works of art would not have been created without artists grappling with questions of faith. As a sixth of the world is currently Catholic, there is a huge audience that could benefit from Cardinal Ravasi’s cultural ambitions. Of course, whether any of these progressive aims and ambitions can be achieved will depend on the quality of what the Vatican ends up showing at the Biennale.

After decades of media speculation on the church losing cultural relevance, can one cardinal make a difference? His task amounts to reinstating icons into an iconoclastic world. Is it possible? Perhaps, with a leap of faith.

Cardinal Gianfranco Ravasi poses with the mobile phone he uses for tweeting, at his office in Rome in 2011. (Photo credit:ANDREAS SOLARO/AFP/Getty Images)

Kamila Kocialkowska is a freelance journalist based in London.

@ms_kamila_k

 

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"By now, there was no way back for me": the strange story of Bogdan Stashinsky

Serhii Plokhy’s The Man with the Poison Gun is a gripping, remarkable Cold War spy story.

On the morning of 12 August 1961, a few hours before the supreme leader of East Germany, Walter Ulbricht, announced the sealing of the border between East and West Berlin, a funeral took place for a four-month-old boy at the Rohrbeck Evangelical Cemetery in Dallgow. Numerous KGB agents and officers of the East German ministry of security were in attendance, but the boy’s parents were missing. Instead, Bogdan Stashinsky and Inge Pohl were preparing their imminent escape from Soviet-occupied territory and into the West. They had intended to flee the following day, but the funeral provided a moment of opportunity when their surveillance was relaxed. If they wanted to go, they had to go now.

“The KGB operatives present at the child’s funeral were puzzled by the parents’ absence,” a Soviet intelligence officer later wrote. “By the end of the day on 13 August 1961, it was clear that the Stashinskys had gone to the West. Everyone who knew what tasks the agent had carried out in Munich in 1957 and 1959, and what could happen if Stashinsky were to talk, was in shock.”

Those “tasks” were the state-sponsored assassinations of Lev Rebet and Stepan Bandera, two exiled leaders of the Ukrainian anti-communist movement who had been living in Munich. Stashinsky, one of the KGB’s top hitmen, and the focus of Serhii Plokhy’s gripping book, had been given the task of tracking and killing them with a custom-built gun that sprayed a lethal, yet undetectable poison. It was only after Stashinsky’s defection to the Central Intelligence Agency, and then to the West German security services, that the cause of Rebet and Bandera’s deaths was finally known.

For decades, the KGB denied any involvement in the assassinations, and the CIA has never been entirely sure about Stashinsky’s motives. Was he telling the truth when he confessed to being the assassin, or was he, as some still claim, a loyal agent, sent to spread disinformation and protect the true killer? Plokhy has now put to rest the many theories and speculations. With great clarity and compassion, and drawing from a trove of recently declassified files from CIA, KGB and Polish security archives, as well as interviews conducted with former heads of the South African police force, he chronicles one of the most curious espionage stories of the Cold War.

Stashinsky’s tale is worthy of John le Carré or Ian Fleming. Plokhy even reminds us that The Man With the Golden Gun, in which James Bond tries to assassinate his boss with a cyanide pistol after being brainwashed by the Soviets, was inspired by the Stashinsky story. But if spy novels zero in on a secret world – tradecraft, double agents, defections, and the moral fallout that comes from working in the shadows – Plokhy places this tale in the wider context of the Cold War and the relentless ideological battle between East and West.

The story of Stashinsky’s career as a triggerman for the KGB plays out against the backdrop of the fight for Ukrainian independence after the Second World War. He was a member of the underground resistance against the Soviet occupation, but was forced to become an informer for the secret police after his family was threatened. After he betrayed a resistance cell led by Ivan Laba, which had assassinated the communist author Yaroslav Halan, Stashinsky was ostracised by his family and was offered the choice of continuing his higher education, which he could no longer afford, or joining the secret police.

“It was [only] a proposal,” he said later, “but I had no alternative to accepting it and continuing to work for the NKVD. By now, there was no way back for me.” He received advanced training in Kyiv and Moscow for clandestine work in the West and became one of Moscow’s most prized assets. In 1957, after assassinating Rebet, he was awarded the
Order of the Red Banner, one of the oldest military decorations in the Soviet Union.

Plokhy’s book is about more than the dramas of undercover work; it is also an imaginative approach to the history of Cold War international relations. It is above all an affective tale about the relationship between individual autonomy and state power, and the crushing impact the police state had on populations living behind the Iron Curtain. Stashinsky isn’t someone of whom we should necessarily approve: he betrayed his comrades in the Ukrainian resistance, lied to his family about who he was and killed for a living. Yet we sympathise with him the more he, like so many others, turns into a defenceless pawn of the Communist Party high command, especially after he falls in love with his future wife, Inge.

One of the most insightful sections of Plokhy’s book converges on Stashinsky’s trial in West Germany in 1962 over the killings of Rebet and Bandera, and how he was given a reduced sentence because it was deemed that he had been an instrument of the Soviet state. The decision was influenced by German memories of collective brainwashing under the Third Reich. As one of the judges put it: “The accused was at the time in question a poor devil who acted automatically under pressure of commands and was misled and confused ideologically.”

What makes Plokhy’s book so alarmingly resonant today is how Russia still uses extrajudicial murder as a tool of foreign policy. In 2004 Viktor Yushchenko, the pro-Western future president of Ukraine, was poisoned with dioxin; two years later Aleksandr Litvinenko, the Russian secret service defector, unknowingly drank radioactive polonium at a hotel in London. The Russian journalist Anna Politkovskaya survived a poisoning in 2004 after drinking tea given to her by an Aeroflot flight attendant (she was murdered two years later). The collapse of the Soviet Union did not bring the end of the Russian threat (Putin, remember, is ex-KGB). As le Carré noted in a speech in the summer of 1990, “The Russian Bear is sick, the Bear is bankrupt, the Bear is frightened of his past, his present and his future. But the Bear is still armed to the teeth and very, very proud.”

The Man with the Poison Gun: a Cold War Spy Story by Serhii Plokhy is published by Oneworld (365pp, £18.99)

This article first appeared in the 12 January 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's revenge