Excluding indifference, reaction to the Reuters investigation titled In Search of Banksy falls into two main camps.
The first is scorn at the idea that the identity of the Bristolian street artist has been “revealed”. The name Robin Gunningham has been cited regularly and confidently since 2008, when the Mail on Sunday did an exposé. Even Banksy agnostics were aware of it.
The second can be summarised as “shut up”. This is often, at face value, more of a “leave the man alone” response than a “stop ruining the enigma” plea. It’s one that people who were familiar with the Gunningham name could still rally behind, as long as they had convinced themselves there was some element of doubt.
Again, this reaction is logical, as anonymity has been considered integral to the Banksy project. It provides useful cover, given that his unsolicited murals are, in most instances, done without permission. And it appeals to fans who buy into the concept of the renegade artist and regard anonymity as not just a right but a virtue. They may even see it as proof, notwithstanding how much his art fetches at auction, of anti-establishment status.
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To be fair to Reuters, its lengthy article outlines the previous reporting and doesn’t pretend to be a straight unmasking, though it has brought some new receipts. The name Robin Gunningham is not a revelation, but the name David Jones, which it claims Banksy used to enter Ukraine in 2022, is a new detail.
The news agency quotes the artist’s lawyer, Mark Stephens, saying that Banksy “does not accept that many of the details contained within your enquiry are correct”. Reuters was urged not to publish on the basis that its report would violate his privacy, interfere with his art and put him in danger.
It said it took into account the privacy claims and the wish of many fans for Banksy to be anonymous, yet it concluded that the public “has a deep interest in understanding the identity and career of a figure with his profound and enduring influence on culture, the art industry and international political discourse”.
It went on to say it applied the same principles of “scrutiny, accountability, and, sometimes, unmasking” that it uses everywhere. It also seemed to dismiss the risk of retaliation, arguing that the UK legal and political establishments “seem comfortable with Banksy’s messages and how he delivers them”. That last part is quite the burn.
The lesser-spotted reaction here is unfashionable respect for this detective work, possibly counterbalanced by genuine uncertainty about whether the ethical rationale holds up. But what fascinates me most is people’s instinct to put their fingers in their ears lest they hear any biographical information at all.
Is this about believing someone has a right to and need for a pseudonym, or is it more often about not wanting to accept something that contradicts the image in their head?
With some glee, and the usual weapons-grade sneering, British media outlets adore highlighting a perceived disconnect between Banksy’s modus operandi and reports that he is “a former public schoolboy from middle-class suburbia”, to quote the Daily Mail, who is now in his 50s. The Times this week chipped in with the shocking suggestion that “David Jones” lives in the country, has a vegetable patch and “sometimes goes to church”.
They are on to something with this line of attack. I’m sure not every fan of Banksy’s stencilled graffiti was wedded to him being some forever-young, urban-genius outsider, but it seems likely that this was the initial assumption of many. Of course, one gut feeling was correct: Banksy is a man.
I’m not a Banksy woman, but I sympathise with anyone who feels dismay. As an admirer of Elena Ferrante, the elusive, pseudonymous Italian novelist, I’ve been through all this. Curiosity and intrigue waged war with the desire not to know. When the “follow-the-money” exposé and subsequent textual analyses came along, my belief in the journalistic right to uncover a mystery was compromised, first by solidarity with the author of the My Brilliant Friend series, then by my emotional investment in Ferrante as a female writer.
For years, the last I’d seen of the discussion was the claim that Ferrante was a translator named Anita Raja. It was by accident that I saw mention of the studies that have since more persuasively pointed to Raja’s husband, the novelist Domenico Starnone. A man.
Luckily, both Raja and Starnone have denied being Ferrante, so I can reasonably cling to my own denial. Starnone’s novels are, incidentally, very good. I plan to read more of them – it’s important to support male authors.
[ We should not dismiss blatantly political works from artists like BanksyOpens in new window ]
But what both cases show is that, even if there were no pesky investigations, anonymity does not make artists and authors invisible. Instead it turns them into blank canvases on to which people will project their own visions of who they want them to be. That’s not the same thing at all.
