Reflections on American Democracy Through Art

Yves here. Yanis Varoufakis’s essay examining the notion of democracy in America raises thought-provoking ideas, despite not entirely cohering. By focusing on the arts, he highlights how many figures—be they influencers, filmmakers, intellectuals, novelists, or musicians—have chronicled the darker aspects of American life. However, as Varoufakis briefly notes, Americans tend to maintain a more optimistic view of their motives and the implications of their actions compared to the ancient Greeks. Unlike the Greeks, who embraced tragic narratives, Americans often seek happy endings, turning away from the sobering realities presented in classic Greek myths, where even the gods often faced unintended consequences.

By Yanis Varoufakis. Originally published at Project Syndicate; cross-posted from his website

As we celebrate America’s 250th anniversary, I felt compelled to step away from my usual focus on economic and geopolitical discussions surrounding the United States. Instead, I chose a more personal and emotional perspective—one rooted in Athenian ideals—on the global powerhouse whose evolution and actions have indelibly affected us all.

My first memory of America’s influence dates back to a sweltering June afternoon in 1968. Just over a year after a CIA-backed coup plunged Greece into fascist rule, my mother and I were meandering outside the historic stadium where the first modern Olympic Games took place in 1896. Suddenly, a newsboy pierced the silence with an announcement: an American had died. My mother teared up and whispered, “He was our last chance.”

The man she referred to was Robert F. Kennedy, a figure upon whom she had pinned her hopes for both our liberation in Greece and broader global peace. This incident marked my introduction to the significance of America in our lives, alongside its internal complexities. Of course, this wasn’t the first time I had heard distressing news of American violence, notably the assassinations of Martin Luther King, Jr. and Malcolm X. In the years that followed, daily updates of horrors from Vietnam and Watergate complexities filled the airwaves, yet they were often met with heartfelt and sophisticated critiques from American artists.

Is there a better portrayal of the Vietnam War’s madness than Francis Ford Coppola’s Apocalypse Now? Or a sharper critique of pervasive corruption in California than Roman Polanski’s Chinatown? Alan Pakula’s All the President’s Men is unparalleled in its exploration of Watergate, while Sydney Pollack’s Three Days of the Condor adeptly depicts the CIA’s subversive tactics. Films like Coppola’s The Godfather and Martin Scorsese’s Taxi Driver reveal much about the nation’s gritty underbelly.

As I matured and delved into challenging literature, it was American writers who illuminated America’s intricate contradictions. Thorstein Veblen’s The Theory of the Leisure Class provided insights into American capitalism far beyond typical economic texts. John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath conveyed the depths of the Great Depression and the significance of the New Deal in ways no economist could replicate. Through rock ‘n’ roll, I discovered the rhythms of freedom and its absence in America. Could there be a better distillation of Hegelian freedom in the American South than the lyric, “None of us are free, if one of us are chained,” a line from a splendid blues song originally sung by Ray Charles and later by Solomon Burke?

Years later, the sculptures of Donald Judd in Marfa, Texas, revealed the significance of industrial production in shaping America’s cultural identity. It was there that I first grasped how the unembellished materials of American industry have influenced our understanding of space and form, even across the Atlantic in Europe. Those times were marked by a creative communal introspection throughout America, reminiscent of the potential for catharsis. As Aristotle laid out in Poetics, tragedy transcends mere entertainment; it serves as a civic courtroom where profound anxieties are put on trial.

American artists—be they authors, musicians, or filmmakers—have confronted their most personal fears. They understood that tragic heroes like Oedipus, Antigone, and Prometheus are not strictly good or evil; rather, they operate within their interpretations of justice and a “truth” to which they feel obligated. Their tragedy lies in the cosmos—or more accurately, the polis—turning their intentions into conflicting forces. This collective suffering ultimately offers the audience a moment of catharsis, purging their own pent-up emotions. Yet, tragically, such catharsis has been denied to Americans.

What disrupted this catharsis was the economy’s abrupt transition from surplus production to deficit generation, epitomized by the Nixon Shock of 1971, which dismantled the Bretton Woods system. By the 1980s, the novels and films I cherished were supplanted by crude jingoism seen in productions like Rambo, Top Gun, and Francis Fukuyama’s The End of History. Yet, the capacity for self-reflection was not entirely extinguished. The loss of America’s cathartic moment occurred as its elites transformed deficits into sources of unchecked power.

As foreign investments poured into New York City, Oliver Stone’s Wall Street captured the rise of figures like Gordon Gekko, embodying a new era marked by power accompanied by growing economic precariousness. This trajectory has disadvantaged many in the US and elsewhere, simultaneously allowing a wealthy elite to accumulate vast fortunes. For over four decades, a global class conflict has unfolded against workers everywhere, particularly in the United States, hindering any resolution to America’s narrative of tragedy.

In contrast, the processes of financialization and the emergence of cloud capital and Big Tech are entrenching the divisions within American society that eventually led to Donald Trump’s presidency. Consequently, America is now generating raw power devoid of purpose, amplifying instability. The catharsis that marked America’s bicentennial is challenging to envision fifty years later—a stark reminder of the challenges we collectively face.