The street artist Banksy has been active since the 1990s. Their murals and prop installations come in a distinct, stenciled style and are famous all over the world for their political commentary. A revolutionary throwing flowers instead of a Molotov cocktail. Two policemen kissing. A judge beating a protester with his gavel.
Banksy is presumed to be a man, but he has never publicly confirmed or denied his identity. Every few years, someone tries to expose him. In 2008, it was The Mail on Sunday. In 2016, it was a bunch of scientists. In 2017, a friend might have accidentally blabbed. And, most recently, Reuters basically reiterated what everyone else had said thus far.
Thankfully, Banksy will always have plausible deniability. At this point, countless copycats have emerged, and many are leveraging his art for profit without his permission. Even if he—or she?—was caught red-handed while spraying paint on a wall, he could wipe his hands and say, “Oh, I’m not the real one!” Like many of his commenters on Instagram, I find this poetic: The very force which creates the urge to unmask the phenomenon also helps protect it.
“A name is not the definition of who someone is. Banksy will always stay anonymous,” one woman writes. “You are Banksy, this is all we care to know,” says another. “I don’t ever wanna know Banksy’s birth name,” claims a third. “Banksy is Banksy and Banksy is a revolutionary artist and storyteller.”
When you go to see a magic show, you know you’re being lied to before you even show up. Yet, you still go, expecting to be dazzled—and if the magician succeeds, it feels 100% real. It might be the best kind of magic we make: telling honest lies, hoping to reach each other’s imagination for a connection that transcends what we can touch and see.
Sometimes, seeing behind the scenes can empower us. But every now and then, we must simply accept the magic for it to keep working. Banksy is Banksy. Perhaps that’s all we should care to know.
