By Ben Andoni
For some time now, Albanian art has fallen into a state of quietude and no longer fears the Penal Code. The history of socialism is filled with harsh penalties against artists, often reaching grotesque levels of absurdity. In truth, such penalties were not absent even during the presidency and reign of King Zog I. ABC, the publication founded by Petro Marko in collaboration with several intellectuals in the 1930s—including Branko Merxhani—was suppressed before its second issue could even see the light of day.
Ironically, the government that shut it down was led by Mehdi Frashëri, a cultured and complex figure who understood boundaries… and who would eventually collaborate with the Germans!
Back then—but especially under socialism—there were countless cases of imprisonment, exile, confiscations, public exclusion, forced relocations to places where no art was possible, and reassignment to hard labor. Today, one is astonished by the modesty of those who truly suffered, contrasted with the hypocritical protagonism of others who have fabricated their pasts to profit from the present. That list isn’t the object of this writing, but chameleon-like figures have long polluted the country with their false heroism and grand benefits.
On the other side, the tragic fates of executed poets Trifon Xhagjika, Vilson Blloshmi, Genc Leka—with their poems that pierced the regime—still shake us today. Edison Gjergos was brought to trial for the Cubist elements in Epika e yjeve të Mëngjesit, and Maks Velo for his naive artistic style and his architectural work. Their courageous confrontations with a regime that openly declared and defended its communist dogma still resonate powerfully. Ismail Kadare went even further, using allegory to confront the seemingly impenetrable communist Sphinx, turning it into both a literary necessity and salvation. In The Palace of Dreams, published in 1981, Kadare lays bare the fear and dread permeating Albanian space under power and its mystique. The book was banned—but not the power of allegory. With it, the author was shielded, managing to escape through literary means invented over centuries to save the art itself.
In ancient Greek tragedies and Roman literature, allegory was a tool to address political themes and sharply criticize authority and social injustice, even when the price was ultimate punishment. The European Renaissance countered power through grand subjects in sculpture and painting. In our time, caricature art and visual allegory have spoken directly to people about the injustices of their rulers and elected officials. Yet, paradoxically, our own cartoon art has shown no trace of allegory or critical themes toward the U.S. or the West’s often flawed policies—not even Israel’s now genocidal actions. Consider that even in our repressive regime pre-1990, such themes were more openly addressed (though of course not touching the domestic regime). This reveals the still-juvenile development of Albanian art and the lack of public responsibility among artists.
We’re not even talking about the allegorical heights of George Orwell’s Animal Farm, where with extraordinary ingenuity, animals are used to portray the diseased Eastern societies of the time.
This is merely a modest introduction to express the ongoing disappointment of today’s reality: even in democratic regimes, modern autocratic elements—blind loyalty to hybrid regimes devoid of critique, and cults of personality—are reaching grotesque proportions. Some of the authors of the new Penal Code, hilariously, couldn’t even take responsibility for their own material. And yet, we remain exposed to the same symptoms of control and totalitarianism—just this time, in suits and sneakers. Today’s Albania, under Rama’s leadership, embodies all these elements, including an entire administration erected to serve him with contrived devotion but often unprofessional execution. The mass resignations of local officials and other public servants illustrate this point perfectly.
Today, due to the internet, historical methodologies, and experience, Albanian art—if this law is approved—will need to seriously reconsider how it interprets the lives of its fellow citizens and its relationship with those in power. Even the art product itself will be forced into Procrustes’ bed, where its real dimension will be what the leadership and its chorus of sycophants deem acceptable. These individuals stay mute before the leader but become fierce when faced with even the most constructive criticism.
From now on, art will need symbolism and allegory to reflect the political landscape and the trajectory Albania is heading toward. This may be the great contribution of the new Penal Code (if it is indeed enacted): breathing life into an art scene that has been suffering from severe anemia—starved of ideas and the strength to spark public thought. Symbolism can offer elusive concepts and ideas—hard to articulate, but increasingly necessary—while allegory may now provide a vast terrain for figurative expression, transmitting reflections and even philosophical questions in the face of a law that scrutinizes even the mildest critique, where every deviation can be misinterpreted by authorities and the freedom of speech is placed under siege.
In short, the first contribution of this Penal Code appears… remarkable—at least for the sake of art.