Cancel Culture: Soften the Glare and Merge with the Dust
by Cordula Frei
"Soften the glare. Merge with dust."— Tao Te Ching
She leaned against the railing of the ferry and looked into the grey-brown water of the Venetian lagoon. Above her, planes were landing and taking off, and on each of the wooden posts in the water sat a single seagull. “Look, Mama,” called the child behind her on the crowded boat that was to take them into the heart of the city, to the Lido, “look, there’s exactly one bird on each post.” The mother answered patiently, and she was reminded of the many years when her own children were that small, their lives full of wonder.
Water everywhere. Was it the sea, this brackish brown — or a mix of fresh and wastewater out here near the airport, where her plane had landed an hour late? A wave splashed through the open window, caused by one of the many vaporettos speeding by, dousing the two Japanese tourists in front of her. The young woman was shocked and froze, then burst out laughing. She pointed to her soaked dress and said in English to her companion, “It is cold!” and laughed again.
Her phone rang for the tenth time since she had arrived, and she fished it out of her large handbag with some effort. “Yes?” she answered, still looking out at the expanse of the lagoon. “Welcome to Venice,” he said — laughing. His voice was slightly nervous but full of warmth and genuine joy. “Come to Venice for a few days,” he had written recently. “I’ve rented a bungalow. We’ll rent bikes, take the ferry into the city, see the Biennale, and talk about our book.”
Her calendar was empty — much like the emptiness she had felt since leaving the city to live in a small wooden house on the edge of a forest. So she had booked a flight, and just a few days later she found herself in this small, crowded boat, surrounded by cheerful tourists from all over the world.
“Listen, better get off a few stops earlier — we’ll meet there, and you can grab something to eat.” She was actually hungry, and the idea of dragging her suitcase through the tourist-filled city didn’t appeal to her. She got off at the second-to-last stop and found herself on a small, quiet island.
A long jetty led over the water to solid ground, where she looked around calmly, slightly puzzled by the odd rendezvous. First the water, now this peaceful little island — a slow approach to the city’s pulse, a moment to breathe, to gather stillness from the airport's bustle. She liked traveling this way. The island was idyllic and peaceful in the evening light. Large trees and a stone wall framed the shore; only a few dog-walking strollers were in sight. She dialed his number and asked, “Were you planning to send me into exile?” As she spoke, she noticed the small, again empty, bar with inviting white armchairs and ordered a caffè senza latte and one of the toasted eggplant and goat cheese sandwiches. As she enjoyed the snack, she watched the next boat arrive at the dock — and then leave again. The phone rang again. “I missed your stop,” he texted, “I went past it. Hop on the next ferry to Lido — I’ll already be on board.” She paid, smiled at the young bartender, slung her suitcase over her shoulder, and made it to the ferry just in time — the one he was riding toward her.
He waved, tall and slim, amid the many laughing tourists, and they greeted each other formally. The boat rocked now and then as he pointed out various sights they passed. The magic of this peculiar city greeted her heart and gently asked for admittance. He wore sneakers, jeans, a grey T-shirt, and a blue scarf wrapped around his neck. She wasn’t wearing rubber boots, as he had mistakenly assumed — he had warned her about the high tide during the full moon — but expensive autumn boots from Denmark, a short skirt, and a saffron-yellow sweater. Just before leaving, she had changed clothes again, swapping the black cashmere sweater for the saffron top.
It was warm — much warmer than the foggy days back home, where she had just spent three wonderful days with a friend reading from his new books by the large fireplace, with good wine and a few chosen guests.
“Does the world still need art?” — that was one of the questions that had occupied them,
“Should the artist remain curiously indifferent to the art they produce and to the commercial value it may or may not bring?”
Do I need to write? she wondered. And why exposure to critic, judgement, praise?
As a writer, she knew the pull of each new book — how the outer world had to fade so she wouldn't lose the thread within, that thread every writer follows. But what did she have to offer the world, apart from writing? That freedom to shape things as she pleased — could it be enough? The fear of losing inspiration and missing the moment when a shapeless idea descended into her mind — that fear had paralyzed her far too often.
Now, here they were in Venice to discuss a new joint book project and perhaps gather ideas.He had told her before she arrived that he was struggling to commit to another project — lacking motivation, though the desire was there.Tired from his work as a physician, tired perhaps also from the disappointments of love — they met as near-strangers on Giudecca, where he ordered an Aperol, half a liter and bit into his large green olive.
The sun was setting.
“Do you actually even want to see anything of the Biennale?” he asked. She wasn’t sure yet.
The sea lay at their feet, bathed in emerald blue by the evening light, the city’s cathedrals spread gracefully to their left.Junks — the kind she’d only imagined in Hong Kong — sailed and chugged past them.His eyes were the same color as the water.Later, they strolled through gardens, and he showed her this and that artwork scattered throughout courtyards, piazzas, and elegant villas — nestled beside playing children, flapping laundry, and dogs.Dogs everywhere, flâneuring with their owners.A strange, graceful peace emanated from these dogs that didn’t seem to belong in a water city.There were only tiny green spaces for them to play — yet there were none of the telltale signs of dog-loving cities: no stink, no mess. Everything was neat, graceful, clean.
The dock near San Marco gave off a peaceful evening vibe, and the people on the ferry were again cheerful and relaxed. Conversations flowed in every language as she noticed how suddenly tired she felt.A pleasant, rich weariness came over her, fed by the day’s impressions and the wonderful feeling of traveling — of slowly arriving — and of her companion’s warm readiness to make the visit as pleasant as possible.
“Why the relationship drama?” she asked him later, opening another bottle of wine. “Why the pain when there’s so much light?”They drank thoughtfully. She crossed her legs and lit a cigarette.
Do we need the Other to experience the unfathomable abysses within us?Do we deny the dark by over-identifying with the light, the true, the beautiful?His weariness was infectious, and yet she felt comforted in it — a kind of fatigue that might seem like resignation, if not for that fine alertness when, after silence, he resumed the thread.
“If you could wish for what you truly wanted, where would it take you?” she asked softly.“It would lead to a place where our wishes became law, where manifestation was immediate. ‘Thy will be done,’” he replied, smiling.
She considered how often she had avoided wishing for the very thing her heart most deeply desired.Often, the drive to test a wish in the outer world — to pit it against the reality of others — had served as the invisible compass guiding how she moved through desire.Do we only love fully and unconditionally, she wondered, when we feel guaranteed of being loved in return?
What if love could shine like sunlight — without questioning the other’s response?
What if love were knowing — a force unconcerned with outcomes or compositions?
A force that loves because it must not because it wishes?
The next evening they strolled the narrow streets, people talked loudly and drank heavily, patiently waiting up to an hour for a table. Two quieter restaurants he had chosen were full of bored guests speaking English. They sat down and were dismayed by the joyless way the tourists picked at their food. The waiter came over indifferently with menus — but they both burst out laughing, having decided at that exact moment that they wouldn’t eat there. They cheerfully left and wandered in search of a restaurant that would satisfy their desire for true Italian cooking. She wondered how no one ever fell into the canals — especially since both of them had already had plenty to drink, and one could easily imagine a misstep ending in an unpleasant dip in the brackish water.In a side alley, they found a few tiny restaurants with long queues outside. They studied the menus and decided it was worth joining the wait. A glass of prosecco was handed to them. It was late but warm, and the atmosphere was friendly and calm.Eventually, the waiter led them to a table and served them with a cheeky charm that matched their mood. They shared a glorious starter of swordfish jelly and polenta; he drank white wine, she had a red from Valdobbiadene. Her spaghetti with mussels was exquisite, and he was satisfied with his steak. Later, they shared a plate of delicious tiramisu and lost track of time, absorbed in the animated chatter of Italian guests, lovingly attended by their mischievous waiter who seemed to genuinely enjoy their company. Content, they paid and headed toward the last ferry back to their peninsula. As the boat hummed softly and the mild night breeze blew, she closed her eyes and tried to shape the darkness they had spoken of earlier inside herself.
“One must know how to celebrate life. It should be one great feast,” she thought — the only strategy, perhaps, for dealing with unanswered questions.
The next day the ferry moved silently through the glittering water, which now shimmered with a beauty almost painful in the afternoon sun. A breeze caught her hair as she leaned against the railing with closed eyes, as if she wanted to lose herself. He stood a little behind her, observing her profile – so open, so vulnerable, so mysterious. In his gaze there was neither possession nor desire, only a near-reverent recognition.
“Perhaps that’s exactly it,” he said quietly, “what we’re unlearning today: to recognize without wanting to possess.”
She turned to him. No smile, but a slow nod. Then she said:
“And maybe... the darkness isn’t the enemy, but the condition for that.”
They said nothing more. The moment had weight. Not through words, but through what remained unsaid.
When they arrived at the other shore, Venice had become a different city. The people seemed the same, the sounds unchanged – but something had shifted. Not outside. Inside. In her. In him.They strolled through a narrow alley where laundry hung between the houses like prayer flags. Suddenly, she stopped.“I used to think I was brave,” she said, “because I walked alone. But maybe courage isn’t letting go of the other. Maybe it’s staying – when everything in you wants to flee.”
He looked at her, and his answer was just a breath. Maybe because words would only disturb here. Or because she had already said everything.
A little later, they sat again in a café, this time directly on a small canal. The sun now fell low on the water, turning every ripple into gold. A young violinist played a sad tune, and no one paid attention, except for them.
“The question isn’t whether you love ,” he said suddenly. “The question is whether you’re willing to lose yourself.”
She lowered her gaze. “But if I lose myself... how will I find my way back?”
“Maybe you won’t find your way back,” he said. “Maybe you’ll find yourself anew.”
Then she remembered something she had once read – a sentence from a book she had never finished, but that had never left her:
“We do not fear loss. We fear becoming.”
Becoming – a state in which you don’t know what you will be, only that you are no longer what you were.
Now she knew: it wasn’t a question of the past. Not a story to be processed, forgiven, understood. It was a decision. No fate or gods. Just the will – if it found the courage to defy all the old inner laws.
She looked at him. His face, drawn by light and shadow, was so familiar and yet new. He hadn’t stopped loving her – but he had stopped needing her. And perhaps that was the prerequisite for the kind of love she had never dared to dream of.
“Do you know what I want?” she asked, very softly.
“No,” he said. “But I think you’re just about to find out.”
Then the waiter came. This time he brought two glasses of champagne. Without a word. Just a slight nod. As if he belonged to another world – an in-between world that exists when one is ready to let go of their own story.
They toasted. Not to the past. Not to what could have been.
But to what, perhaps... is finally beginning.
“What are you afraid of?” she asks him and he replies: “It is the light.” Not the darkness. Not the unknown. It is the excess of visibility, the overexposure of the soul, the glare, the tangible. And in this moment—which is recounted so lightly, so casually—perhaps lies the seed of this entire essay: a society that fears darkness will lose its truth.
Cancel culture is an expression of this collective photophobia.
What was once the project of Enlightenment—making things visible, naming, uncovering—has today turned into a moral surveillance regime. Those who do not shine are suspect. Those who do not loudly and clearly take a stance are accused. Those who grope, who hesitate, who are ambivalent—become projection screens for collective anxiety.
But art, true art, works differently. It lives in the in-between. Characters who do not act, but ask. Who do not judge, but collide with one another like continents in the fog. Who do not "cancel," but linger. It is a way of being that legitimizes itself not through clarity, but through the wound, through the tender imposition of the unresolved.
They traveled, they talked, they observed. And in everything they did, a deep ambivalence was present: between light and dark, closeness and distance, form and dissolution, expression and silence. They stood amid a world full of art and bodies, fragile existences and gaudy façades—and asked the questions that today can barely be asked anymore without the risk of being “canceled”: What does truth mean, when it hurts?
What does love mean, when it is not reciprocated? What does freedom mean, when it is misunderstood? LIFE STARTS WHEN FEAR ENDS.
She had, in the meantime, visited the Danish pavilion at the Biennale—a darkened installation about the nature of light. “DO NOT RESIST THE DARK: IT IS YOUR ORIGIN” was the central message of the powerful, deeply ritualistic installation performance by the Danish artist. She had overcome her claustrophobia and remained in the completely black room, immersed for thirty minutes in a world between birth and death. She could faintly hear the eager, judgmental comments of other visitors at the end, but she herself was so moved by a manner of experience unknown to her that she stumbled out of the dark showroom and felt blinded by the bright colors of peaceful café patrons in the piazza.
For a long time, she sat in silence, without words.
The weather had improved, and the sun’s rays were just dispersing the last of the fog. It was extraordinarily warm for the autumn season. The long line at the entrance of the Biennale hardly affected their good mood.
The Biennale in Venice! A pilgrimage of art enthusiasts, curators, collectors, creators, patrons, art journalists, and more, streaming endlessly through the exhibition gardens in a graceful, reverent, and expectant manner. A small world unto itself, she thought wistfully. A peaceful, small, elite world that meets here to evaluate, gather inspiration, or simply to be seen. He, however, felt dizzy, and they sat on a small bench overlooking the lagoon.
He ordered a panini and seemed annoyed at his physical weakness. She gazed absentmindedly at the sparkling water and gratefully felt the great peace of this little island.
Even this, she thought, was a political statement—the peace of so many nations and exhibitors gathered here in the name of contemporary art.
“You should be photographed,” he said, seeing her leaning against the railing in her black dress. Then he continued eating and barely acknowledged her. She wandered through some of the exhibitions and left him alone for a while with his physical discomfort. While later waiting for him and observing the visitors, she noticed how many invisible burdens these bodies from around the world carried. One dragged his leg behind him, another seemed barely able to stand under the weight of her shoulders, a third limped and appeared plagued by severe hip pain. Rarely had she perceived so much suffering and discomfort in people's bodies. When they met again in front of the Italian pavilion, she mentioned it to him, although she had noticed he, too, was breathing heavily and clearly not feeling well.“So much beauty here,” he said with a smirk, “perhaps makes the discomfort stand out more?”She agreed. The clothing of the art lovers was extravagant and eccentrically creative, hair styled in almost reactionary ways, glasses in all shapes—mainly bold and striking—and the quiet reverence that united them all in the magical garden with many viewpoints onto the lagoon. It was entirely conceivable that all of this created a distorted contrast to the everyday suffering and afflictions of fragile human bodies. As she turned thoughtfully toward the sun, he lay beside her on the grass and murmured something about the trees. How beautiful these trees were. Their powerful roots and colorful crowns were indeed strong anchors of calm in the lively coming and going of people.
Later they parted ways again, and when they reunited, he told her about an exhibition in the Egyptian pavilion, whose inscription echoed the quote: LIFE STARTS WHEN FEAR ENDS.
The darkness. Blackness. Black night. A friend had recently told her, in her secluded house on the forest’s edge: “The darkness up here where you live protects you. An attacker needs light.” The Danish performance artist via loudspeaker in the black room: “Light is the form. What seeks to show itself in form is birthed in the dark.”
A short time later, as they were eating seafood salad in a small café by the shore, two strange things happened. First, they recognized the waiter from the previous evening, who now stood at the bar as a guest and smiled at them kindly.Could he offer them two espressos or a drink?With a bowing gesture, he took his leave, saying: “You were my best guests ever.” They smiled in surprise—after all, they had also perceived the waiter the previous evening as somehow part of their wondrous day, as though he had known more about them than they knew themselves—his quiet smirk otherwise hard to explain. The second oddity, however, was her sudden mood.
Something serious had crept into the cheerful magic of the morning, and in his eyes, she saw tears. It would have been impolite to address it directly, so she sipped her white wine and looked at the park and the surrounding water. What was going on here, she wondered. The performance in the Danish house had placed her directly into the darkness she had previously avoided—not just physically, but deeply in her sense of self. But she had found this blackness to be wonderful—something immensely soothing, nourishing, empowering. He seemed to have been struck by a kind of helplessness, though not to be confused with weakness.
“Are you afraid of your own light?” she asked him.
In a world increasingly obsessed with visibility, opinion, and moral clarity, the dark, the undefined, the incomprehensible is swiftly discarded — canceled.
And there, in this light-flooded world, the opposite of enlightenment occurs:
An excess of light becomes blinding.
The man with the piercing light-blue eyes said: “Too much light in me, too much of the shining…”
— A statement that paradoxically describes what Cancel Culture often enacts unconsciously: the pathologization of ambiguity.
Whoever does not immediately voice the right opinion, whoever feels their way, searches, questions — is not allowed to remain in discourse, they are removed from it. But it is precisely the artist who celebrates hesitation, the search, the unfinished. And in the strange mood between light and dark a different question arises — not one of guilt, morality, or public rehabilitation. The central question is not:“Who did something wrong?”
But rather:“Have you absorbed enough darkness into yourself to risk living the life you truly desire?”
The act of love — or simply, the act of being human.Cancel Culture, seen in this light, is not merely a social phenomenon.It becomes a loss of depth and a loss of tolerance for ambiguity.A loss of patience for the unavailable.
It is an attempt to enforce clarity through exclusion, where darkness could be bearable.And thus, the refusal to “erase” the other becomes a manifesto of love, not as romantic love, but a deep, knowing, vulnerable stance that endures the other.
That carries uncertainty and does not judge before the process of being human has truly been enlived. In the end, they walk through dark alleyways, drink wine, pause and they no longer ask what is right or wrong.
In a world where Cancel Culture expresses fear of complexity,this poetic journey reminds us of something very old, very powerful:
Love does not judge. It stays.
In a digital age where every statement is met with a like or a shitstorm, difference becomes a threat.And thus, the political idea of responsibility morphs into a neurotic need for control.But love — like art — knows no control.It loves because it must.Not because it may.
Sara Ahmed writes in The Cultural Politics of Emotion (2004) that emotions function as a navigation system in political discourse — they steer us toward safety, belonging, exclusion.Cancel Culture, in this sense, is not a rational practice.It is affect politics.It arises from collective wounds — and yet, from the accusation often emerges a ritualized re-enactment of exclusion.“The moment of naming is the moment of judgement,” Ahmed writes — and does not forget to ask who even has the right to name.Cancel Culture transforms the place of art into a space of fear.For here, one may no longer provoke — only affirm, no longer unsettle — only enlighten.
The audience no longer wants to be wounded, but reassured.
Judith Butler, in her work Excitable Speech (1997), says that words do not merely name — they act.Language is performative.But this performativity carries an ambivalence — it can wound, but also transform.
Yet in a cancel culture, the wounding is severed — before it can even take effect.Thus, the mechanism of protection becomes a blockade to reception.
“Do we only love fully when we feel guaranteed to be loved in return?”
This question is not only a confession of love — it is a political one.
Because Cancel Culture craves security:The guarantee of standing morally on the right side.But love knows no guarantee. It is always a risk.Like art and like truth.
Byung-Chul Han writes in Agony of Eros (2012) that in a time of total transparency, eroticism dies.Eros, says Han, thrives on mystery, on resistance, on shadow.When everything is visible, there is nothing left to desire.Total visibility — whether through media outrage or moral clarification — kills the Eros of relationship.
And thus also the Eros of art.
Language is not neutral.Who speaks, who is silent — and above all: Who listens?In times of Cancel Culture, listening is often replaced by instant reaction.Debates become tribunals, tweets become verdicts.Here, too, Hartmut Rosa’s concept of resonance is key.In Unavailability (2018), Rosa describes an attitude toward the world that is not based on control, but on responsiveness.“Availability means domination of the world; resonance means relationship with the world.”
A Plea for Unknowing
The characters take the last ferry.
They are not redeemed.
Not saved.
But they have not lost each other.
They have allowed themselves to remain suspended.
And perhaps that is the only possible answer to a time that screams for quick solutions:
Stay with the question.
Choose the in-between.
About the author: CORDULA FREI
is a distinguished author, editor, and curator with a profound dedication to integrative practices, deep ecology, and transformative narratives. As head of media for Integral Perspectives magazine, she has been instrumental in shaping content that explores holistic viewpoints. She co-created Achronon magazine, a platform challenging conventional timelines and narratives, and served as editor for Info 3 magazine, bridging spirituality, culture, and contemporary issues. At Germany’s first regenerative society, Hofgut Leo in Gresgen, she curated cultural initiatives and oversees organizational aspects, promoting sustainable and regenerative practices.
Her longstanding collaboration with Tom Amarque is rooted in a vibrant friendship and a shared passion for critical thinking, questioning societal mainstreams, and shaping transformative narratives. As the author of Soulskin, she explores the initiation journey of the feminine psyche as a deep psychological pilgrimage into personal transformation.
Her life is deeply connected to deep ecology, living among horses and dogs, traveling through vast wilderness to engage in regenerative dialogue with nature. Through her work, Cordula Frei holds the Podcast Serie: “Roots of Enlivenment“ at Parallax Media with a invitation to inspire and lead in the realms of integrative thought, ecological awareness, and cultural transformation.
Write her at cordula@parallax-media.eu