Why I built ChannelDraw as a space where drawing meets journalism, memory becomes architecture, and the internet can still be imagined as a place of public responsibility.
By Gianluca Costantini
(This text was edited and translated with the assistance of ChatGPT)
We live in an age in which the production of images has reached a scale that would have been difficult to imagine only a few decades ago. Wars are broadcast through smartphones, demonstrations move across our screens in real time, and political repression manifests itself through photographs, videos, and notifications that reach millions of people before we have even had the opportunity to understand what is happening. Yet this extraordinary availability of images has not necessarily produced a greater capacity for knowledge. On the contrary, I often have the impression that the speed at which we see the world has become one of the principal obstacles to our ability to understand it.
An image appears, provokes a reaction, is shared, and eventually disappears, replaced by another image demanding the same attention. Even when it documents a terrible event, its fate seems to be to enter a potentially endless succession of content in which the value of testimony risks becoming subordinate to its ability to momentarily interrupt the flow. The problem concerns not only the quantity of images but also the system that determines their circulation, hierarchy, and duration. We can see the face of someone who has been killed without knowing their name, witness the destruction of a city without understanding its history, and share an appeal for the release of a prisoner without knowing what has happened to that person’s life in the months that followed.
It is from this contradiction that I have gradually built ChannelDraw . I have never conceived of it exclusively as a portfolio in which to collect my drawings or as a website intended to document my artistic activity. I wanted to create an editorial space in which images could continue to live beyond the moment of their publication, maintaining a relationship with the people they represent, the events that generated them, and the subsequent developments of the stories they tell.
For me, drawing is therefore not the conclusion of a process but one of the forms through which that process can begin. A portrait can accompany an article, become the poster of a campaign, be carried during a demonstration, enter an exhibition, be reproduced in a book, and eventually return to the website accompanied by new documents. Each passage changes its context and, to some extent, its meaning. Part of ChannelDraw’s purpose is to preserve the memory of these transformations, constructing a network of information around images that allows us to understand not only their content but also their history and uses.
Drawing against disappearance
When I reflect on the function of memory in my work, I often return to Walter Benjamin and his understanding of history as something that cannot be reduced to an orderly succession of events. In his Theses on the Philosophy of History, also known as On the Concept of History, Benjamin challenges the idea of a definitively concluded past and suggests that historical understanding can emerge through the sudden encounter between a fragment of the past and the urgencies of the present.[1] I do not regard this perspective as a formula to be mechanically applied to drawing, but I recognize within it a problem that continually runs through my practice: how can we prevent what has happened from being erased simply by the appearance of what happens next?
The project In the Crosshairs of Memory , dedicated to Palestinian journalists killed in Gaza, also emerges from this question. When I draw a journalist, I do not simply want to add another face to a collection of images. I try to prevent a person from being reduced to a number, to interrupt, at least temporarily, the process through which individual lives are absorbed into the statistics of war. A list of victims is indispensable for documenting the scale of a tragedy, but it cannot, on its own, restore the complexity of the lives it contains. A portrait introduces a different form of encounter because it invites the viewer to confront an individual rather than merely a category.
Naturally, a drawing cannot restore a person in their entirety, nor can it claim to do so. This is precisely why I consider it essential that a portrait remain connected to a name, a biography, the documented circumstances of a death, and the available sources. Without this information, even an image created with the best intentions risks becoming a generic symbol of suffering, losing precisely what it should preserve: the identity of the person represented.
This question leads me to engage with Emmanuel Levinas and the centrality of the face in his ethical philosophy. For Levinas, the face of the other does not simply coincide with what we can observe or describe; rather, it points to the impossibility of completely reducing another person to the categories through which we attempt to understand them.[2] A drawn portrait, being a representation, cannot coincide with the encounter described by the philosopher, but it can assume responsibility through an awareness of this limitation. Drawing someone who has been killed, imprisoned, or silenced therefore means continually questioning the boundary between the necessity of making a story visible and the risk of appropriating it through an image.
My collaboration with the German project Wahrheitskämpfer, dedicated to the faces of persecuted journalists , belongs to this line of inquiry. Portraits can enter a memorial, circulate through the media, or be used in public initiatives, but their significance depends on the possibility of maintaining a recognizable connection with the individual stories they document. I am not interested in a face becoming merely an effective image; I want it to remain a gateway to a person’s history.
This concern also changes the relationship between drawing and time. A news article is generally published at a precise moment and progressively loses visibility as new stories occupy the editorial space. An archive, by contrast, can organize the possibility of return, allowing a story to be encountered again when new information emerges or when a subsequent event changes our understanding of it. A memorial does not eliminate the chronology of news, but introduces a different temporality within it, one in which persistence becomes as important as immediacy.
The website as an editorial project and an architecture of information
If drawing constitutes one of the fundamental elements of ChannelDraw, the website is not a neutral container in which to deposit it. It is part of the project itself and, as such, requires decisions that belong simultaneously to journalism, graphic design, interface design, and the organization of knowledge.
The history of modern graphic design is marked by attempts to make complex information understandable through coherent visual structures. I think of Josef Müller-Brockmann‘s grids, the Swiss typographic tradition, and, more generally, the idea that the arrangement of elements on a page is not simply a decorative problem but contributes to shaping how readers interpret what they see.[3] The relationship between a headline and an image, the position of a caption, the size of a typeface, and the distance between two elements establish hierarchies and suggest connections.
With the transition from the printed page to the internet, these problems have not disappeared; they have become more complex. A newspaper page has a relatively stable composition, whereas a website is a navigable environment in which readers can follow different paths, interrupt their reading, return to previous content, and move between materials published at widely separated moments. Design no longer concerns only the arrangement of elements within a surface, but also the organization of relationships between surfaces.
It is in this sense that I consider ChannelDraw a problem of information architecture. Richard Saul Wurman helped develop the idea that organizing information means making it understandable, constructing structures capable of transforming complexity into orientation.[4] Subsequently, the work of Louis Rosenfeld and Peter Morville helped establish information architecture as a central discipline in the design of digital environments.[5] In my case, however, the problem does not end with the ability to find content quickly. It also concerns the possibility of recognizing relationships between stories that might appear completely separate within the daily flow of news.
A portrait of an imprisoned journalist, for example, might be reached through an article about their arrest, a collection of portraits, documentation of an exhibition, or a page describing an international campaign. None of these paths exhausts the image’s meaning, because each highlights a different relationship. The website’s architecture should make this plurality possible without turning it into confusion, allowing readers to move from an individual case to a broader context and, when necessary, return to the singularity of the person represented.
This organization is never entirely neutral. Deciding to gather certain materials in an archive means suggesting that a relationship exists between them; connecting a recent article to an earlier event means proposing a historical perspective; keeping a story visible after it has disappeared from the headlines means assigning importance to its duration. Design thus becomes a form of editorial interpretation, because it determines not only how information appears but also which connections readers can recognize.
I do not believe, of course, that the presence of a hyperlink demonstrates a causal relationship between two events, or that different political situations can be equated simply because they share certain characteristics. The task of a responsible archive is precisely the opposite: to make comparison possible while preserving differences, preventing the visual force of images from producing historical or legal equivalences that the documents do not support.
Aby Warburg and the possibility of constructing a digital atlas
Among the references I find most useful for thinking about this structure is Aby Warburg’s Mnemosyne Atlas. His work did not consist simply of collecting images belonging to different periods, but of arranging them in constellations capable of revealing survivals, transformations, and relationships that a strictly chronological account of art history might have left in the shadows. The juxtaposition of images became a method of research, because meaning resided not only in individual documents but also in the tensions produced by their arrangement.[6]
I am interested in thinking of ChannelDraw as a possible contemporary form of atlas, while remaining aware of the differences between Warburg’s project and an archive of visual journalism. My drawings originate in specific contexts, often in relation to news stories, campaigns, editorial collaborations, or public initiatives. Subsequently, however, they can encounter other images and acquire new legibility. A portrait originally created to accompany an article can be exhibited alongside drawings produced many years later, while an exhibition can bring together works created in different countries and make it possible to observe recurring questions without erasing their particular circumstances.
The internet also introduces a possibility that the physical atlas did not possess in the same form: relationships can be expanded, modified, and explored through links that do not impose a single sequence. Readers do not necessarily have to begin with the image I consider most important or follow a predetermined itinerary. They can enter through a recent news story, reach a historical project, encounter a photograph of a demonstration, and discover that the drawing visible in that photograph was originally created for another initiative.
This freedom of navigation does not eliminate the responsibility of the designer. On the contrary, it makes the quality of links, categories, captions, and contextual information even more important. A digital atlas that merely accumulated images without explaining their relationships would risk reproducing the same problem as the social media feed: a potentially infinite availability of content incapable of becoming knowledge.
For this reason, I consider the maintenance of the archive an integral part of my artistic and editorial work. Preserving dates, updating links, distinguishing verified information from claims attributed to sources, and documenting subsequent uses of a drawing are not secondary operations. They are the conditions that allow an image to remain understandable when the immediate context of its production is no longer present in the reader’s memory.
The interface, power, and the attention economy
Designing a website dedicated to human rights and freedom of expression also means confronting the economic logics that have progressively transformed the internet. Much of contemporary design is evaluated through indicators such as time spent on a page, the number of interactions, the ability to retain users, and the conversion of a visit into measurable behavior. These tools can provide useful information, but they become problematic when they are treated as sufficient criteria for determining the quality of an editorial experience.
I do not believe that a memorial should necessarily be designed to persuade someone to scroll through as many images as possible, or that the value of an investigation can be measured exclusively through the amount of traffic it generates. When reporting the death of a journalist, the detention of an artist, or the persecution of an individual, the central question should be whether we can offer a reading experience in which attention is not continually fragmented and context remains accessible.
John Berger becomes particularly important here. In Ways of Seeing, Berger demonstrates how ways of seeing are conditioned by cultural conventions and by the contexts in which images are presented and reproduced.[7] A drawing displayed in an exhibition, published in a newspaper, printed on a poster, or viewed on a smartphone screen is not encountered under the same conditions. Its scale, the time available for observation, the surrounding images, and the expectations of the viewer all change.
The web makes these transformations particularly evident. A portrait can appear within a documented article and, a few minutes later, be shared on a platform that removes its caption, changes its format, or places it alongside completely unrelated content. Circulation expands the possibilities of dissemination, but it can also separate an image from the information necessary to understand it. The responsibility of the original website is therefore to maintain an accessible place where that relationship can be reconstructed.
I do not consider ChannelDraw a self-sufficient alternative to digital platforms. I also use social networks and distribution tools that allow drawings to reach different audiences. The distinction I try to maintain is between the platform as a place of circulation and the website as a place of contextualization and preservation. The former can amplify an image; the latter should make it possible to recover its history.
This distinction is not merely functional. It concerns a different conception of time. The attention economy tends to privilege immediacy, whereas an archive must make duration possible. Content published years earlier can become relevant again not because it has suddenly become new, but because a subsequent event allows us to read it differently.
When drawing leaves the internet and becomes public action
One of the experiences that interests me most in my work is observing what happens when a drawing leaves the screen and is used by other people. Over the years, I have seen images originally created to accompany articles become posters, appear during demonstrations, enter exhibitions, and subsequently return to newspapers through photographs of the events in which they participated.
In August 2026, for example, ChannelDraw documented the use of portraits during an action at the Hart Senate Office Building in Washington, in connection with deaths associated with US immigration enforcement operations. In After the Arrests, the Faces Continue to Speak , I also described this transformation of the images, which had moved from their original form into physical objects carried in public space and subsequently became new photographic documents.
This transition is significant because it changes the position of the drawing in relation to the event. Initially, an image may be created to tell a story; when it is used during a demonstration, it becomes part of another story, one of the elements through which those present construct their public communication. A photograph of the demonstration then documents the drawing’s presence, and the image returns to the digital environment carrying traces of its new context.
This process interests me far more than the traditional idea of an artwork that must remain immutable once completed. This does not mean that anyone can arbitrarily assign meaning to it, but rather that the public life of an image can develop through successive uses that the author does not entirely control. The website also becomes a tool for documenting this circulation, showing how a drawing can participate in the construction of a space of visibility without claiming to replace the people and organizations acting within it.
In this sense, the relationship between art and politics is not exhausted by an image’s content. It also concerns the material conditions of its production, the possibilities of its reproduction, the places in which it is exhibited, and the people who decide to use it. The same image can assume different functions depending on whether it is read in a book, observed in an exhibition, or carried through the streets, and its journey can become a document through which to understand part of the artwork’s public history.
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Explore the yearbooks →Vilém Flusser and the responsibility of producing images
Vilém Flusser’s reflections on technical images help me question the relationship between drawing and the apparatuses of production and distribution. Flusser examined how photographic and electronic images are conditioned by the functioning of the devices that produce them, showing how the freedom of those who create images must confront possibilities already inscribed within the tools they use.[8]
Today, this question concerns not only cameras and production equipment, but also platforms, distribution algorithms, and automated systems that intervene in the selection of content. An image does not reach its audience in an empty space: it passes through infrastructures that condition its visibility, format, and often its duration.
I do not believe that drawing is automatically more authentic than photography or that it can escape these conditions. I also use digital tools and publish through infrastructures that I do not completely control. Drawing, however, obliges me to make a series of choices explicit: deciding which elements to preserve and which to eliminate, what relationship to establish between a face and its background, how to organize the line, and what information should accompany the image. This interpretive dimension does not guarantee truth, but it can become an opportunity to question how representation is constructed.
The issue emerges particularly clearly in my work dedicated to Ukraine. The project Drawing Ukraine: War, Power and Political Images develops an exhibition and public programme based on the graphic biography Volodymyr Zelensky – Au nom de l’Ukraine , written by Elettra Stamboulis and illustrated by me. Through the language of comics, the book explores a political figure whose public image has been transformed by events and by the international circulation of representations of the war.
The interest of this work lies not only in recounting Zelensky’s biography but also in questioning the relationship between history, narrative, and the construction of political images. Comics make it possible to articulate different temporalities, connect public events with biographical moments, and reveal how every narrative requires choices of selection and montage. Through talks and workshops, the exhibition can also become a space in which to discuss these choices and reflect on the responsibility of those who produce images intended to enter public debate.
A counter-archive that must remain open
I am also interested in thinking of ChannelDraw as a counter-archive, provided that this expression is not understood as a claim to possess an alternative truth to that of any institution. An official archive is generally constructed according to the functions and priorities of the institution that produces it; an independent archive can instead organize materials around different questions, preserve testimonies at risk of remaining marginal, and establish connections between documents produced in different contexts.
This reflection can be developed through Michel Foucault, who, in The Archaeology of Knowledge, proposes a conception of the archive that differs from that of a simple repository of documents. The archive concerns the conditions governing the appearance, organization, and transformation of statements within a particular historical formation.[9] I do not intend to apply Foucault’s definition directly to ChannelDraw, but his perspective helps me formulate a question I consider essential: what conditions allow a story to become publicly recognizable, to be preserved, and to enter into relationships with other stories?
The stories I publish often concern people whose ability to participate in public life has been restricted: detained journalists, persecuted artists, political prisoners, and individuals affected by institutional violence. The cases of Chinese artist Gao Zhen , Nicaraguan journalist Luis Galeano , and the controversy surrounding Autistici/Inventati belong to profoundly different contexts that cannot be equated without losing precision. Bringing them together within the same editorial environment instead offers an opportunity to examine, through specific documents and stories, recurring questions concerning freedom of expression, repression, and the relationship between power and information.
An archive of this kind, however, can never consider itself complete. Stories continue after publication: a person may be released, a court ruling may change a legal situation, and new testimonies may clarify or correct an earlier reconstruction. Images can also acquire different meanings when they are republished or used in subsequent contexts. For this reason, the structure must remain open to revision and, when necessary, correction.
Digital memory also possesses a fragility that is often underestimated. A link can stop working, a platform can close, a photograph can lose its caption, and a source can disappear from the website that originally published it. The technical possibility of reproducing an image indefinitely does not guarantee that it will remain understandable over time. Without the work of preserving information, the future may inherit enormous quantities of images without the tools necessary to interpret them.
Maintaining ChannelDraw is therefore also a form of responsibility towards the people represented. Preserving the file of a drawing is not enough; we must try to keep accessible the circumstances that determined its production, the information accompanying it, and, whenever possible, the subsequent developments of the story it documents. Memory is not an automatic property of technology, but the result of continuous work.
Inhabiting a public space built with images
In Hannah Arendt‘s reflections on the public realm, I recognize one final question that is important for understanding what I am trying to do. In her perspective, political life depends on the existence of a shared world in which human beings can appear before one another through speech and action.[10] Visibility alone does not amount to freedom, but the conditions through which a person can participate in public life are fundamental.
When a journalist is imprisoned, an artist is persecuted, or a person is deprived of the possibility of telling their own story, the conditions through which that voice can reach others are also affected. A drawing cannot, on its own, restore a prisoner’s freedom, replace an investigation, or change a judicial decision. It can, however, help keep a story within the public sphere, make a name recognizable, accompany the work of those documenting a violation, and offer new audiences the opportunity to approach a story they might otherwise never have encountered.
I do not attribute powers to images that they do not possess. Rather, I am interested in understanding how they can participate in broader processes in which journalism, art, human rights organizations, and public initiatives assume different responsibilities. ChannelDraw was born and continues to develop within this network of relationships, in which drawing is a tool of communication but also a way of questioning what we see and the conditions that make visibility possible.
For this reason, I do not consider the website a definitively completed project. I think of it as an architecture in transformation, in which the newspaper, the atlas, the memorial, the artist’s studio, and the public record coexist. It is not built from stone, but from images, texts, names, links, sources, and pathways that must be continually maintained and reconsidered. Its form depends on the stories it accommodates and on the need not to separate the present from the memory of what preceded it.
If there is a profound reason for continuing to draw and publish in this way, it is my conviction that the availability of images is not enough to build a culture of testimony. Seeing does not necessarily mean knowing, just as sharing does not necessarily mean remembering. Between the appearance of an image and the possibility of understanding it lies a space made of time, information, relationships, and responsibility; it is precisely this space that I try to construct through ChannelDraw.
I would like those who arrive at the website to find not only something to look at, but also a reason to stop, read, follow a link, return to a forgotten story, and recognize that behind every image there is a history that cannot be exhausted by its representation. In a digital environment that tends to continually replace the past with an ever-shorter present, building an archive also means defending the possibility of return.
The question that accompanies me, therefore, is not simply whether a drawing manages to reach someone at the moment of its publication, but whether we will be capable of preserving the conditions that allow that same image to be encountered, understood, and questioned tomorrow.
Because memory does not begin when we preserve an image, but when we decide not to separate it from the story that asked us to look.
Notes and Bibliographical References
[1] Walter Benjamin — History, memory, and technological reproducibility
Walter Benjamin, Über den Begriff der Geschichte (On the Concept of History), 1940, particularly theses V, VI, and IX.
See also Das Kunstwerk im Zeitalter seiner technischen Reproduzierbarkeit (The Work of Art in the Age of Its Technological Reproducibility), in the versions developed between 1935 and 1939.
The first reference concerns the relationship between past and present and the critique of a linear conception of history. The second examines transformations in artistic experience and perception through technological reproduction.
[2] Emmanuel Levinas — The face and responsibility towards the other
Emmanuel Levinas, Totalité et Infini. Essai sur l’extériorité, Martinus Nijhoff, 1961.
English edition: Totality and Infinity: An Essay on Exteriority.
The reference concerns the centrality of the face in ethical relations. Levinas’s concept of the face does not coincide with the simple visual representation of a person’s features; its connection with drawn portraiture is an interpretation developed in this essay.
[3] Josef Müller-Brockmann — The grid and graphic design
Josef Müller-Brockmann, Grid Systems in Graphic Design / Raster Systeme für die visuelle Gestaltung, Niggli, 1981.
The volume examines the grid as a tool for organizing information and constructing visual hierarchies, with particular attention to typographic and editorial design.
[4] Richard Saul Wurman — Information architecture
Richard Saul Wurman, Information Anxiety, Doubleday, 1989.
Richard Saul Wurman, Information Architects, Graphis, 1996.
These two volumes address the problem of informational complexity and the role of design in organizing and understanding information.
[5] Louis Rosenfeld and Peter Morville — Organizing knowledge on the web
Louis Rosenfeld and Peter Morville, Information Architecture for the World Wide Web, O’Reilly Media, 1998.
See also Louis Rosenfeld, Peter Morville, and Jorge Arango, Information Architecture: For the Web and Beyond, fourth edition, O’Reilly Media, 2015.
These works develop the structural aspects of information architecture, from content classification to navigation, search, and labeling systems.
[6] Aby Warburg — The atlas as a form of knowledge
Aby Warburg, Mnemosyne-Atlas (Mnemosyne Atlas), a project developed between 1924 and 1929.
For further critical discussion: Georges Didi-Huberman, L’image survivante. Histoire de l’art et temps des fantômes selon Aby Warburg, Les Éditions de Minuit, 2002.
English edition: The Surviving Image: Phantoms of Time and Time of Phantoms: Aby Warburg’s History of Art.
The reference concerns the montage of images as a research method, the survival of forms, and the possibility of producing knowledge through visual juxtapositions that are not strictly chronological.
[7] John Berger — Images and their contexts
John Berger, Ways of Seeing, BBC and Penguin Books, 1972.
Berger analyzes the relationship between images, reproduction, cultural conventions, and the social conditions of seeing. His work provides tools for reflecting on the changes in context that occur when an image moves from the printed page to an exhibition, a demonstration, or a smartphone screen.
[8] Vilém Flusser — Apparatuses and technical images
Vilém Flusser, Für eine Philosophie der Fotografie, European Photography, 1983.
English edition: Towards a Philosophy of Photography.
Flusser examines the relationship between technical images, apparatuses, and the freedom of the operator. The connection with contemporary platforms and algorithms constitutes an interpretive extension proposed in this essay.
[9] Michel Foucault — Archives and systems of statements
Michel Foucault, L’archéologie du savoir, Gallimard, 1969.
English edition: The Archaeology of Knowledge.
Foucault proposes a conception of the archive that does not coincide with a simple collection of preserved documents, but concerns the conditions governing the appearance and organization of statements. The relationship between this perspective and ChannelDraw constitutes an interpretive reading rather than a direct application of Foucault’s definition.
[10] Hannah Arendt — Public space and the possibility of appearing
Hannah Arendt, The Human Condition, University of Chicago Press, 1958.
The reference concerns the distinction between the public and private realms, the concept of the space of appearance, and the role of speech and action in the constitution of a shared world.
Note on References
The philosophical and theoretical references in this essay are not intended to attribute direct interpretations of ChannelDraw to the authors cited, nor to suggest that their works constitute a model systematically applied to the design of the website. They are intellectual tools through which I seek to examine my artistic and editorial practice, placing it in relation to broader questions concerning representation, memory, the organization of knowledge, and the construction of public space.
The reflections on the meaning and functions of ChannelDraw are my own interpretations. The links to articles and projects published on the website provide direct access to the materials to which I refer.
The bibliographical references identify the original works and, where useful, their English editions. The notes contain no direct quotations or page numbers, since the essay offers an interpretation of concepts rather than a literal reproduction of specific passages.
Explore ChannelDraw
- ChannelDraw — Homepage The starting point for news, artistic projects, collaborations, and visual narratives.
- In the Crosshairs of Memory The international page presenting the project dedicated to the memory of Palestinian journalists killed in Gaza.
- Drawing the Faces of Persecuted Journalists The collaboration with Wahrheitskämpfer and the work on portraits of persecuted journalists.
- After the Arrests, the Faces Continue to Speak An account of the circulation of portraits used during a public action in Washington.
- Drawing Ukraine: War, Power and Political Images An exhibition project and public programme dedicated to political representation and graphic journalism.
- Volodymyr Zelensky – Au nom de l’Ukraine The graphic biography written by Elettra Stamboulis and illustrated by Gianluca Costantini.
- Freedom for Gao Zhen A project dedicated to Chinese artist Gao Zhen.
- ICE Detains Exiled Nicaraguan Journalist Luis Galeano in Florida An article about the detention of Nicaraguan journalist Luis Galeano.
- Autistici/Inventati, Palestine Action and the Expansion of the War on Terror
An examination of issues concerning digital infrastructure, freedom of expression, and counterterrorism policies.
Gianluca Costantini is an Italian artist and graphic journalist. Through ChannelDraw, he develops illustration, political comics, and visual journalism projects dedicated to human rights, freedom of expression, and memory.
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