The Author in the Age of Inauthenticity

In 1994, Helen Demidenko published her novel The Hand That Signed The Paper. The story follows Fiona Kovalenko, a university student who, upon discovering her father's participation in the Babi Yar massacre, begins to investigate her family's involvement in the Holocaust. The subsequent story suggests that the violence perpetrated by Ukrainians during WW2 was fueled by a desire for revenge against the perceived oppression by Jewish Bolsheviks. Like her protagonist, Helen claimed to have a Ukrainian father, an Irish Protestant mother, and a familial history deeply rooted in the war. She labeled her novel as a "faction – part fact, part fiction", where she "gained a great deal from talking to members of her own family" (Mann, 67). While some critics praised this "faction" as "astonishingly talented" or "an imaginative work of extraordinary redemptive power", others described it as a "loathsome book that gives comfort to racists and anti-semites", justifying war-crimes under the guise of revenge (Craven). Despite this controversy, The Hand That Signed The Paper went on to win the Vogel Award for First Novels and the Miles Franklin Award, Australia's most prestigious prize for fiction.

Then, on August 19th, the Brisbane Courier Mail published an exposé revealing that "Helen Demidenko" was actually Helen Darville, and her parents were "Harry and Grace Darville, from Scunthorpe, England" (Craven). This revelation dismantled the public perception of her novel: what was once praised for its boldness, extraordinary talent, and genius, was now criticized for its insensitivity, callousness, and lack of genuine insight. This devaluation of art on the basis of "authenticity" raises critical questions about the very nature of "authentic" artistic narratives.

The Merriam-Webster dictionary defines authentic as (1) "not false", and (2) "true to one's own personality, spirit, or character" (Merriam-Webster). This can be extended to artistic authenticity, defining it as "the truthfulness of an artwork in relation to the artist's experiences, beliefs, and persona". Under this interpretation, authenticity can only arise from the author's personal touch and is situated in the context surrounding a work, rather than the work itself. This is echoed by much of the rhetoric surrounding the creative process. For example, popular idioms about creativity include "write from the heart" or "start with what you see/know", implying that art is birthed from personal experience. This definition holds resonance with Benjamin's idea of the aura, where an artwork's aura is not in its form, but its unique contextual presence in space and time. This connection between artwork and artistic context suggests that an artwork can never truly be considered separately from its creator. Similarly, within this definition, the artistic authenticity of a work is inherently linked to its contextual creation; its creator's personal experiences and the specific historical/cultural moment where it was produced.

This binary inheritance of artistic authenticity complicates the very definition that it seeks to uphold. In a cultural landscape where subtle fabrications of identity are not uncommon, does the author have a moral responsibility to create only what they know is true to themselves? And if the author is the sole proprietor of authenticity, to what extent can audience perception also influence the valuation and categorization of art?

In an interview with the Sydney Morning Herald, Helen's older brother, Iain Darville, describes her falsified ethnic/family history as a "great marketing exercise" which made the story "seem more real" (Freeman). This comparison is apt. In a society where supporting the art is supporting the artist, it is tactical to manipulate personal narratives to enhance the appeal of one's work. After all, authors, artists, and musicians frequently adopt catchier pseudonyms, entrepreneurs often craft "self-made" personas, and it is (somewhat) common for individuals to embellish their resumes to appear more accomplished. For Helen, adopting a Ukrainian identity positioned her novel within Australia's multicultural discourse, enabling her narrative to be perceived, not as a fictional story, but as a cultural perspective. In a society eager to embrace its diversity, cultural authenticity was not as rigorously scrutinized, and was often defined by its aesthetic appeal rather than its cultural or historical accuracy. Robert Manne highlights this phenomenon in The Culture of Forgetting, noting that: "ethnicity meant little more than costume, custom, food. Helen Demidenko performed as a stage Ukrainian for this audience by wearing embroidered peasant blouses, dancing Ukrainian dances, drinking vodka" (Manne, 61). Manne's phrase "stage Ukrainian" is fitting; in interviews, Helen would assert that her height, light blond hair, and blue eyes make her "obviously Ukrainian" (Mann, 61). Within the literary world's desire for "multiculturalism", these "appearances" of cultural identity overshadowed the need for a genuine connection to be portrayed.

As such, even with WW2 still fresh in the collective memory, the novel's controversial viewpoint was rewarded — a leniency stemming from an eagerness to embrace "diversity". Many critics defended the novel against its initial controversies, citing "a dangerous yearning for a rightness of moral message which would surely straightjacket artistic freedom" (Mann, 88). While Helen's adopted identity was certainly an effective "marketing tactic," the public acceptance of her novel's authenticity was influenced, as much by existing discourse and the embrace of multiculturalism, as by any intrinsic believability in her performance. In fact, critics agree that Helen's narrative was not historically accurate and that her fabricated identity was insufficiently substantiated (Craven). Nonetheless, despite the novel being at the forefront of literary debate, there were no accusations of inauthenticity until the exposé was published. Manne comments on this, writing that "perhaps in the deepest recesses of Anglo-Australian prejudice was buried the idea that all Ukrainians, all East Europeans, were antisemitic Nazis. Nonetheless, in the age of sentimental multiculturalism, Anglo-Australia was willing to smile benignly even on this" (Manne, 61).

This complicates the claim that the artist is the sole proprietor of authenticity. It implies that perceived authenticity of The Hand That Signed The Paper was not solely based on its content or Helen's performance, but on its alignment with the audience's pre-existing perceptions, values, and expectations. In "What is an Author", Foucault outlines this interplay between author and reader, writing "the function of an author is to characterize the existence, circulation, and operation of certain discourses within a society" (Foucault, 305). This author-function aligns more closely with Helen's role in the propulsion of her novel, and seemingly dismantles the artistic responsibility of creating "authenticity" only from what is known or experienced. In fact, Foucault posits that the author-function's importance is not in any expression of individual identity or experience, but in its influence on intertextual/societal discourse.

Following the Sydney Morning Herald's exposé, the scope of public discourse shifted from The Hand That Signed The Paper's controversial narrative, to the author herself. In Telling Tales, Melinda Denham writes that the media's "interest in who this author was, if she wasn't Helen Demidenko" led to a proliferation of articles and books investigating Helen's life (Denham, 3). Amid this frenzied scrutiny, a general consensus emerged that the opinions expressed in the novel were reflective of Helen's own bigotry, and that she harbored harshly antisemitic views. Yet, from Nabokov to Camus to McCarthy, many renowned literary works are valued for their ability to find "authenticity" in morally ambiguous or unsavory perspectives. In Lolita, Nabokov writes from the perspective of an English professor who becomes obsessively infatuated with a twelve-year-old girl. In The Stranger, Camus's protagonist is callously indifferent, showing little emotional response to his mother's death, instances of domestic abuse, or even the murder he commits, for which he is eventually executed for. In Blood Meridian, McCarthy follows a violent gang of "Indian hunters" employed by a governor to collect Apache scalps for $100 each. Like The Hand That Signed The Paper, these novels have faced criticism for humanizing immoral viewpoints and containing gratuitous depictions of violence, lust, and racism. Yet, while these works are certainly controversial, they maintain narrative authenticity without being implicated as direct expressions of the authors' personal opinions. Lolita is often read as Nabokov's psychological exploration of obsession and desire. The Stranger is praised in its portrayal of absurdism. Blood Meridian is recognized for its critique of American society and the inherent violence in manifest destiny. The understanding of these works as broader explorations of the human condition is an interpretation that Helen's novel is not afforded. The Hand That Signed The Paper will never be defined by its exploration of inherited trauma, cultural displacement, or historical suffering, but as a reflection of Helen's own beliefs and biases. Despite Helen's continuous insistence that the events of her novel were "half fiction," it was initially read as a work of autobiography, and later as a manifesto.

In pure fiction, narrative authenticity can be separated from factual accuracy and personal veracity. Authors of pure fiction are afforded creative latitude, free to invent without the expectation that those inventions must reflect their personal truth. When the author adopts a fictitious narrative that may not align with their personal experiences — or even the experiences of their audience — authenticity can still emerge in a discourse between author and reader. In a letter written to his brother Thomas, John Rankin, a white abolitionist, argues that "slaves possess the same nature and feelings as himself" by imagining a fictitious scenario where he, his wife, and children are enslaved (Hartman, 18). The "authenticity" of Rankin's writing is not a direct product of his personal experience or narrative voice. In fact, it is doubtful that the letter even remotely captures the experience of being enslaved. Rather, how Rankin's writing, underpinned by the "common humanity of all men on the basis of suffering", resonates with its reader is through the universality of pain and empathy (Hartman, 18). In defining this "author-less" authenticity, resonates is the operative word, highlighting that an authenticity that emerges, rather than a static quality deposited by the author. This emergent authenticity underscores that fiction can communicate authentic truth through shared emotion and universal themes – even if the author lacks a personal connection with the subject matter.

While the fictitious form grants the author the freedom to invent without the responsibility of truthfulness, the autobiographical form allows the author to present their narrative as the truth. As such, in an autobiographical work, the author does not merely create the fiction; they are the fiction. Under this literary framework, a traditional definition of authenticity is naturally applied, where content is assumed to align with the author's personal history, rather than a product of imagination. The presumption of truth in autobiographical works imposes a greater moral and ethical responsibility on the author, yet Helen capitalized on this narrative fabric to enhance her novel's reception. The novel's editor, Neil Thomas, despite his concerns about its "crudity and audacity", chose to work on the manuscript because he "believed that [she] was telling an authentic story about her family's dark past, as a way of coming to terms with their guilt" (Manne, 44). The Hand That Signed The Paper's guise of truth initially allowed it to be contextualized within a broader historical perspective, which often allowed its controversies to be rendered more acceptable. In interviews, Helen would detail the ethnic discrimination she endured in school, the economic hardships of her parents, and the lasting wartime traumas of her family, illustrating personal sufferings that mirrored those of her protagonist. As such, when the truth about Helen's identity was revealed, what was dismantled was not merely her fabricated persona, but the fictitious fabric that underpinned the work.

By crafting an identity that appeared to be intertwined with the historical and cultural narratives of her novel, Helen positioned herself and her work within a context that seemed both personal and historically significant. For example, when accused of antisemitism, Helen defended herself by citing "the murder of her father's whole family (including her grandfather) by Jewish Bolsheviks" (Craven). Underneath the guise of autobiography, Helen consequently suggests that her narrative is not "individual", but reflective of a collective experience. This is inherently problematic. Helen's appropriation of the Ukrainian narrative risks distorting public discourse of the perspectives she claimed to represent, potentially misrepresenting or simplifying, while under the pretense of providing a new historical perspective. In critiquing Helen, the term "distortion" underscores an inherent complexity in the author-function – if the author-function's value lies in shaping public discourse, then there is also a risk of misshaping this same discourse. Yet, as previously discussed, the inherent creativity of pure fiction — and by extension, other forms of literary arts — suggests that the author should not be confined to only drawing upon their personal experiences. This creative latitude, however, brings forth critical questions: When do authors have the right to depict narratives that encompass experiences and histories beyond their personal lives? Where is the boundary between creative liberty and cultural appropriation?

In the contemporary literary landscape, shaped profoundly by the rhetoric of identity, the traditional notions of absolutes and universalisms are actively rejected. Within this context, authenticity cannot claim sole ownership of truth. Even art itself cannot be the ultimate proprietor of truth. Yet, within the discourse of identity politics, one element retains a semblance of absolutism — the author's name. In What is an Author, Foucault writes: "an author's name is not simply an element of speech (...) it serves as a means of classification" (Foucault, 304). More than a mere label, the author's name acts as a conduit, subsuming their work into the discourse surrounding their identity. It represents the inherent disconnect between creator and creation, experienced and imagined, real and represented. It is through this acknowledgment of the author's inherent disconnect from their work that the author-function emerges as a tool of social discourse. The name "Helen Demidenko" fails to fulfill this role, even when adorned with a fabricated familial and cultural background. Instead, its construction is a fiction in itself, as integral to the novel as its plot or characters.

Works Cited