News Tells You What Happened. Drawing Shows You How It Felt – George Butler at TED2026

News reports are very good at telling us what happened, as well as showing us. But what they can’t do is provide a sense of how it felt. In this talk from TED2026, artist George Butler highlights what that means from his perspective. George creates ink drawings while on location for magazines and newspapers. He works in places such as Ukraine and Syria and uses the portraits he draws of ordinary people to give audiences an experience that a headline fails to provide.

Notice how George builds his talk out of small, specific stories and lets us meet the people first before sharing his thoughts about the news at hand.

He opens by describing a scene that pulls us into the narrative – he’s standing on a street in Kramatorsk, in eastern Ukraine, in the aftermath of a Russian missile strike on an apartment building.

The front of an apartment building has been blown off, so we can see a living room and a kitchen with belongings burnt and scattered in the rubble. Chances are, you’ve never witnessed a scene such as this, yet you’re imagining what it must have looked like, and the sense of horror that would coincide with what you were seeing. With an intense opening such as this, you need to know what happens next.

A woman with soot on her face gathers what she can and sits on her belongings for safekeeping. It’s a strong use of imagery and setting, and it’s deliberately familiar. As George points out, these are the scenes broadcast around the world every night.

What’s unique about this talk is how the visual unfolds behind the speaker as he tells the story. That’s not a technique that very many speakers can employ, but it highlights the point that any visuals you put up on a screen need to support and expand on the narrative. What the audience sees is reinforcing what they’re hearing.

Then comes the turn in the story. George takes us around the back of the same building, where a library of books has been blasted into a rose garden and a 70-year-old man named Petro is carefully stacking them into piles. It’s a beautiful example of juxtaposition: the front of the building is a devastating news story, but at the back of the building, there’s a message that humans persevere regardless. Rather than explaining Petro’s actions, George quotes Petro directly. You can almost hear Petro’s voice in the story.

I was brought up that if I see a loaf of bread on the floor, I’ll pick it up. It’s the same with books. They are food for the soul.

With those opening scenes in place, George shares his thesis with the audience in a sentence. This technique works so well because we’ve just spent a few moments in his shoes – we understand that words don’t measure up to the impact of the visual.

And I found that the news can tell us what happened, but the drawing can show us how it felt.

Next he introduces Madame Olga, a 99-year-old woman in Kyiv who was too old to get out of bed when the air-raid sirens rang. Her line, “If you be quiet, I will tell you the story from the beginning,” serves as an invitation to the audience. It’s a reminder that everyone has a story, a unique viewpoint to share.

George then compresses the rest of her life into about a minute: the collective farm, surviving the Holodomor, working as a slave for a Nazi family during the war, finally walking home to Ukraine after the war ended, meeting her future husband along the way, and raising four children. It’s a good lesson in finding the beats of the story that convey the most powerful elements of a story. Those few lines could make up an entire chapter in a book, but in a short talk, the narrative is compressed into a series of short statements.

Only after we’ve spent some time with Petro and Olga does George make his case against the current state of news reporting.

I believe the news is failing us. It promotes destruction before humanity.

Notice the rhythm here: short, declarative sentences, one after another. And notice the order. By this point the audience has evidence, so the claim feels earned rather than asserted. His process, to “interview the unsung and the understated” resonates with the audience, as most of us would consider ourselves in the category of “the world isn’t interested in my life”.

The tone shifts again with the introduction of Oleg, a 23-year-old mixed martial arts fighter who joined the military. He posed for George with his Kalashnikov and his guinea pig, Almond. The laughter that follows, especially after repeating “You are a big pig,” reminds us that people living through war are still people, complete with mothers who serve them borscht and endearing pets they whisper to in the midst of destruction.

Then we meet Sergei, an architect whose house fell on his head when it was hit by a missile. When George asks to draw him, Sergei agrees with a big smile, on the condition that he is allowed to draw George too. The two men, without a common language, sit in a hospital ward and draw each other. It’s a deeply human moment, and George concludes this scene with the line: “Sergei, this is your story.”

From there, George asks the question the audience may be thinking: But why, in the age of immediate news, do we need to know about Almond the guinea pig, or Sergei the architect? His answer is the theme of the talk: they could so easily have been one of us. In this personal story, the audience not only spends time in the shoes of the storyteller, but equally in the shoes of the characters introduced along the way. We could be them.

He then ends with a confession, that the drawing is really an excuse to sit a little longer with someone and give them time – This is about observing, seeing properly. – followed by a call to action.

I urge you to witness these stories and not consume them. To be deliberately slow, and to cherish human connection.

George brilliantly navigates the shift from pain to laughter and back, mixing facts and feelings, with each person we meet adding another layer to the message. This is truly a masterclass in storytelling. And while your story, on the surface, is quite different from George’s, think about how you can blend your experiences with those of others who taught you the lessons you’re sharing. In most cases, we are simply a conduit for the wisdom received from others.

Transcript

A couple of years ago, I stood on the streets in eastern Ukraine, in Kramatorsk, in the aftermath of a Russian cruise missile strike on a residential apartment building. I remember the front of the building was blown off. You could see a living room and a kitchen inside, belongings burnt, scattered on the floor, mixed in with the rubble.

There were some weapons inspectors on one side, an excavator in the middle, and of course, in amongst it all, the journalists were there, trying to interview those involved. One lady in particular had soot on her face. It was very moving to watch. She gathered her belongings from the rubble, and she put them on the floor, and she sat on them for safekeeping.

These are the sorts of scenes that are broadcast around the world every night. And I sat and drew this image — that’s her in the black at the front. I found them to be so moving. And let me tell you — the destruction is truly captivating.

But around the back of the same building, I found a library of books had been blasted into a rose garden, and in amongst the thorns and the roses stood Petro, age 70. On his morning walk, he couldn’t go any further. He felt it was his duty to stop, pick up the books, stack them in neat little piles.

And as I drew him, he challenged me, and he said “I was brought up that if I see a loaf of bread on the floor, I’ll pick it up. It’s the same with books. They are food for the soul.”

I’ve drawn mass graves in Ukraine, a cesarean in Afghanistan and the war in Syria. And over two decades, I’ve had one realization over and over, that there are many truths to war. But on that morning in Kramatorsk, in Ukraine, it was so stark. It was Petro that captured my heart, this gentle soul standing amidst atrocity.

This is what I do. I draw for magazines and newspapers, in ink, on location. And over weeks and weeks in Ukraine, it became my mission to be slow, to delve deeper. And I found that the news can tell us what happened, but the drawing can show us how it felt.

In Kyiv, I met Madame Olga, aged 99. She was too old to get out of her bed when the air-raid sirens rang. I remember she had a Bible tucked under her pillow. She was very muddled, she was confusing Putin and Hitler, and she held the translator’s hands about six inches from her face. And in this moment of wonderful clarity, she said, “If you be quiet, I will tell you the story from the beginning.”

She was born in 1923. She was taken to a collective farm with her father. She survived the Holodomor — the great famine which killed four million Ukrainians. When World War II started, she worked as a slave for a Nazi family. She recounted the story about one time they fed her worms. She ran away, on another occasion, to the police station, but the policeman returned her straight back to the house. When the war ended, she began to walk home to Ukraine. She met her husband on the way — future husband, I should say. They got married. She had four children. She lived another 80 years.

If it hadn’t been for the process of drawing, I wouldn’t have shared this moment with Olga, and I wouldn’t be able to share it with you. She died a couple of months after we met, peacefully, in her sleep, before her 100th birthday.

I believe the news is failing us. It promotes destruction before humanity. It’s polarizing and fatiguing. It gives the illusion of certainty. You might feel helpless or hopeless. We’d certainly be forgiven for turning it off.

My antidote is to wander the streets and stand on corners. I work with local translators and fixers to interview the unsung and the understated. Like Oleg, 23-year-old mixed martial arts fighter and football fan from Ukraine. He joined the military to fight the Russians with his football friends. But on this day, I drew him being served borscht by his mother, Lisa, the English teacher from that town, and he posed for me with his Kalashnikov, but also, more unusually, with his guinea pig, Almond.

(Laughter)

And throughout the sitting, he whispered to Almond affectionately, “You are a big pig.”

(Laughter)

“You are a big pig.”

(Laughter)

It’s people like Sergei that remind me that these stories are continuing as I stand in front of you. Perhaps the most ordinary of them all. An architect whose house fell on his head when it was hit by a Russian missile. And I met him in the hospital, bandage wrapped around his head. I asked if I could draw him and the nurse translated. And he looked at me down his nose and he grinned from ear to ear, and said, “Yes, but I will also draw you.”

(Laughter)

And, very formally, a date was arranged for the next day, and I came back and we sat in one of the wardrooms. The windows were still sellotaped up in case there was an explosion. And we sat and we drew each other. We didn’t share any common language. We were both shy about our drawings. Like all good artists, he blamed his tools for the quality of his picture. And he’d probably be secretly proud to know that I’m showing you this.

(Audience: aww)

(Applause)

Sergei, this is your story.

Of course, these are only four stories from Ukraine. But over the years, in Syria and Tajikistan, Gaza and Iraq, I have met and drawn hundreds of other people. But why, in the age of immediate news, do you need to know about Almond, the guinea pig, or Sergei the architect or Olga, the great-great-grandmother? Or Hamdo, Lisa, Dimitri? Well perhaps it’s obvious: I believe they could so easily have been one of us. They are the true consequences of war. And I tell you about them, I share them with you tonight because they are ordinary people who had terror poured on their lives and resisted it with their hearts.

I would like to finish with a confession. More of an admission, if you like, but a difficult one for artists, I think, to admit. As it turns out, it isn’t really about the painting at all. That’s just an excuse to sit a little longer, to give time. We’ve heard about listening accurately today. This is about observing, seeing properly. Drawing is the only way I know how to do that. But today, I invite you — more than that actually, if I’m allowed — I urge you to witness these stories and not consume them. To be deliberately slow and to cherish human connection. Thank you for listening.

(Cheers and applause)

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