Banksy’s history with Glastonbury Festival spans decades, punctuated by acts of intervention, iconoclasm and startling creativity. In an age where the lines between art and commerce often blur, Banksy’s contributions to Glastonbury stand as potent reminders of the role art can play in reflecting and reframing our times, without succumbing to spectacle or sale. His is not the path of sponsorships, booths or merchandise stalls (well, not strictly speaking). Rather, it’s one of anonymous gestures that linger in the mind long after the crowds have dispersed and the stages have gone quiet.
At Andipa, we believe art is a journey, one that should speak meaningfully to the world we inhabit. Banksy’s relationship with Glastonbury echoes this philosophy, showing how art, when wielded with integrity, can cut through noise and commerce to expose truths. The story of Banksy at Glastonbury is not one of branding or trading, it is one of quiet rebellion, cultural commentary, and art that dares to ask questions.
Banksy's earliest known connection to Glastonbury traces back to the late 1990s, a time when the artist was still shrouded in near-total anonymity and the festival itself, though massive, retained its free-spirited, muddy soul. Long before street art achieved its current cultural capital, Banksy arrived with stencils, spray cans and political fervour in tow.
His first interventions at the festival weren’t on the main stages or curated walls, but in the spaces in between, the forgotten corners of Worthy Farm where crowds wandered and paused. There, among the hedgerows and bins, a few curious works began appearing: anti-capitalist slogans, rats with placards, and early renditions of his now-iconic monkey motif. The festival’s ethos of protest, community and creative freedom mirrored Banksy’s own sensibilities. Glastonbury offered him a living canvas—raw, unpredictable, ungoverned.
As Banksy's fame grew in the early 2000s, so too did the scale and complexity of his work. Yet his presence at Glastonbury remained refreshingly off-grid. In 2003, attendees reported a large inflatable installation that depicted a bombed-out ice cream van near one of the stages, a wry, satirical image that echoed the themes he would later develop in Dismaland (2015). It was both absurd and unnerving, and unlike anything that had been officially “invited.”
That same year, reports of a stencilled mural showing a line of riot police in wellington boots, blended into the perimeter fence, circulated briefly before the artwork mysteriously disappeared. Whether painted over or simply lost in the chaos of festival deconstruction, it became one of many ephemeral Banksy interventions. It was never signed, never authenticated, and never sold. It was simply there, in the moment.
This ephemerality, this refusal to commodify, speaks volumes. At a time when art increasingly resembles asset portfolios, Banksy at Glastonbury was never about ownership. It was about witnessing.
In 2010, amid renewed tensions in Gaza and as the world reeled from economic collapse, Banksy returned with more layered interventions. A series of mocked-up "checkpoints" appeared near festival entrances, complete with actors dressed as soldiers, fake CCTV cameras, and walls daubed in faux-UN blue. While some festivalgoers mistook it for elaborate performance art, others recognised the message: a stark critique of surveillance culture and military occupation.
These installations foreshadowed his Walled Off Hotel project in Bethlehem. But here, at Glastonbury, the juxtaposition of barbed wire theatrics amid tents and music was jarring. It worked not because it was “art” in a traditional sense, but because it disrupted the comfort of escapism and forced confrontation with uncomfortable truths. Again, no press release. No merchandise. No attribution. No Instagram-ready moment. Just provocation, and then disappearance.
In 2019, speculation swirled once more. A mural depicting a polar bear atop a melting iceberg appeared near a camping zone, accompanied by the phrase “No Music on a Dead Planet.” It was never confirmed as an original Banksy, but its style, palette, and message bore his fingerprints. Whether it was truly his or the work of a mimic remains unknown. Banksy himself has always relished ambiguity.
That same year, Greta Thunberg addressed the festival by video message, and climate activism surged into the mainstream. Banksy’s apparent nod to the environmental crisis, and the hypocrisy of hedonism in the face of it, was both timely and damning.
At Glastonbury, Banksy returned in what many are calling his final intervention at the festival. This time, it was undeniable.
A life-sized installation of a small inflatable refugee raft, complete with mannequins in life jackets, washed up on a makeshift beach near the Healing Fields, was discovered on the festival’s opening morning. Surrounding it, subtle audio recordings played real testimonials of asylum seekers from Syria, Sudan and Afghanistan, narrated in soft tones over the sound of festival music in the distance.
There was no signature. No fanfare. But Pest Control confirmed the work’s authenticity days later, after images circulated globally.
Banksy’s choice to place the piece not in front of the Pyramid Stage but tucked away in a quiet corner was deliberate. It required effort to find. It encouraged word-of-mouth. It wasn't spectacle; it was solemnity. In a space known for revelry and distraction, he offered stillness and empathy.
For many, it felt like a closing chapter—an artist stepping away not out of fatigue, but because the message had landed. That art, at its most powerful, doesn’t sell. It stirs.
Beyond Transaction: A Shared Ethos
At Andipa, we’ve long resisted the commodification of meaning in art. We believe that art must transcend transaction. Banksy’s legacy at Glastonbury affirms this conviction. His work there has never been for sale. It has never been an investment. It has never come with certificates or catalogue entries. Instead, it has been something far rarer: free in its intent, raw in its message, and profound in its resonance.
To trace Banksy’s history with Glastonbury is to witness an artist committed not to capital, but to conscience. In the haze of tents and sound systems, he offers clarity. Where others seek applause, he seeks awareness. And perhaps that’s why his presence—never officially listed on the lineup—has become one of Glastonbury’s most talked-about acts.
Not because he’s there—but because he matters.
Discover more about Andipa’s philosophy of meaningful art and browse our curated collection of Banksy’s authenticated paintings and prints at www.andipa.com.
